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Get up.
What the-? Where was he? What was this place?
Get up.
Everything around him was dark and blurry. Was he dead? No, that couldn’t be. He wasn’t dead -- he was breathing. He could feel it, could feel every breath, each inhale and exhale. Every single one hurt, burned his throat and made him want to cry out in pain, but his voice was no cooperating, and so he couldn’t make a noise, couldn’t call for help. Surely he wouldn’t be able to feel such worldly feelings if he was in the afterlife.
Well, unless he was in hell. Come to think of it, he’d definitely feel things like this in hell. Yeah, maybe that was where he was. It would make sense; he probably deserved it, too.
Get up!
Then again, did he deserve it? He had done his best. He had failed the other dimension, his home dimension, but how had he been supposed to succeed there? No one had treated Zargothrax’s return seriously enough, thinking that defeating a wizard who was dumb enough to have managed to drown in liquid ice would be easy. (Spoiler, it hadn’t been.) The forces of justice hadn’t been ready to face the demon horde; by the time they were almost ready, the infinity bomb had suddenly wiped them all out. Only he and the Hootsman had stood against the very powerful wizard. They had little chance and even less options.
And yet, the blood was still on his hands: of the people of the kingdom that he had failed, of the Hootsman who had sacrificed himself to stop Zargothrax from unleashing Kor-Virliath, of the people who died in this dimension in trying to help him stop Zargothrax because he failed to do so when it counted in the previous dimension…
Had he even managed to defeat Zargothrax this time? Or were Zargothrax’s forces still victorious, even without their master? What was the fate of mighty Dundee? What was the fate of the Hootsforce? What was the fate of the Hootsman, who somehow returned in this dimension? What was the fate of Ralathor, the one who had accepted the prince despite his mistakes in the previous dimension and was the one who supported the prince most in the battle against the dark sorcerer’s forces?
He had to know.
GET UP!
Angus wasn’t planning on taking things lying down, that was for sure.
Despite every fiber of his existence protesting, Angus willed his muscles to move. At first, nothing happened, but after a few attempts, he got a finger to twitch. A few more, and he was able to shift his arm. Then he managed to shift his weight slightly, and after what felt like an eternity, he managed to get himself onto his side, from which he pushed himself up into a sitting position.
There, he took a break, breaths heavy and balance unsteady, threatening to tip him back over. He persevered, though, even when every breath scratched his throat and made him want to cough, scream, and cry simultaneously. He took this as a moment to look around; alas, he couldn’t see more than a few feet away, anything else disappearing into thick, ashen fog. To make matters worse, his eyes burned rather painfully, irritated by something and everything. The air was warm, uncomfortably so, and there was a light coming from beyond a nearby edge. He could hear a gurgling sound -- lava. It was spewing ash into the air, he realized. The same ash that made everything burn.
Well, it wouldn’t burn him. He’d get out of this.
GET UP!
His name was Angus McFife XIII, and he was the Crown Prince of Fife. He could do this.
Though it will be difficult to do so alone, said a voice in his mind that sounded like his own. He had to admit, it was probably right. Moving was such a difficulty; could he really force himself to climb down a volcanic mountain in this state?
Where was the Hootsman, then? Where was Ralathor?
He hoped they were both okay.
Then why didn’t they come help you?
He shook that thought off. Ralathor and Hoots, if they were okay (and he hoped that they were), were probably busy taking care of themselves and the forces of justice, or perhaps they were still involved in epic battle. Regardless, there was no way he had to signal either of them that he was even alive, much less where he was.
Why didn’t they come looking for you? Do they not care for you?
The ground below him rumbled, shaking everything. He almost lost his balance but managed to catch himself with an arm, the sharp and hot rocks cutting through his glove and against his palm. Yeah, they likely didn’t know he was alive, that he survived, and frankly, he preferred them being far from the volcano than getting hurt looking for him. The volcano could blow up at any moment, for all he knew.
Was it just him, or was it getting hotter? And brighter? He looked over towards the edge, where he saw that sure enough, the intense light from the boiling lava below did seem to strengthen with every moment. The bubbling was also getting louder as well.
Oh no.
He glanced around, a bit frantic as adrenaline set in. He needed to get out of here, fast, and step one involved getting up. He didn’t trust his legs, though; they wouldn’t be able to hold him up. Then, he saw it -- his hope and his ticket out of here.
The Hammer of Glory was only a few feet away, teetering slightly on the edge of the crater, threatening to fall into the volcanic depths if the mighty beast of solid and molten rock rumbled once more. Angus immediately rolled himself over slightly so he could crawl, on his hands and knees, towards the mighty weapon. He made quick progress, fueled by pure determination to reach it before it fell and was never seen again, ignoring the dull ache in torso that made itself known as he moved.
True friends wouldn’t have left you to die here. You yourself wouldn’t wish this fate upon the worst of your enemies.
He mentally told that voice in his head to shut its mouth because he was preoccupied with crawling towards his salvation.
He grabbed the long handle of the mighty hammer just as the mountain shuddered once more. He pulled it closer to him, to safety, when he suddenly had to let go of it, letting it drop from his grip and to the stone ground with a cry. The hammer’s handle, which had been hanging over the edge, was scorching hot to the touch, almost glowing red, and he had gripped it for a solid moment before his body realized it burned.
He kneeled, holding his burned hand close against him and curling over it slightly, when he noticed something else. It was the source of the ache in his torso, and perhaps the voice in his head.
Wedged into a gap between his armor plates on his abdomen was a knife, stabbed in so deeply that only the red-jeweled hilt was visible, the entire blade sunken into his flesh. Right. He had been stabbed at the end of the battle with Zargothrax. How could he have forgotten? It was why he had been so close to the edge, why he had tried to throw himself in but passed out before he could.
