"It's over Salvador!" Hutch huffed, his shoulders heaving beneath his blood-soaked armor, his hand tightening its grip upon the hilt of his long sword, his eyes focused on the man kneeling several feet from where he stood. "This is over. Surrender."

"Surrender?" Salvador questioned, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he attempted to stand, only to collapse back down with a groan, blood pooling at his knee. "After everything we've been through, did you really think I would just give up because you asked?"

"You've nothing left!" Hutch stated, throwing his arms out. "Your ritual's finished. We destroyed your altar and your minions are dead or in shackles. We can keep fighting, but to what end? My generals are on the way up and my army has flooded your city. No one is coming to help you. You've lost everything. It's time to take responsibility for your crimes."

Salvador lowered his head. His hand, wet with blood, slipped from his side to his lap. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. Why couldn't you just stay out of my way?" A laughter, full of sorrow managed to escape him. "I was so close to fixing all of this."

"Hutch!" a woman's voice echoed through the hallway, on the other side of the open door behind where he was standing.

"I'm here, Kahlala! In the throne room!" Hutch replied over his shoulder, unwilling to divert his gaze from the man, Casimir Salvador, King of Qur'loam, a monster, who was on his knees before him.

"Kahlala's here?" Salvador asked, his eyes fixated on the ring, he was turning on his finger.

"What's it to you? What are you scheming?"

Salvador lifted his head, the length of his salt and pepper hair falling from his shoulders, as tears slid down his cheeks. "It's been so long, and still you think…" he sighed, glancing up at him, a strangely gentle smile on his lips. "I never did tell you her name, did I? It's Celina. She'd be so disappointed to see what I've become. But all of this, everything I've done, it would have been worth it just to glimpse her face once more." He paused, his eyes falling back to his hands. "But you're right. It is over now. You've seen to that. For your sake though, Jules Hutchinson, I truly hope things work out for the better. Because if nothing else, I'm now convinced that humans, do not belong in this world."

"Human?" Hutch muttered under his breath. "That's impossible. How do you know what I am?"

Salvador huffed and pulled an amulet of red and gold out from beneath his shirt, snapping it free from the chain around his neck as he muttered, "Always so certain of yourself, and yet, you understand nothing. You were never the only one."

"That's enough! This is just another one of your games, and I refuse to play any longer! You're finished, Salvador. There is nothing left for you to do. There is nowhere left for you to go. Your reign ends now."

"You're wrong, Hutch. This is no game. It never was. You made me your enemy; throwing in with the rabble, unable or unwilling to see the larger picture. Letting men like Sar'Basirak cloud your mind. It doesn't matter. Clearly, I underestimated you and yours. Ever so persistent," he replied, clutching the amulet tighter to the sound of approaching footsteps. "I wonder how far you would have gone, to glimpse her face once more."

Hutch turned to see his beloved, the gentle waves of her ash-rose hair poking out from beneath her hood as she stood just inside the doorway, her mouth gapped, hand stretched forward, her fingers crimson with another's blood, reaching for him to the sound of glass breaking against stone.

"Hutch!" His name echoed from her lips as he was consumed within a torrent of sand. Turning and swirling, blinding, and blurring, scrapping at his armor and flesh. Clenching closed his eyes, Hutch lifted his arms to protect his face as the sound, roaring in fury, became deafening. Unable to focus, he attempted to push through the storm, only to be wracked with an unfathomable pain. His bones felt as if they had been set afire, burning from the tips of his toes and fingers, up his legs and arms passing through to the core of his body. His muscles cramped and contorted, joints stiffened, and it felt as if every vein in his body was being blown apart. Unable to bear the suffering, Hutch screamed out, and collapsed to the ground. The wailing of the storm subsiding with his consciousness.

Hutch felt woozy as he began to return to his senses. A constant, rhythmic beep filtered into his head and a long-forgotten scent, a combination of flora and astringent, assaulted his nose. Rolling his head against the soft surface beneath, he felt weak, and unsteady. Every part of him ached, most notably his head, making him unwilling to open his eyes, hoping that it would fade so he could drift back off to sleep.

"Jules?"

A voice familiar to his memory, whispered from nearby. Clenching his eyes tighter shut, he wanted to believe that it was just a dream, but the warmth of a hand pressing down upon his wrist, convinced him it was reality.

"Jules, it's time to wake up."

This time he knew, he had heard correctly. The voice belonged to his mother, as cold and abrasive as he recalled, the warmth of her hand, less tender as it squeezed against his arm and shook it.

To Hutch, it had been near twenty years, since he last heard her voice or saw her face, and just as long since he had last thought of anyone in his family. For him, being taken to that foreign world had been a blessing. He had found where he belonged. He grew, matured, made something of himself. He had found a new family, had friends, a woman he loved and promised himself too for all his days, and a purpose. It cost him nothing, and he had left his past far behind him.

Turning his head, Hutch was slow to open his eyes, finding it difficult to focus under the strain of the artificial lighting.

"About time," she remarked, a look of distain upon her face.

She looked just as he remembered her, young and fit, and not yet a day over 32. Her hair was still long and straight, with the same bleached-blond highlights, pinned back as if she'd just come from work. Make-up plastered thick, dangling golden hoop earrings, and acrylic nails painted in trailer-park tramp red, dressed in the fake fur coat and skin tight jeans, as she loomed over him and tapped at his cheek.

"Mom?" he questioned, finding it difficult to believe that she was there.

"You expecting someone else?" she replied in a snarky tone. "Who else do you think is going to put up with your shit."

"This isn't possible," he muttered, tears slipping from his eyes.

Lifting his hand to wipe them away, he slid his fingers down his cheeks to find them smooth and gaunt. There were no whiskers or scruff. Running them across his left brow, there was no dent from the scar he had gotten the day he had met Kahlala. Pulling his hand away from his face, he found it difficult to comprehend what he was seeing, as the hand he was looking at, was not the hand he knew to be his. It was younger, un-marred by time, uncalloused by years of heavy labor and training. It was thin and weak, as was his wrist, and his forearm.

"No…" he shook his head, and pressed his hand to his chest, "no, no, no…" he began to frantically paw at his own body that was covered in a blanket, bedsheet, and hospital gown. "This can't be happening!"

"Jesus, Hutch!" his mother blurted as he pulled his arm free from her grasp, and sat up in the bed, taking in the space around him.

The drapes were open, but the sky was dark. Florescent lights, lit the room, and the thin fabric of the drapes did little but separate the small space around his bed from the other five people trying to rest within the ward.

"Will you calm down!" she stressed in strange mix of a yell and a whisper. "You're in the hospital, not some party in the woods. According to the doc, you're lucky to be alive. What the hell were you even thinking? First you go running off and disappearing for a week and then you fall asleep half naked in the back yard? Doctor said you're lucky the neighbor found you when he did. Said you could have died of hypothermia or exposure or something like that. And how the hell do you expect me to pay for this? I can barely afford to put food on the table as it is."

"Stop," he replied with a shaky tone, "just stop. I don't know what's happening. Did you say I've been gone for a week?"

"Something like that. It's been at least a week. Probably more. But between my schedule and you never saying a damn thing to me, it's hard to keep track."

"A week," he muttered, his eyes turning towards his hands, a gentle sob lingering in the back of his throat, "Salvador, what have you done? You bastard."