He'd slept like a log the night before, thanks to the enchanting combination of Teyla's gentle compassion, and what he now was certain had been her subliminal use of empathetic magic. But Stephen didn't feel tired enough to sleep tonight; though it was well past midnight, he was restless, and his mind raced, always coming back to the revelations which the day had brought him. Replaying the image of Teyla in the greenhouse, working her miracle cure on the dying plant. Revisiting their conversation at the kitchen table, the forthright admiration in her eyes as she spoke of his solitary stand against Dormammu. Not that he thought of himself as heroic—he had sincerely abandoned such egocentric ways when his eyes had been opened to the truth of the Universe—but somehow she did, and according to her telling, many others did as well. He didn't want to dwell on that at all; hell, he'd prefer to blot that knowledge from his memory, lest that old temptation revisit him and he relapse into the selfish, lesser man that he had been.
On such nights, when sleep eluded him, Stephen sometimes left the confines of his body to roam the halls of the Sanctum in his astral form—making sure that all was well, running through the details of an imminent mission, or simply contemplating the wealth of mystical artifacts housed there. Such nights might eventually lead him to stand watch over the city from the vantage point of the Window of the Worlds, or on fair-weather evenings, from the rooftop of the Sanctum. Assuring himself that all was safely in order usually relaxed him enough so that he could sleep once his soul was reunited with his flesh.
Passing effortlessly upwards onto the rooftop, Stephen decided to check on the condition of the once ailing currant bush, to satisfy his curiosity about the extended effectiveness of Teyla's Hadeethan cure. Sure enough, he found it to be as well as it had been earlier, and with the sight granted him in his astral form, he could discern a faint blue glow edging the branches, leaves, and fruit; and where the blue merged with the pink of the berries, they glowed pale lavender. Residue of Teyla's spell work—and perhaps of her energy itself.
From the corner of his eye, Stephen caught a flash of movement; he turned to it, to find another astral form floating among along the rows of plants at the opposite end of the greenhouse. Teyla. Somehow, it didn't surprise him. Perhaps she'd come to check upon her handiwork as well—or perhaps to enjoy the beauty of the garden in the quiet of the night. She had not marked his presence, as he watched her pass along, pausing periodically to bend near a particular plant for a closer inspection. He noted that she took the greatest pleasure among the flowerbeds, before passing through the glass onto the rooftop, eventually to hover near the low brick wall that formed the boundary of the roof. Stephen followed at a distance, reticent to interrupt her progress just yet, lest he startle her.
Fascinated, he watched her a while, charmed by the vision she presented. Her astral form, so light and delicate, moved with a grace that echoed the graciousness of her spirit. She was clothed in a simple, white shift; though rather shapeless, it draped her modest curves with soft femininity—and reminded him that he hadn't even noticed what she'd been wearing when she'd come to his bedside the night before. Teyla, loosed from her physical bonds, bore herself with a good measure of the regality, which Stephen associated with her mother—yet it was softer, somehow more approachable.
Teyla was gazing up at the stars, and even at a distance he could make out that she was singing; the words were surely her native tongue, but somehow they struck him as a song of praise or thanksgiving, even with her undernotes of plaintive longing. He had to marvel that despite the grief she carried, she carried on, her heart big enough to overflow with gratitude for the beauty of nature here, far above the city streets. For the light of the stars, and the glory of the full moon. The picture she made played upon his imagination, so that the thought that she was some fey, pagan priestess at worship, became inescapable. Stephen realized he could not observe her covertly any longer; that he would far rather disturb her compelling song, then sully the lovely image she presented by watching unannounced.
As he approached, she had lifted her face to the sky, her skin awash in the light of the moon and the stars, her eyes closed. Teyla held her arms in an 'x' across her chest, and with a sustained, trilling note, she extended them into a wide 'v' above her head, as though she intended to gather the fall of moonlight to herself.
Hovering only feet away, Stephen cleared his throat to catch her attention, aiming to avoid startling her. She turned to him with widened eyes, and his breath caught in surprise—for rather than the soft, deep brown, which he was accustomed to, they were a vivid blue, very like the color of the magic he had seen flow from her hands. She seemed to take his measure, as they stared at one another, until she beckoned him forward with a nod and a bemused smile.
In his astral state, his senses were heightened; he noticed other differences in Teyla's appearance, which in his view made astonishing sense. Her normally plain, walnut brown hair looked fuller, longer, and now held a silvery luminescence which reminded him once again of Moraine. And her skin was paler than in her physical form, with an unexpected radiance, which instinct told him was the reflection of the purity of her soul.