Though, strangely, he didn’t feel its influence spreading through him. Was he under its influence already? No, that was impossible. He was still himself, he didn’t want to hurt his friends. He didn’t want to hurt anyone! Killing Zargothrax, that had been just a necessary evil, right?
The volcano rumbled.
He didn’t have much time to ponder on his own morality and the effects of the knife. He had to act. Pain was a perception his body put on the backburner for now. He thought for only a moment before reaching for the hammer once more, grabbing it with his injured hand closer to the weapon’s head, which was cooler as it had been further from the lava. With his other hand, he ripped off some of the loosened armor plates around the stab wound, throwing them into the lava, as if the measly offerings would temporarily satisfy the angry force of nature that threatened to devour him in a fiery death.
With the area around the knife cleared, he took a deep breath and gripped the handle of the knife. The onslaught of pain that followed suddenly was nothing compared to the scream that rang out across his mind. It felt as if everything in the universe was telling him that this was a bad idea, that he was a fool and would regret this, that he should leave it in.
He didn’t trust the blade, though.
He wasn’t a coward, either, and he was not known for being smart.
But he was stubborn. Very, very stubborn.
He summoned forth all his strength and pulled the blade out, his body giving out a scream he could not control, and he pressed the hot handle of the hammer against the wound. His vision darkened at the edges and the world swam, and for a moment he wondered if his stubbornness just achieved something not even Zargothrax could and got him killed. However, after what felt like an eternity, the screaming (was it even his own anymore?) stopped, and he dropped to the ground, breaths heavy and heart pounding, but he was alive and aware and in pain.
He waited a moment as the pain faded to comparative dullness before trying to get up again. He grabbed his legendary astral hammer and held it near the top, careful to not burn himself again, before using it to drag himself up to his feet. He stumbled and almost fell, but managed to maintain his balance. Leaning heavily on his loyal weapon, he limped and stumbled his way away from the crater as fast as his legs would allow him -- after throwing the vile knife hard as he could into the bubbling fiery depths, of course.
He had no clue how long he had been going through the caverns and crevices that spanned the rocky walls of the volcano. With every moment, it was getting hotter and hotter. He felt a great thirst for water, water that he could not have until he got out of there. His eyes burned, and so did his throat and even his nostrils.
He persevered onwards. Whatever pain he felt now would be nothing compared to being caught in the lava flow.
After what felt like another eternity of suffering, the cool breeze of the outside world hit him, almost making him stumble as if he were nothing but an overdry leaf awaiting to crumble. The air here burned less when he breathed, and the cold wind was both a gift and a curse. He was almost there, he just had to climb down the volcano and get to Dundee or wherever his allies were. Easy.
Then he heard the sound of lava flowing.
Not so easy after all.
It was pure fate, then, that he realized he knew where he was; this was where he had landed just before he had begun to battle Zargothrax, the chase and battle that ensued having led him closer to the core of the volcano. And if he looked around, he’d find… yes! Yes! There is was!
As the lava coated the stone where he had stood only thirty seconds ago, Angus was already airborne, the legendary enchanted jetpack allowing him to soar not only to new heights and the unknown but also to fly home, to a place where he belonged. He was flying through the kingdom of Dundee, headed straight for the citadel, hammer in hand, the handle having cooled enough for him to hold it easier. Below him, he could see the world so far away. People were coming out of their homes and shelters, no longer imprisoned under the tyrannical rule of the dark sorcerer.
Just up ahead, the proud spires of the citadel palace reached to the skies. Angus descended, trying to keep as much control as he could, which was easier said than done when he was so tired and wanted nothing more than to just pass out. Just a bit further, he could make it just a bit further…
His feet hit the ground a bit harder than he meant for them to, and he stumbled with his velocity, using his hammer to catch himself once more after falling forward a few steps, one of which caused a sharp spike of pain in his ankle. He breathed heavily as he raised his head and looked around, much of his weight still against his hammer. He did it. He did it!
Take that, you over-expired wizard!
Several people in the area looked at Angus when he landed in the courtyard suddenly. Several people ran off, calling for a healer; a few people fainted in shock; a few people were cheering loudly, welcoming his return home. His focus, though, was on a very confused and shocked man just ahead, rone in green armor similar to his own and wielding a large hammer similar to his own, though perhaps a bit older and definitely less injured. The man’s confusion wore off quickly, or at least was put aside, and he rushed over to help the battle-weary Angus.
Injured Angus ended up with his hammer in one hand to help him walk and his other arm around his doppleganger so he could lean some of the weight off of his injured ankle. Just like that, the injured warrior was led to the infirmary. People gathered around to watch, but a gesture from the doppleganger with his own mighty hammer and a few yelled commands immediately cleared them a path, people instead gathering on the sidelines as if this were some sort of procession -- the return of a hero of two dimensions.
As they reached the infirmary, the injured Angus spoke, his voice roughened by ash. “How did I do?”
His older counterpart gave him an encouraging and honest smile before answering in a much smoother and less destroyed voice.
“Better than I could have. Welcome home, mighty hero.”
Someone opened the doors to the infirmary for them, and they stepped in together. At that moment, a voice asked from within the infirmary, one familiar and rough, with a slight accent that only the younger of the two heroes recognized, for it was that of a place that did not yet exist in this timeline -- California.
“Angus?”
Both heroes looked up, one speaking smoothly and the other a bit more roughed up.
“Yes?”
“Yeah?”
Despite being generations and dimension apart, they weren’t that different after all.
Alas, unfortunately for the two heroes of different times, the scene they came in on was far from the victorious welcoming home that they likely deserved. Whereas they triumphed above the evils of Zargothrax and the Knife, not all were so fortunate.