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"I wish...that all of my friends will be safe."
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When Don awoke, it was to the smell of sulfur and brimstone and a sharp, burning pain through his chest.
He gasped for air, his ragged breaths only worsening the pain. He opened his eyes, stars dancing across his blurred vision as a dark red, jagged, rocky ceiling, and glowing, bubbling lavafalls made themselves clear.
‘I’m in the nether.’ The thought trudged up through the molasses of his mind. He braced against the hot floor and attempted to sit up. Key word: attempted. His body wracked with agony, forcing him to lay back on the ground. He took a sharp gasp and grasped at the source of the pain, his gloved hand coming back slick with blood.
‘Listen, man, I used to be in your shoes.’
‘You can come with us; we can’t promise you much, but we’re the biggest bunch of misfits you’ll ever find.’
‘C’mon, gimme a hug.’
He was supposed to be dead.
He was supposed to be dead.
Was he dead? Don couldn’t exactly dwell on these ideas, as the edges of his vision blurred and grew darker. His thoughts were muddled, stirred up like some crude abomination of soup. Some primal part of his brain desperately grasped at his stomach, pressing his gloved hand into the wound no matter how much it stung.
A thought fought through his muddled brain, sharp, crystal clear:
‘I don’t want to die.’
He forced himself to calm his breathing. He was an assassin for End’s sake, he shouldn’t be panicking over a little blood (he was going to die here. He was going to die on the dirty, sweltering floor of the nether. He wouldn’t know what happened to Dick or Dashlie. He was going to die). He grit his teeth and fumbled to take off his dirty gloves, before grasping at his belt for something, anything he could use. Bandages, gauze— anything.
His hand hit the hilt of his iron dagger.
He unsheathed it, letting his body relax for a few seconds, breathing through the sharp, unwavering pain emanating from the wound. If he unfocused his mind enough, he could still feel the sword through his gut. He could still hear Jon’s demented laughter.
He jolted back awake. He wasn’t going to let himself die again.
He looked around. To his left was a cliff, dropping off into a long ocean of bubbling, burning lava. Columns of the molten liquid dripped from the ceiling. He’d call it beautiful if he weren't bleeding out and if it weren’t unnecessarily bright.
To his right was a stretch of netherrack, until it dipped into another pool of lava, somewhere between a small pond and a puddle. A few fires burned indefinitely around it.
Don’s eyes widened before narrowing in concentration. He took a deep breath and tilted himself onto his side, crying out as his stab wound protested. He dug the dagger into the pliable nether floor and dragged himself forward.
Jagged netherrack stones dug into his side and legs, but he paid it no mind (or as little mind as he could), the agony from his wound overshadowed it, anyway.
Minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow as he dug his nails and dagger into the floor, inching towards that pool of hot lava, always so far. The heat suffocated him, dry and deadly. Sweat dripped down his brow and neck, evaporating as soon as it fell off of him.
Every tiny movement was another moment of torture stabbing through him again and again. Every inch forward was Jon pulling out his sword and stabbing it back in. Don grinded his teeth together (he could almost hear Dashlie’s voice chastising him for the habit, telling him it’d only wear them down. She said it like it was an insult. But if Don looked into it, he’d hear tiny flecks of concern mixed in.)
(He never looked into it.)
Don’s arms trembled and shook, until he gave out completely. He collapsed back onto the floor with a sharp cry. "Fuck. " He swore, panting and choking back a sob. (Who was he hiding it from? No one was here. No one was here to help him. To judge him for crying. To hold him while he died.)
His vision blurred together, going completely dark for what felt like ages before the sight of the nether returned to him. Voices muddled together in his head.
‘Are you really going to give up that easily?’ The voice in his head was high pitched and shrill.
‘I thought you were stronger than this, Mr. High-Class-Assassin.’ Gruff and scratchy.
‘You idiot, you’re right there .’ a voice he wished he had never heard again.
‘Get up. Or did I make you for nothing?’
Don’s eyes shot open.
"Get up." He mumbled to himself.
He shoved away the aching feeling in his arms, the constant stabbing of his stomach, and the ragged breaths that tore through his lungs. He got back onto his side, one thought shining through his mind.
‘Keep going.’
He gripped his dagger.
‘Keep going.’
He shouldered through the sweltering heat of the nether, pressing in on all sides.
‘Keep going.’
He dragged himself forward, vision blurring, the voices in his head blending together, a cacophony of color, noise, and overwhelming pain.
‘Keep going.’
Fire crackled in front of him, lava bubbling nearby. He didn’t know how long it took him to get here.
‘Keep going.’
He tore the dagger from the brittle floor, wiping the metal off on the fabric of his pants, and stuck the iron into the flame.
‘Keep going.’
He tore the fabric of his shirt away from his chest. He pressed the edges of his wound together, sucked in a breath, and pressed the flat side of his red-hot dagger into it.
