Teyla was already awaiting him in the courtyard, the woven bag she had brought with her from Hadeeth, packed and sitting at her feet. Stephen knew without asking how excited she must be, for he had arrived several minutes early himself yet she had still preceded him. She wore a gauzy, pale blue dress, belted with a fabric sash of darker blue, which accentuated her slim waist and narrow hips; the matching hemline fell just above her bare calves, and simple denim flats encased her small feet. She had braided several red and navy ribbons into her hair, the total effect more feminine than he'd ever seen her—and very festive. He couldn't quite tell if this was Hadeethan style dress—or if she had adopted a look seen often enough on the streets of Greenwich Village. It put him in mind of a bohemian peasant design, reminiscent of the late 70's-and suited her nature perfectly.

"Good morning, Doctor," she called to him brightly, smiling so brilliantly as he drew near, that it seemed she eclipsed the morning sunshine in the cloudless sky. He noted a flash of silver and bright purple on her hand as she waved him closer.

"Good morning, Teyla," he replied somberly, unable to resist teasing her for just a few moments, "Going somewhere?"

She tossed her head prettily, smirking at him, "You know well, Sir, as you agreed to escort me upon this adventure. I barely slept last night from the anticipation."

"Oh, right—I misplaced my to-do list this morning," he joked. Standing beside her, he felt her happiness as though it were his own, spurring him to speculate if her empathetic nature could create a two-way connection. "And what's this?" he asked, pointing to the ring on the middle finger of her left hand.

"Another gift from my father—wisely bestowed upon my 16th birthday." Teyla raised her hand to give him a closer look.

"I'll be damned," Stephen murmured, "A mood ring." He took her hand, chuckling at the surprise, "I haven't seen one of these in ages." The vivid violet of the stone was sign enough of the joy reflected in her eyes.

"They have rudimentary magic, you know," she explained, though it was quite unnecessary. "Father presented it to me as a reminder that it is all well and good to be able to read the feelings of others, but I should never do so to the exclusion of my own."

"A wise man," Stephen nodded, looking forward to meeting him more than he had expected. "Shall we then?" he asked, stretching his hands forward to create the portal. As the orange-gold ring flared to life, Stephen scooped up her bag, and offered her his arm.

Wide-eyed and smiling happily, Teyla slipped her arm through the crook of his, and together they passed into the New York Sanctum.

Though she was eager to begin—not even taking a moment to goggle at her new surroundings-Stephen kept Teyla waiting ten full minutes as he changed into street clothes for their trip to Lafayette Street. His thoughts strayed again to contemplate how she had been here—in the Big Apple-all those years ago, attending high school while he perfected his medical skills and worked his way up to the pinnacle of his profession across town. Facts which continued to amaze him as he looked forward to what further surprises might be unveiled when they reached their destination. He promised himself he would give her a thorough tour of his new domain before they returned to Kamar-Taj.

Late afternoon, summer in the city, the bustle of residents and tourists alike thronging on the sidewalks, the disorganized background symphony of traffic, the occasional distant siren rising above it all. His city, whether uptown in his old life—or here and now, as he served as the city's anonymous guardian. His city, and despite the drastic change in the course of his life, ever his true home.

Upon hitting the sidewalks of Bleecker Street, Teyla showed no surprise at the multitude of people around them—very like a seasoned New Yorker—but wisely stuck close to his side on their trek to her father's building. She took the opportunity to tell Stephen more about him as they walked. "Father is a professor at Columbia University. He teaches Art History and several intermediate courses in various disciplines." They stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. "He is an artist himself," she revealed proudly, "He draws and paints, but his true passion is sculpting. He loves the challenge of bringing life and emotion to blocks of inert material—transforming them into his unique vision by the skill of his hands."

"That's a passion I can understand," Stephen said quietly, recalling the medical miracles that had once flowed from his fingertips, before quickly shunting aside the attendant regrets for his loss. The light flashed to allow pedestrians to cross.

