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So. There really was a point when he was literally out of magic, when there simply were no more spells in him. He’d wondered whether that was possible.
Fortunately, that point of total depletion coincided with the moment his last spell took; when his current adversary was finally vanquished, only shadowy wisps of dissipating energy remaining, briefly. Then it was gone. It was over.
He collapsed to his knees. Apparently, it had been sheer willpower keeping him on his feet.
The gateway was still open. This, too, was fortunate, because he wouldn’t even have had enough power left to open another, in the state he was in. With an undignified crawl, he made his way back through untold dimensions and probably quite a long physical distance and into the Sanctum, where he let himself fall on his face as soon as he could feel the familiar smooth wood floor underneath his aching hands. This was as far as he’d get under his own steam.
Far enough.
He stared at the parquet, marvelling at the fact that he had done it, had made it back here, was still alive, hadn’t lost any limbs or his mind or his soul. A dark red drop disturbed the soothing wood pattern with a soft pat sound just underneath his face.
For what felt like a full minute, he stared at that, aware that it should have meaning to him but unable to move beyond the more immediate ImstillaliveImstillaliveImstill…
“Stephen!”
That was Wong. Some sense of self returning, Stephen tried to drag himself to his feet, or at least to his knees, but he was not only out of spells but out of, well, everything. With a supreme effort, he at least managed to roll onto his side to face his friend, unable to suppress a groan at the flaring up of pain that maneuver caused in his battered hands.
Wong stared at him as as if he was seeing something from another dimension. Stephen couldn’t blame him. Some of the effects he hadn’t quite managed to fight off had been vicious, as the state of his clothes could testify. Had he mentioned that he was glad he hadn’t lost any limbs? It was also entirely possible that he had been magically transformed somehow. He still couldn’t hear properly out of his left ear, and the reddish halos he saw around every light were probably something he should, hah, look at. Later. Much later.
To his own surprise, he managed to raise a hand and give what he hoped was a reassuring little wave. Using his voice would probably be asking too much, so he didn’t try.
“You are bleeding out of your nose and your eyes,” Wong informed him with characteristic directness, moving towards him and kneeling down next to him to support him against his big body.
Oh. That, Stephen supposed, would explain the red splotch on the floor, and the red halos he kept seeing. Fine, great. Mystery solved. No more thinking required. Wong had found him, was holding him. He was safe. He could pass out now.
Except he didn’t. There was still something his body was trying to tell him beyond battering him with unrelenting pain from numerous bruises and his damned hands, something more urgent than the echoes of battle.
“How are you feeling?”
I’m fine, Stephen wanted to say. He was still alive, wasn’t he? Everything else would follow. Besides, he didn’t seem to have grown an extra head or anything, or Wong would probably have mentioned something. So, all good, right?
What he did say when he finally got his voice to work after the third try, was, “Like shit.” So, that was what people meant when they talked about a “croaking voice”. No wonder; he’d probably split it screaming at some point.
“Are you nauseous?” Wong demanded.
Well, now that Wong mentioned it…
Wong saw the signs and interpreted them correctly. With a brief gesture, he summoned a bucket from somewhere and held Stephen’s head over it, literally holding him up, one arm supporting his upper body and holding his head in position with his free hand.
The next few minutes were pure, abject misery. Vomiting was strenuous business even for a body that had not just spent every last bit of its strength channelling energies from other dimensions through itself. He gasped for breath, he choked, he coughed, he puked again and gasped and choked and coughed again and again, none of which he had any strength left for.
Through all of this, Wong held him, talking to him reassuringly, even stroking his back as if he were a small child, while Stephen actually experienced a moment when he truly wanted to die so he wouldn’t have to exist in this hell any longer. That moment passed, just as the whole bout of vomiting eventually passed, leaving him shivering all over, hands spasming and tears streaming down his face, all but limp in Wong’s arms, pathetically grateful for his reassuring presence. Who’d’ve thought the man had such untapped potential as a nurse?
If he never moved again, Stephen thought, it would be too soon. And still, much to his dismay, he didn’t pass out.
Not for the first time, Wong regretted the death of the Ancient One. She would have known how to deal with magic damage of this magnitude. She had probably experienced it herself more than once.
Wong, on the other hand, knew barely more than the basics. Yes, of course he was aware of the more common side effects of magic battles such as nausea, but he was a librarian, an instructor. His place usually wasn’t on the front line. He had never experienced himself what the Ancient One had so often done, what Stephen had apparently gone through today. And in all his time at Kamar-Taj, he had never seen anyone return from battle bleeding out of their nose and eyes.
Magic damage was tricky. Some things you had to do promptly to heal it, some things you should at all costs avoid doing. Not doing something, or doing the wrong thing, could have disastrous consequences, and none of it was obvious.