Caught staring for longer than he should, Stephen shrugged, resorting to humor to cover his awkwardness. "Of all the rooftops, in all the world," he quipped in his best Bogart impersonation, "She has to astral project onto mine…" He trailed off, realizing the joke had fallen flat, watching her brow knit as she tried to work out his non-sequitur.
Perplexed, she narrowed her eyes, "I…I do not understand…"
Stephen looked down, feeling a little foolish, "It's nothing, Teyla. Just a silly joke; a reference to a movie you've probably never seen."
"Oh…I see…" Amiably, she offered a chance to explain, "Please tell me, Stephen—what does it mean?"
He chuckled, despite feeling rather inept, "I guess it means that regardless of our differences, we somehow keep traveling the same path. I never would've imagined that I'd meet you here tonight, and both of us in spirit. Yet here you are." She blinked a few times, as understanding dawned upon her face. "I used to think that sort of thing was a coincidence, but now," he confessed, "…well…it does make one wonder."
"Wonder what?" she asked ingenuously, drifting closer to him.
"Well—it seems like our lives have run a course meant to converge," he shrugged, "I mean, I was the chief neurosurgeon at Metropolitan General, while you attended high school here in the Village." That your father sought my help several years ago—and I blindly turned him away; a fact Stephen left unspoken, for Teyla's sake alone. "I became Master of the New York Sanctum, streets away from your Earth home. And now here…tonight…"
"Yes," she replied, "I see what you mean. As though our lives were bound to…intersect." Though she looked pleased, she lowered her eyes, speaking under her breath, "And I dreamed of your hands all those years ago."
"You did," he asserted, close enough now to feel her gentle aura. He wished she would look to him again. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about, Teyla. I like that our paths were meant to cross—it, uh…confirms my faith in my mission. That I'm exactly where I am supposed to be, doing the work which the Universe must've intended for me all along."
"Of course, Stephen," Teyla nodded, her confidence bolstered, "As I am-I hope-doing what I am meant to do."
"I don't doubt that one bit," he reassured her, then turned to look out over the city. His city, and the reason he had come to rooftop tonight. "But what brought you up here this evening," he asked, breaking their companionable silence, "And if you don't mind saying, what was that song you were singing?"
Teyla sighed, briefly considering her reply. "A tradition of my people, older than even our written language." Her profile in the dark spoke eloquently of heartfelt love and loss. "Upon the passing of a loved one, we celebrate their life under the blessed light of our moons. We sing with joy regarding their greatest deeds and the kindness of their spirit. We thank the Creator—as we call the Source from whence all souls come, and eventually return to—for the gift of their life. We promise to honor their memory with acts that emulate their example." She bowed her head and nested her right hand against her heart, "We send our grief unto the stars, and make the best farewell we can…always with the hope that we will reunite with them someday, if not in spirit, then in a future life—for the wheel of life turns eternally."
Her belief system was familiar to him, not only in its resemblance to several that currently prevailed on Earth, but as one he had encountered most often in his work across the multiverse. Stephen had been faithless himself, from adolescence—but that had changed under the tutelage of the Ancient One. Moved by her testament to that universal truth, he took Teyla's free hand (the undiluted warmth of her aura merging seamlessly with his) and laid a quiet kiss upon her knuckles. "I've never heard it described so poetically, my dear. And I'm sure wherever his spirit roams right now, your father heard your song."
Teyla gave him the small, bittersweet smile which he had already grown to treasure, and told him, "Such is my most fervent wish."
Stephen had stayed with her a while longer on the roof, and they spoke of a few things, while mostly just content to be in one another's quiet company. Teyla had finally bid him goodnight, gliding away soundlessly, and he had remained a bit longer, watching over the city as had been his original intent, before he retired to a dreamless, restful sleep.
Morning brought a driving rain upon the city, and Stephen's hands throbbed with a pain that rivaled that of the initial weeks following his accident. The morphine they'd given him in the hospital hadn't always reduced his pain, but had made his mind foggy enough to allow him periods of escape from consciousness. But there was no drug for this pain—nor did he want one. He needed a crystal clear mind to deal with the supernatural forces that had created a hotbed of plague-like illnesses and unnatural deaths in a remote village in the mountains of Bavaria-so that meditation would have to do.