The crowd around them moved forward, and though she was jostled by a stranger or two, Teyla remained in place without a word, looking up at him with infinite patience and unspoken understanding, and finally placed a consoling hand on his arm. Caught off guard (how does she do that? he exclaimed inwardly), he drew a deep breath, not trusting himself to speak, instead simply willing her to just let the moment pass. Teyla nodded softly, the bittersweet of her small smile an echo of the heartache he always wished to keep well hidden. Without a word, Stephen patted her hand, maintaining the contact that was her honest proffer of comfort, before flashing her an impudent smile. "Shall we?" he asked, and she squeezed his arm gently in answer, allowing him to lead her on their way.

"And so Father had hoped I would remain here long enough to receive a college degree, but I realized part way through sophomore year that I could not deny my yearning for home," she concluded as they came to stand in front of a four story brownstone, "But it was not only homesickness that swayed me so—for I knew I had much left to learn of the healing arts from my Hadeethan teachers."

"And you haven't seen him since?"

Teyla shrugged and bowed her head, "Regretfully, I am remiss in my familial duty to him."

"No, Teyla; I'm sure he doesn't see it that way at all." Stephen leaned closer, offering what wisdom he could, "He's your dad after all, and he certainly wants to see you happy and fulfilled above all other things."

"Yes…you are right, or course, Doctor. Thank you for reminding me." She drew a long, deep breath, and squared her shoulders, "I am ready now." Teyla drew a thin chain from around her neck; Stephen hadn't noticed it, tucked inside her dress. It bore the key to her father's loft.

The glass door to the building was unlocked. They entered a small atrium lined on either side with tenants' mail slots, and a buzzer beneath each to allow visitors to announce their arrival. Teyla went directly to the box marked 'Charles'.

Several minutes passed with no response, so that she rang a few times more. When there was still no answer, she hit the buzzer marked 'Superintendent'. She looked up at the lobby camera, knowing the super would be checking whomever sought entry. A tinny, disembodied voice asked, "What can I do for ya?"

"Yes…um…hello, Sir," Teyla addressed the monitor, "I am here to visit my father, Walter Charles." She raised her key into view, "I have a key to his loft, but he does not appear to be home."

"Teyla?"

"Um…yes," she answered, and turned back to motion Stephen forward, "I am accompanied by my mentor, Doctor Stephen Strange." When there was no reply, she continued, "My visit here was unplanned, so that my father is not expecting me…"

"Well, no, he wouldn't, would he?" The super sounded puzzled.

"I…I do not understand." Teyla looked to Stephen, confusion shadowing her features.

He came to her side to address the camera himself, adopting his most authoritative tone, "This young woman has journeyed a mind-boggling distance to visit her father. Do you think you can help her out?"

"Oh, hey man, it's cool," said the voice, "It's just that…well, come on down the hall to my office, 'cuz we need to talk before ya head on up there, okay?" The latch on the inside door released. Stephen pressed his hand lightly against the small of Teyla's back, offering reassurance while urging her to pass inside.

The superintendent's office was clean and brightly lit, which Stephen knew from long experience was a good testament to the quality of the building and its residents. The man stood to welcome them, and invited his guests to take seats opposite him at his desk.

"It seems you know my name, but forgive me please—I do not remember yours." Teyla's apprehension was tangible; the strong urge to protect her washed over Stephen once again.

"Uh, yeah…" he extended a meaty hand across the desk to her, "Karl Worley. I've been super here…hmmm…four years come September. So we've never met, Miss Charles, but I've been expecting you…"

"How's that?" Stephen interjected.

Worley spared him a brief glance, and then offered Teyla his explanation, "Your father closed up his loft a couple years back, but paid the rent five years in advance. Even arranged for a cleaning service to come by every two weeks to keep things tidy for you. Told me your work kept you away for years at a time, but that you might show up one day, unannounced. And that when you did, I should let you in, no questions asked."

"But why? Where did he go?" Despite her steady manner, Stephen could tell that Teyla was crestfallen.

Worley shook his head, "I'm sorry, Miss Charles—but I don't have a clue."