Well, since there was no one here he could ask for advice, he’d better become an expert, then, and fortunately, he of all people knew where to find the necessary knowledge. Picturing the book he wanted, he opened a gateway with Stephen’s unmoving body propped up against him, head lolling against his neck when Wong extended his arm to grab the book straight from its shelf in the library in a blatant disregard of the rules, telling himself that time was of the essence.
The book, as it turned out, was written by Merlin himself, in Old Welsh. Wong sighed. Not his most fluent language.
Another gateway to his private chambers gained him his laptop with the browser already open to Google Translate. It certainly wasn’t a translator anyone would call reliable, but better than no second opinion at all.
Stephen was beginning to make distressed little noises by the time when Wong had found and, he hoped, correctly translated the part about bleeding orifices following battles against eldritch forces (deliberately ignoring the part about growing things such as tentacles or extra appendages on the page opposite) and found a description of a potion that would both alleviate most symptoms and, more importantly, save the sufferer’s life. He was glad to read that a bath would do no harm, and neither would sleep.
“Stephen,” he said, “can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Stephen said weakly after a pause. “Don’t take this the wrong way… but... I really wish I couldn’t.”
Wong smiled to himself. He’d gladly take being offended like this over hearing the sounds of pain Stephen had made just then. “I’m going to bring you to your bathroom now to get you clean and warm, and then I’ll brew a potion that will make you feel better.”
Stephen barely nodded. “Sounds wonderful.”
Another gateway opened. Wong levered himself to his feet, dragging Stephen’s body upright and taking most of his weight.
“Wong,” Stephen said, staring at the orange blazing ring, “why’s everything so reddish?”
“You’re bleeding out of your eyes,” Wong reminded him, a bit worried at this evidence of confusion. “Come on.” He began to steer him towards the gateway.
“Oh,” Stephen said. “Is that normal?” He took one step, then his legs collapsed under him.
Wong caught and held him, adjusted his grip, and hoisted him up in his arms, grateful for Stephen’s slender frame. “Apparently, yes, even if it is a bit extreme a reaction.”
“I never did do things halfway,” Stephen said, clinging to him with what was left of his strength.
Wong didn’t contradict him.
A few minutes later, Stephen was in his bathtub, submerged in warm water, sighing in relief. His nose and eyes were still slowly oozing blood and would continue to do so until he was healed. His robes, Wong had found, would require substantial mending - torn, slashed, bloodied, dirty. The Cloak of Levitation, too, had sustained damage, but at least its magic was still intact, if the way it hovered near Stephen even now was any indication. Wong would leave it to Stephen to take care of the Cloak later; he didn’t think that it would allow anyone but its wearer to mend it.
Besides, he had another task before him. “Stephen,” he said, “I will leave you now for a bit. Don’t try to get out of there until I’m back.”
Stephen didn’t even open his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Noting Stephen’s slack features, his unmoving form, his shallow breathing, Wong briefly compressed his lips. “Cloak,” he said, “see to it that he doesn’t drown.”
He hadn’t really expected a reaction; it had been more of an indirect admonishment for Stephen. To his surprise, the cloak moved, straightening a little as if standing to attention.
Wong was glad to realize that he could safely leave the two of them alone. With a nod, he enchanted the tub to keep the water at its current temperature, and left.
A good potion takes a few hours to make, time that Wong felt he didn’t have, that Stephen shouldn’t have to suffer through. As they all had so spectacularly learned, the Eye of Agamotto might be able to help with that. However, Wong had never mastered the use of this artifact; and besides, even if he could do it and were to break one of their most important rules by messing around with time, Stephen himself would not appreciate that great a risk being taken just to make him feel better.
Watching the potion bubbling peacefully, Wong contemplated that irony. Stephen had repeatedly and again only today proven that he was more than willing to take enormous risks at his own expense if it served the greater good. At the same time, he was perfectly capable of spectacular verbal dressing-downs if anyone broke the rules for him. The man was a study in contradictions. Another example was the sense of dignified haughtiness suffused by profound vulnerability he exuded that Mordo had responded to by bringing him to them, that the Ancient One had responded to by allowing him to stay, and that Wong himself was responding to on a daily basis.
Wong straightened. Enough contemplation. The potion could be left to itself for an hour or two now.
When he was back in Stephen’s bathroom, Wong found the scene much as he had left it, except that the Cloak had ended up in the tub with Stephen, wrapped around him, the collar holding his head up and out of the water, which had turned murky with blood.
“Stephen?”
Bleeding eyes opened, blinked, blinked again, focused on Wong with obvious difficulty. “Yeah.”
“Let’s get you out of there.”