Seldom had he been less successful at it; an hour passed, and his efforts proved futile. Stephen hated to undertake the task ahead in such a muddy, distracted state, but he absolutely had no choice. He washed and dressed—laboriously—went down to the dining area, took his place at the head of the table, and forced himself to eat some breakfast, knowing he needed to fuel his body for the magical chores that awaited him. He hid his misery as best he could, even from the two Adepts who would accompany him into what might devolve into a mystical battle
Teyla joined him at table, wishing him a fair day, and he answered her too brusquely, informing her that she must return to Kamar-Taj for the next several hours—or at least spend the day at her Lafayette Street loft. Confused and a little hurt, she accepted his decree meekly, focusing on her plate, and sneaking periodic looks his way.
Her meal finished, Stephen hoped she would leave him to his misery—but wasn't surprised when she approached him cautiously, taking a seat on his right hand side. Let me help," she offered softly, "Please."
Stephen answered gruffly, "You're nowhere near ready to assist me in this matter, Adept. And I can't afford to divide my attention just to keep an eye on you." He hated how harsh he sounded, so far from the pleasant accord, which they had shared up on the roof only hours before—but it was necessary for now, and he would mend the break once he was free of his duty…and after his pain receded some.
A stubborn line creased her brow, but Teyla remained undaunted, addressing him exactly as he had asked, "Stephen." Patiently she waited for him to meet her eyes; the sympathy he saw there was no surprise either. "I know you would not ask, but see now what I offer. I can alleviate your pain, make it more bearable." She touched her fingertips to his, the spark there meant to help convince him. "Your judgment is clouded, and your pride in this negates your usual wisdom."
"Teyla, I would never impose my pain on you. You have no idea what you're asking," he contended, clinging to his resolve, "And it just wouldn't be right."
"This is no imposition, for I freely make this offer," Teyla declared, then added to her argument, "And as I came to this world to expand upon my skills, would you-as my mentor-deny me the chance to fulfill my calling?"
He huffed hard, accepting the inevitability of her offer, "Alright, but if it appears for even a moment that this will cause you harm, I'm out. Is that clear?"
Teyla nodded vigorously, smiling in victory.
"So tell me, Teyla—what do you need me to do?"
She had told him she needed time to prepare, asking him to come to her room in thirty minutes or so. The door was closed when he arrived, and Stephen hesitated; maybe this was a bad idea after all. Now that the time had arrived, he wondered how he might handle the disappointment if Teyla's attempt should fail. He wondered too, how such a failure might affect the young Healer.
She called to him from beyond the door, before he had decided to plunge ahead and knock. "It's open, please come in."
He found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, the room darkened but for the glow of a dozen candles, the familiar scent of frankincense wafting through the room. It made for a very relaxing atmosphere. "I'll leave the door open, if it's all the same," he told her, "For, uh…propriety's sake."
"As you wish," she replied impishly, "Though I assure you that your honor is safe with me." She rose from the bed, motioning for him to join her in the small alcove, where normally sat a desk and chair, along with a laptop provided for guest use. Teyla had gotten another chair, so they could sit opposite one another as she worked the spell.
Once situated, she instructed him, "First, I would ask that you relax. When you are calm, it will be far easier for me to read your energy."
Stephen breathed deeply several times, doing his best to make his mind blank, opening himself to the experience. "Good. That's good," she encouraged him. "Allow your cares to fall away for just this little while."
Teyla breathed deeply as well, as she had done in the greenhouse, and then spoke softly, "We are both as ready as we can be. I have worked this spell for a variety of reasons—and your injury, severe as it is, is not the gravest I have faced. I make no promise this will permanently end your pain—but I swear will do what I can to lighten your burden."
Stephen nodded, dry-mouthed now that they had reached the crucial moment. Teyla held out her hands, gently commanding him, "Give me your hands please…"
Reverently, Teyla traced the scars upon the back of his right hand and along the length of each finger, then gently flipped it over, to do the same upon his palm, moving on to his left hand in her own good time. Stephen had not allowed such familiar contact with his damaged hands in ages, and his flesh sparked again at her soothing touch. He found himself mesmerized by the softness of her patient exploration, understanding as he watched that her fingers were memorizing the patterns of his scars, and that she was methodically building a magic he had never seen before.
"You must trust me now," she told him, as she brought his hands palm to palm, laying her own atop and underneath them, "There will be pain, but I promise it will be brief. You must not flinch or pull away, lest the charm I weave be broken." Her voice was hushed, but like her motions, held him spellbound. "Can you do this for me, Stephen? Surrender control in this moment to me, and do not fight the sensations you will feel."