Teyla swallowed hard, absorbing the little information she'd been given. Stephen spoke up on her behalf. "Alright then, Mr. Worley—maybe you can allow us to check out the loft. Perhaps Mr. Charles left his daughter a more complete answer than you were given."

"I'm guessing as much." He addressed Teyla directly, softening unexpectedly, "Wherever he is now, I want you to know that you were...are… his first priority, honey. Anybody hearing him talk about you knew right away that he loves you more than anyone or anything in the world." He raised his right hand as an oath, "God's honest truth."

She nodded and thanked Worley for his help and for his kindness, as he handed her a new key card to allow her access to the building and the loft. Stephen was hoping to linger a few moments, perhaps to glean anything the super had left unspoken, but Teyla was too anxious to delay even a minute more.

Once the elevator doors closed, Stephen was quick to wax optimistic for her sake. "I'm sure everything's okay, Teyla," he offered, aiming to sound casual, despite the concerns which that conversation had raised, "That guy struck me as pretty melodramatic."

"Yes. Perhaps you are right." Though she was trying to be brave, she sounded unconvinced. He wished he could drape an arm around her shoulders and reinforce his own show of bravado, but he guessed she might not welcome that as she likely knew it was a bluff.

Exiting the lift, Teyla marched forward, undaunted by the imagined possibilities. She slid her keycard into the door slot and entered the accompanying security code, then swung wide the door.

The place was even more spotless than Stephen had expected; the walls were bare, with stacks of—what he assumed were—framed photographs and artwork leaning along the baseboards, and light gray drop cloths covering the furnishings. The windows glimmered with the late afternoon, summer sunlight, but the loft must have been climate controlled, for the air temperature was quite comfortable. Teyla moved about the space tentatively at first, eventually calling out for her father several times, hoping against hope he would surprise her with an answer.

Stephen noticed a large white envelope tacked to the gleaming, stainless steel refrigerator. Her name was embossed in black sharpie across the front. "Teyla, honey," he beckoned, unconsciously using the same endearment for her as Worley had, "There's something here you need to see."

She rushed to his side, hope breaking upon her face; the doctor in him noted her respiration was shallow, her pupils grown large despite the bright sunlight flooding the room. Classic symptoms of 'fight vs. flight', he concluded; she's barely holding it together. "It's going to be alright, honey," he assured her, wishing with all his heart that saying it would make it so.

Her eyes wide as saucers, were locked on his as she nodded solemnly—and somehow, even in her extremity, she managed a wee smile, that felt like it was for his sake alone. She took the envelope in hands that trembled slightly, removed the letter inside, and began to read it to herself.

Several paragraphs in, Teyla gave the barest shake of her head. "No," she whispered, her voice rising each time she repeated the word. "No…no…no," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "No," she whimpered at the last, letting the pages drift from her hands as she fell to her knees, covering her face and weeping painfully. Stephen could feel her heart breaking.

He crouched down and pulled her into his arms, feeling the sobs that wracked her penetrate his bones. Breathing in her pain, praying he could give her some measure of solace, he found her to be so small and frail in his embrace, that he had to take care not to hold on too tight. "Oh god, Teyla," he murmured against her hair, "I'm so, so sorry…" Wondering what sort of comfort might make a difference for her.

She cried this way for several minutes, while he stroked her hair and crooned what consolation he could, letting her tears wet his collar and neck. He found himself rocking her gently, and eventually she began to relax. Teyla drew several deep breaths, doing her best to come back to herself, beginning to disentangle from him-though Stephen was unwilling to let go of her completely just yet.

She laid a cheek against his own—how flushed her skin felt!—prompting him to speak his thoughts, "Anything you need, Teyla…just tell me, and it's as good as done."

Her voice raw with pain, she thanked him, "You have done already what I needed most. But please, Sir, do no leave me here alone."

Stephen squeezed his eyes shut against the sorrow in her plaintive request; gently he urged her, "If ever you should read me, read me now, my dear; I wouldn't leave your side now for all the world."