“Will that involve moving?”
Wong looked at the Cloak. Word in Kamar-Taj was that it hated getting wet, yet here it was, completely submerged in water just to be close to its wearer. “Not on your part,” Wong hazarded a guess.
“Good,” Stephen sighed. “Not sure I could.”
As it turned out, he didn’t have to. The Cloak turned itself into a dripping stretcher, supporting Stephen’s whole body like a flying carpet as Wong led the way into Stephen’s bedroom. Through it all, Stephen kept his eyes closed as he was carried, his trembling hands folded protectively against his chest, covered by a large bath towel that he was all but burrowing into even as it was soaking up wetness from the Cloak underneath him and blood from his nose and mouth.
Wong was glad that Stephen probably didn’t realize how pathetic he was looking.
Stephen didn’t stop looking pathetic when he was installed in his bed, either. Now he was clean, the pallor of his skin formed an alarming contrast to the dark red blood on his face; that and his spiky hair standing up in all directions was making him look like a wet, wounded kitten. Possibly even more pathetic, however, was the Cloak, now hovering next to the bed, steadily dripping water onto the carpet, clearly torn between needing to join Stephen in the bed and keeping away so as not to drench him.
“How are you feeling?” Wong asked.
“Like wanting this to be over and done with already,” Stephen whispered. Apparently realizing that this wasn’t very helpful, he added, “Aching all over. Still slightly nauseous, almost like vertigo, like I’m not… all in here. And really not relishing the prospect of moving.”
“Then don’t. You have used up all the physical energy in your body by channelling the dimensional energy for your spells for too long,” Wong explained. “It’s drained you as much as three marathons in succession would. That is the price we sorcerers pay for our magic. You’re lucky it didn’t kill you, and that it’s just your nose and eyes that are bleeding.”
Stephen’s only reply to that was a long, drawn-out groan.
Wong noticed the way Stephen was holding his hands, loosely curled and crossed over his chest as he lay on his side. While Merlin’s potion would take care of everything else, the pain Stephen must be in because of them was something it couldn’t fix.
Hesitantly, Wong reached out a hand to put it on Stephen’s shoulder, fully expecting to be rebuked by this proud man. When nothing happened, Wong kept his hand were it was and sat down on the side of the bed.
Still no reaction.
After a minute, Stephen dragged his blood-crusted eyes open to look at Wong. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’m sure you’ve got more pleasant things you’d rather be doing.”
Wong mock-glared. “You still have much to learn. Beating each other up on the training grounds and guarding this dimension aren’t the only things we do. We also take care of one another afterwards.”
That actually elicited a smile.
Wong closed his fingers around Stephen’s shoulder in reassurance. “You’ve brought us another victory at great personal expense, again. Now you can rest, and simply accept the care you need.” While he talked, he fished for a small pillow with his free hand, gently raised Stephen’s hands, and placed them on the soft cool fabric next to his face where they would be more comfortable.
“Don’t you know that doctors make lousy patients?” Stephen whispered, eyes closing, fingers twitching against the pillow. Wong noticed moisture leaking out of the corners of his eyes that was not blood.
“So do most sorcerers I’ve known,” Wong said, pulling up the comforter and tucking it in around the slim body. “Doesn’t mean they get around being cared for when they need it.”
Stephen smiled again, lips trembling.
There was movement next to him. When Wong turned his head, he saw the Cloak move forward to extend one of its corners towards Stephen’s face. Warily, Wong waited, then relaxed when he realized what it was up to.
The wet cloth gently brushed across Stephen’s eyes, again and again, until all the dried blood was gone, absorbed and magically dissolved by the enchanted fabric. Finally, the cloak placed one of its edges on top of Stephen’s hands, drafting itself into service as a cooling bandage.
Wong nodded approvingly. “Try to sleep,” told Stephen softly. “I’ll be back soon with the potion.”
Despite his words, he remained seated for a while longer, never removing his hand from Stephen’s shoulder, watching, listening as the soft, stuttering breaths slowly evened out and finally eased into the rhythm of a fitful sleep, the best he could hope for right now. Only then did he get up to take care of the potion.
To Wong’s great relief, the potion worked just as Merlin had described it would. The bleeding stopped within minutes after its administration, and from the subtle relaxation in Stephen’s body, Wong assumed that the low-grade nausea and lingering pain was fading as well.
Sighing in relief, Stephen finally fell into true, restful sleep.
Wong made a note to this effect in his translation of the recipe and saved the document to Kamar-Taj’s server. He had a feeling that he would have use of it again in the future.
Not only that. If things kept going the way they were currently going for what everyone but Stephen knew would be the future Sorcerer Supreme, Wong suspected that, before too long, he’d be in a position to write his own book.