"Of course," he replied, his voice a little hoarse with awe and anticipation—though he dared not hope she would succeed.
Teyla had his hands still sandwiched between her own; she had closed her eyes and was humming softly, a pleasant run of notes, which seemed to resonate in the bones of his hands. Was he actually feeling this lulling music beneath the skin, in his muscles, ligaments, joints? Her head was bent close to their hands, so that her hair curtained them; how far different, he reflected, was her plain physical appearance, from the fetching luminescence of her astral form. It seemed to him now, he could see the ghost of that unearthly beauty behind and beneath the pallid skin she inhabited; a beauty ever present but secret, except to eyes that had been opened to the astounding truth that Earth was only one among an infinite number of realities—and that she hailed from a far different reality than that which he called home.
Their hands were now wreathed in a bright blue light; an echo of the true color of her eyes, which he had glimpsed in his encounter with her astral form. His own hands grew warm and tingly as Teyla continued to work her spell. She had called her unique gift empathetic magic, and he was at last beginning to grasp what she meant.
Moments later, Stephen understood her warning that there would be pain; his hands flared with it, an agony that felt as though his skin was crammed full with shards of glass, a flash of heat so intense it was like fire burning through his every cell. Despite his best intentions, he cried out, though he managed to remain still as Teyla had instructed.
"Almost there, Stephen," she said through gritted teeth, "You're through the worst of it—but please do not let go." The mounting pain screamed for him to pull away, but still he left his hands in her care. He realized his breath was drawn in sync with hers—her own heavily labored with her efforts-and she began to moan softly.
Then, like a light switch being flicked off, the excruciating pain was completely gone. The suddenness shocked him, while the relief elated him, and he wondered if some phantom pain would reawaken before too long had passed. Stephen watched in stunned silence as a map of pale scars took shape upon Teyla's fingers and the back of the hand she rested on top of his. He had not anticipated that. She had prepared him to expect her hands to temporarily take on, to a lesser degree, the chronic pain that was his daily measure—but she had said nothing of bearing marks akin to his own; nor had his own scars faded in any way.
"It is done," she told him, just as the cerulean halo that encompassed their hands began to fade. She withdrew her hands, moving them most gingerly, as though she feared that even the smallest physical contact would bring a fresh bout of discomfort.
Relieved of his own misery, he observed Teyla with a doctor's practiced eye, noting the tremor in her hands—so like that which he had suffered from the day his bandages had been removed—and that she appeared weakened. Beads of perspiration stood upon her brow, a bloom of hectic color on her cheeks, her mouth drawn tight as she acclimated to the bone-deep ache she had taken upon herself. Stephen felt an urge to tell her he would take it all back, but knew she would deny that request. "It's bad, isn't it," he asked, helping her to stand, before guiding her back to her bed.
"No more than I can easily bear, I assure you." Settling on the mattress, she looked up at him, covering a grimace with the gamest smile she could manage, "And this will fade quickly enough. You must not be concerned."
"Is there anything I can do…anything I can get you to ease you through this?" Again, the doctor in him, wanting desperately to relieve her suffering, especially knowing he was the direct cause.
Teyla smiled, more naturally this time, "I'm tired-very, very tired. I should rest, perhaps sleep. That will go a long way to alleviate the side effects of the spell."
"Of course," he nodded, watching as she lay back upon her pillow, settling onto her side. Pressed for time as he was, he regretted the fact that he had to leave her so quickly. Wishing there was still more he could do to help her, Stephen took the lightweight afghan that lay at the foot of the bed, and draped it across her slight form. "I'll see you're not disturbed," he promised. And then, because he knew words were sure to fail him in the wonder of the gift she had just given him, he bent low and brushed a kiss upon her hair. She gave a little sigh, before he turned to leave.
He'd reached the door before Teyla called to him. "Stephen, I just want you to remember—the effects of this magic are rarely permanent. I have given you perhaps days only, of relief from you condition; and if you're lucky, weeks, perhaps a month or two." She yawned, looking nearly ready to drift off to sleep. "I would it were more. You deserve more. But spend these days wisely, and if my bit of magic makes your tasks easier for a time, I know I have served a useful purpose for your world." With that, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she slept.
Only as he watched her breathing steady and slow, did he realize he hadn't even thanked her—but then what mere words could he speak to prove the measure of his gratitude for such an unselfish gift?