Teyla sniffled-and he swore he felt a flash of her sweet smile—before nodding against him. "You are a good man, Stephen Strange. The best comfort I can imagine having, so far from my home." He shivered as she brushed her lips against his cheek—a second kiss, but as far from that first, fairy kiss as the Moon is from Mother Earth. She pulled away enough to face him directly. He had never thought to see such despair in the depths of her soft brown eyes—but the steel that was a gift from Moraine was there as well.

"C'mon," he told her, rising to his feet and pulling her along, "Does this place have a sofa or somewhere soft to sit?"

Teyla nodded, pointing to one of the cloth draped shapes several feet away. Still holding her hand, Stephen led her to it, pulled back the cover, and motioned for her to take a seat. Once situated, he crouched by her side again, "You stay here. I'm going to find you something cool to drink. You've had a terrible shock, and I'm still enough of a doctor to tend to you properly."

Checking the fridge, Stephen found several sealed bottles of water; finding them unexpired, he removed two, cracking one open as he returned to Teyla's side. "Drink it slowly, Teyla. Doctor's orders," he quipped.

Obediently, she swallowed a little at a time, and before he took a seat beside her, asked quietly, "The letter, though. I haven't finished it."

"Rest a little first, honey. It'll be better for you this way."

She sighed hard, but offered no protest, folding her legs beneath her and laying her head against the top of the couch. Her eyes were unfocused, and though he sat no more than a dozen inches away, Stephen felt certain she didn't register his presence-until she spoke…

Softly at first, and then with growing urgency. "Why did I not dream of him, Doctor Strange? Of what use is this ability, if I was blind to see my own father's need?" Tears spilled from her doleful eyes, "And why did I dream of your hands, yet had no clue to who you were, let alone any chance of preventing your pain?"

Too familiar himself, with guilt's useless but well-worn paths, Stephen counselled her, "Teyla, you mustn't do this to yourself. There are some questions we can never answer…and some tasks that are beyond us, no matter the sacrifice are willing to make…"

"But why?" she interjected, "Why show me visions where miracles are needed, and not give me the chance to work even the smallest of miracles to right things? Why give me the desire and the skill to be a Healer, if not to allow me to help those in dire need?" She laid her hand over her heart, and her pain there was palpable, her grief a wave that washed over him, "Of what use am I if I could not even save my own father?"

Stephen bowed his head, the memories of his own lost opportunities grown painfully fresh, the wisdom he had to offer earned through his own failures, "Oh, Teyla—believe me, I've asked myself the same sort of questions. And I've learned that's it's the nature of miracles that we can't choose where and when to perform them. All we can really do is be ready to act without hesitation when the opportunity presents itself."

Wearily, Teyla rested her forehead against her hand, "You truly believe this, Stephen Strange?"

"Absolutely," he answered, watching her closely, wanting to ease her anguish.

"Your council is wise, and gives a measure of consolation." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded to herself. "Now I would know all that my father had to say."

"Of course. Right away." Stephen rose and retrieved the letter from where it had fallen, then returned to Teyla's side.

"Perhaps…" she started, tentative in her request, "Perhaps you could read it to me? I cannot brave this news alone."

Though reticent to broach her privacy, he nodded, and took a deep breath before he began…

"My Dearest Teyla,

My darling girl. I'm so sorry to have to tell you these things in a letter. You deserve better, but some things are beyond our control. If you are reading this, chances are very likely that this is my final farewell. I had hoped for a chance to see you once more; in person at least, for you are so often in my happiest of dreams. Indeed, you are the sweetest dream I've ever had, and the one that I take with me wherever I go. Know that when I close my eyes for the last time, your image will be the one that sees me into my final rest.

I won't tell you not to mourn. Your heart is beautiful and deep, and your nature too loving to do anything else but mourn. But do not let it dim your light, for the world—both our worlds—is always in need of more light."

(Stephen stole a look her way; Teyla held her head proudly, her eyes closed, appearing the image of calm strength despite her sorrow.)

"The time you spent with me here was the best time of my life. And coupled with the time I had with your Mother, my most prolific. My beautiful Muses—no Artist could ask for better, nor think to be blessed with two so distinct and-in their own ways—perfect ones!

