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Stephen didn’t know what hit him. One moment, he was talking to Jio on the edge of the courtyard while his students practiced their spellcasting forms. The next, he was stumbling, his senses suddenly muted, his magic inaccessible, and the pain in his hands increased tenfold. He gasped, barely registering the world around him as he swayed on his feet, stumbling to the base of the Jacaranda tree in the courtyard before sinking down to his knees, curling into himself on the ground.
His hands were burning. Spasming, aching things, blinding him with pain. He tried to make it stop, but nothing happened. The magic wasn’t coming, and he couldn’t seem to find its’ warmth inside himself. He could barely see Jio through his tears as she sank down next to him, urging him to breathe, but she didn’t understand that Stephen couldn’t.
His magic was gone. Stripped from him, suddenly. The signs made sense – the lack of his senses, the absence of the familiar warmth and hum of magic around him, the pain of losing everything, of having it ripped from his body. The muffled sound around him, the agony in his hands, the tears on his face and the inability to breathe made no sense. Breathing wasn’t magical in nature, no, that was physical. An innate, subconscious process of getting oxygen into–
Someone was touching him. The warmth of a hand burned on his shoulder. Stephen forced himself to make out Wong’s face through the tears. Wong was there. Wong was touching him. Wong would make everything better.
There were some sounds that Stephen couldn’t make out, in fact, everything was starting to sound further and further away, then Wong was kneeling in front of him, Wong was holding Stephen’s hands. There was a flash of warmth and the pain of his hands dissipated and it felt like Stephen could breathe just a little better.
His magic was still gone, he could tell that much, but the pain was better, and Wong was pulling one of Stephen’s hands to his chest, telling him to breathe.
Stephen could feel the steady beat of Wong’s heart under his palm. It was fast, but steady and slower than Stephen’s. Gradually, Stephen felt his breathing stutter to a slower pace, his racing heart following.
Eventually, he could hear words again. Wong was saying something, his gaze never leaving Stephen’s, his mouth moving quickly. “You’re in Kamar-Taj,” he was saying. “You were teaching your evening class. You and I are having dinner tonight, I promised I’d made you wontons. They’re better than the panda ones you like. My favorite color is red; your favorite color is blue. You like butterflies.”
Stephen was still crying, but he could hear Wong, he could feel his heartbeat. “Wong…” Stephen managed to choke out, the name tasting like salt on his tongue.
Wong smiled. A brief, small smile, but smiled. “Stephen. Can you tell me five things you see?”
Stephen nodded. He could barely see through his tears, but he could see Wong. “I see… I see you. Jio. Red robes. Brown eyes. Courtyard.”
“Good. Four things you can feel?”
This was starting to feel familiar. “Ground…. Your hands. Stone on my… on my back. Sun.” He was warm, Stephen realized. Not magic warm, but the setting sun was warm on his face.
“Three things you can hear?”
“Your voice. My voice. Students talking.” Students. He was teaching. He was teaching basic defense magic, they were focusing on the Crimson Bands of Cyttorack and he had stopped to talk to Jio and a student must have messed up a word or too – Latin was easy to slip up, and the two spells were too similar, and he must have been – Wong set a hand on Stephen’s cheek. He asked another question, meeting Stephen’s gaze.
Wong was here. Wong was expecting a response. Stephen stuttered through a deep breath.
“I can… taste my… tears. Salty. And chow mein. Lunch.” Stephen gasped, forcing himself to ground himself, to focus on Wong and not loose himself in another panic attack.
“What can you smell?”
This was an easy answer. “Incense. Books. You.”
“Good. Can you take three deep breaths with me? In… and out… just like that.” Wong explained and Stephen nodded. He copied Wong, breathing shallowly, then deeper.
“Good job. Are you back with me?” Wong asked, warm, calloused fingers stroking the grey in his hair.
“Y-yeah,” Stephen replied. He was feeling much calmer now. “I think so.”
Wong nodded. “Can you stand? I’ll help.”
When Stephen hesitantly nodded, Wong moved his hands to support Stephen’s shoulders, lifting him off of the ground and into his chest.
“There you go. You were teaching and one of the students mispronounced the spell and it bound your magic.” Stephen swallowed. He tried to look out across the courtyard, to see if the students were there, if they had witnessed what had happened, if they had seen his weakness, but Wong stopped him, gently grabbing his chin and keeping his head still. “Don’t look at them, look at me. Keep your eyes on me, Stephen. Good job.”
It took Stephen a few moments of holding Wong’s gaze to realize that they were moving. Slowly, but steadily, Wong tenderly guiding Stephen’s shaking frame into the shadow of the library.
“Thankfully, the spell is temporary. It’s minor, a various of the Crimson Bands of Cyttorack, meant to incapitate one’s opponent. There’s no counterspell, but it will fade.” Stephen nodded. Wong adjusted his hold on Stephen, reminding him of the library steps, and guided him up them. “We’re going to go back to our room. You’re going to drink some water, eat some crackers, and we’re going to sleep, okay? I know it’s scary, but the spell will wear off. I used the same spell you use to dampen the pain in your hands. When we wake up tomorrow, your magic will be back. You’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Stephen whispered. “Okay.”
Wong didn’t like talking this much in one go, but it was what Stephen needed. He needed the facts, needed to know everything about his afflictions, seeking comfort in his knowledge and grounding himself with it, so Wong would talk for as long as he needed. That was one of the things Stephen loved about him. Stephen trusted him, too. Wholly and unreservedly. Wong hated lying, needing the brutal truth himself, and he knew that Stephen hated being lied too just as much. If Wong said that he’d be okay, then he knew that he’d be okay. Even if he didn't fully believe himself.