A feral, agonizing scream tore through his throat until his lungs ached . As soon as the bleeding stopped, he stabbed the dagger back into the ground. He curled up, trying to make himself as small as possible. Black spots danced across his vision, taunting him as he fell into the numbness of unconsciousness.
.
...
......
"...ver here...."
"...he fu...."
"... Don!.. "
"...dud......nsane,"
Don was pulled up from the depths of unconsciousness. At least partially. The world was dark. His ears felt like they were filled with cotton. He was floating. Being lifted off the ground, something cold holding him up. Well, it was colder compared to the warmth of the…the…wherever he was. He shuffled closer to it. Something pierced through the cotton in his ears, likely because he was unfamiliar with the sound. Quiet…giggling? He didn’t know and, rather, didn’t care. He let himself sink back into the comfort of unconsciousness.
.
...
......
When he awoke for the second time, he was lying on a ramshackle bed (that was much more similar to bricks covered by some woolen blanket), staring up at a dark, nether brick ceiling. He groaned, closing his eyes again and turning onto his side, a sharp ache panging through his stomach.
‘C’mon, gimme a hug.’ Don’s breath shook at that memory.
"Well, look who finally decided to join us." A voice in front of him deadpanned. He opened his eyes.
"Dick. What happened?" His voice was scratchy and dry. He wished there was water in the nether.
"We fucking died, that’s what happened." Dick spat, grabbing a bottle from a shelf and offered it to Don. Now that Don assessed him, he could see bandages wrapped around his...teammate’s(?) arms, legs, and chest. (When Don looked at himself later, he’d see there were bandages wrapped around his abdomen and hands.)
Don took the bottle from Dick’s hand. (When their fingers brushed because of Don’s trembling hands, he’d notice his teammate was oddly cold despite the sweltering heat. He chose to ignore that). He looked at the liquid in it—syrupy and sparkling pink. The assassin took a sip of the potion; it was salty and sweet, like tears mixed with liquid candy. Don’s nose scrunched up, but he forced himself to down it anyway. He could practically feel his insides righting themselves again, magically knitting back together. He hated that feeling. It always made him squirm inside as the magic worked from the inside out, patching over bleeding wounds until his injury outside was just a dull ache, barely more than a scrape.
"Thanks," he muttered, sitting up in the ‘bed’ he was situated in. "Is Dashlie here too?"
"Unfortunately," Dick glanced over at the door, a poorly constructed wooden monstrosity. "She’s taking some of her anger out on some blazes." Dick looked back to Don, who was setting the bottle back on the shelf. As if reading his mind, Dick stated, "It’s just the three of us so far. Neither of us have spotted Duni or DDawn yet."
Don sighed. "I swear if I see that stupid pug again, I’m killing him again.”
Dick huffed, looking almost amused, "Wait in line, Dashlie called dibs first."
"She’ll have to fight me over it."
"Knowing her, she’ll win."
"Hey, I’m stronger than I look."
"Yeah, but she’s angrier than you."
Don couldn’t argue against that, and the two fell into silence. "How did you find me?"
"Dude, how could we not? I’m pretty sure astronauts heard your scream." There was another silence, tenser than the last. "You’re fucking insane; you know that, right?"
"What?"
"We saw the blood trail, you dragged yourself like, thirty feet and cauterized your own wound. It was terrifying."
("You scared us. We thought you were dead." Was left unsaid, the words hanging in the air.)
Don paused, his eyebrows furling at Dick’s gaze. (He didn’t want to look too much into it. Didn’t want to see the concern his friend held for him. He didn’t want to look into the fact that Dashlie was out killing blazes. He didn’t want to think that she might not be angry at Duni, but angry that he almost died a second time. After everything, he didn’t know what to do if he thought that these people did care for him, but only acted not to. Exactly the way he did.) "Sorry," he muttered.
("I’m sorry for scaring you." The rest of the apology lingered next to Dick’s unspoken words.)
The bearded man sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It’s fine, just don’t do it again."
"Don’t stop myself from bleeding out again?" Don’s voice was sharpened with irritation.
"No, don’t almost die again."
Don shut his mouth, the annoyance draining from his body, leaving only exhaustion. "Well, I’m not planning on it," he mumbled.
"You better not be."
After that, a comfortable silence fell over the room like a blanket. Dick got started on organizing potion bottles that Don can only assume he and Dashlie scraped together, his eye caught sight of a brewing stand in the corner. Don sank back into the makeshift bed, counting the bricks on the ceiling.
At some point, Dashlie joined them. She nearly destroyed the crudely made door and immediately went to chewing out Don for almost dying. When Dick brought up the fact she had also died, she started chewing him out for dying, too.
He tuned out the (rather lighthearted) argument as background noise, his mind leaving him with one question: What happens now?