About three years after you returned to Hadeeth, I began to experience blinding headaches. My doctor at the time diagnosed them as migraines, prescribed a series of medications that didn't help, and advised me to work less and relax more. Ha!—well, I was better served 'self-medicating', but even that did not delay the inevitable. In time, I began to experience weakness on the left side of my body, and difficulty maintaining my balance. Too late I sought a second, third, and fourth opinion, so that this thing-an anaplastic astrocytoma, they told me-growing inside my brain had a well-entrenched foothold, from which neither chemotherapy nor radiation could shake loose. My last hope was a hot shot, genius of a doctor, practicing his art (I say art, for it seems to me that medicine truly is as much an art as it is a science—and not all those licensed have the gift to make real miracles happen) out of Metropolitan General, uptown."

(Stephen hissed softly, rereading the last sentence to himself, recognizing with bitter clarity that the 'hot shot genius' had to have been himself. Recognizing that he—perhaps—had played a role in Teyla's heartbreaking loss. He cleared his throat before he began reading aloud again.)

"Getting an appointment with this man was nearly unheard of, but I managed. Unfortunately, within the first five minutes of our consultation, he made it clear I was inoperable, and with very little ceremony, sent me on my way to do my dying discreetly, and far from view."

(Closing his eyes, Stephen tried to remember the anonymous face of Walter Charles, one of too many he had written off in his hubris. His time, then, had been far too valuable to waste on hopeless cases; his business was not to provide comfort to the dying, but to save those patients who provided the calculated challenge enough for him to cure while creating breakthroughs in the field of neurosurgery.)

"Thus leaves my story off. I've been through the five stages from grief to acceptance, and I feel ready for the journeys to come. Finishing here, then moving along to the next. You know I believe in the next. There's just too much wonder and beautiful in this wide, boundless Universe to believe we are but a candle's brief flame. You and your Mother are proof enough of that.

Please tell your Mother she was in my thoughts as well, during my last months. And tell her that after her, there was no other woman for me; our time may have been relatively brief, but it gave me a full lifetime of happiness.

Teyla, my gentle, loving Teyla, know that as I go you were—you are—the greatest creation that came from me (though I should take little credit for how you turned out, as so much of who you are is as natural to you as breathing). You are my opus, my masterpiece, the answer to every 'why am I here?' that I have ever asked. My purpose and my sweetest reward. I pray you find fulfillment and peace of mind & spirit, in measure even further beyond that which you have given me.

Love today & always,

Dad"

Teyla remained silent, brushing tears from her cheeks with both her hands, and then looked to him. His stomach roiling with shame, Stephen could not hold her gaze for long, and turned his attention back to the remaining pages of the letter. He skimmed through them quickly, then shared the contents with her. "These last two pages list your father's assets, and how they've been distributed. It seems he sold a lot of his work to ensure you'd have this place to come home to, and to see to your living expenses and whatever other needs might arise down the road," he explained, feeling her watch him, keeping his eyes squarely on the papers in his hands, "The money's in trust, and he left instructions should you want to access it. The bulk of the work he didn't sell he left in the hands of Columbia University's School of the Arts-again for you to access as you wish." Finally, he met her eyes again, finding no hint of accusation though he thought she must feel his guilt. "Those works that had the greatest meaning to him—and, he hoped, to you—are stored here…" Stephen trailed off, seeing the gratitude in Teyla's eyes, knowing he deserved that the least of all things. He folded the letter and handed it to her.

"Thank you, Doctor," she told him quietly, "You have made this burden far easier to bear." She held the letter against her heart. "I nearly heard my father's voice as you brought his words to life. This is a gift I will not soon forget."

His face felt hot with remorse, wondering when she would read the truth of his culpability; honesty might be the best policy, relieving him of guilt, but he could not inflict that additional sorrow upon her. "It's the least I could do, Teyla. I wish…I wish I could do more." So much more, he thought, wondering if when she did learn the truth of his failure to help her father, she would be able to even look at him…let alone forgive him.