A smaller hand slid under his, pawing at the amulet, a high voice raised above his and issued a command, and to Stephen's shock, the Amulet obliged them both, but mostly the interloper.
Light made the smoke opaque and luminous, full of magical colors, and utterly blinding him. An immense pressure pressed down on his chest, and Stephen struggled on reflex, gasping for breath. The pressure increased, until his ears were ringing and his vision was blurring. Then, with a pop, his soul was forced out of his body; he'd astral projected himself before, but this time, it felt like things unraveling from him, the unimportant parts of the world fading away even as the colors brightened, sharpened and sparkled.
He looked at the fabric of reality, pure and beautiful, and felt a weight lift from his shoulders. This. This was what he'd been looking for all this time. And here it had been instead of in dusty books or blood-stained rituals. Why had he ever thought it was anywhere else?
The memory spun up before him, solid as anything could be when viewed through the eyes of the spirit, and divorced from emotion, divorced from the addict's need, he looked at what he'd done. And saw the surgeon, the god of all neurosurgeons who wouldn't take a patient before checking their bank account; only the surface details of location and garments were different.
No... But he knew it was a denial from the shock and grief of seeing actions clearly, not dismissing the reality. The power of sorcery had always danced with the temptation of arrogance, for him more than most. He'd twisted right back to the person he'd once been, the one who dismissed help, dismissed anyone lesser than himself, reached for power not to aid others, but for his own glory. In magic, that was far more dangerous than in the surgical wing, and he saw, with horror twisting through grief and guilt, his own attempts at summoning up something that would have eaten the heart of the world, all for the sake of something no one could control.
He had done so many wrongs, and it was only luck - and influences beyond him working feverishly - that had kept him from doing irredeemable harm. First do no harm, that was the first commandment of magic and medicine both. And he had broken it by intent if not by direct action.
At the realization, the Eye was satisfied, and released him: he slammed back into his body no more gently then he'd left it.
Stephen lay a moment, sprawled on the floor. He felt as though he'd been hit by a bus, which was probably not inaccurate under the circumstance. He would be quite content to stay on the floor for awhile, but his eyes flew open at the image that had briefly passed his eyes, before the Eye had taken him. "Loki? Mageling?" He couldn't manage his feet, but scrambled over to his fallen apprentice, so still and small on the floor; with trembling and bloody hands, he reached out to check his pulse. "Oh, bright gods, what have I done?" he asked the cold room.