When he came to, the first thing he felt was a throbbing pain in his head that pounded with every beat of his heart. Holding back a grimace, he concentrated on breathing to control the burning within his skull.

As the pain became more manageable, he became aware of other things. His cheek was pressed against something unrelentingly hard that provided little warmth, and the air about him was stifling and still. Inside, then, fluttered through his mind. It was quiet about him; listening for a few minutes against the pounding in his ears revealed no obvious noises.

With that knowledge, he attempted to move for the first time — and his arms and shoulders burned suddenly as he shifted, causing him to quickly quench down a cry before it escaped his throat. Biting his lip, he carefully attempted to move his arms again. This time, the tight ropes about his wrists registered through his mind.

Not again.

He exhaled slowly, allowing his body to recover from the pain that flared from trying to move. As he lay quietly for a short time, the man suddenly became aware of another sound: breathing that was not his own from the left side of the room.

His breath caught in his throat and all of his concentration went to the source of the noise. Focusing for a moment brought little other information; the soft sound of breathing came regularly, and at one point he heard something shifting. Other than that, all was still. After listening for a couple minutes and once certain there was no other movement, he carefully opened his eyes. He was greeted by darkness. Within a moment his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the room.

It was a cell, that much was evident. His back was to the entrance; what little light that streamed through the cracks in the wooden door revealed dark stone and windowless walls. The wall he faced was adorned only with sets of iron manacles connected to short chains. His gaze fell to the floor; moldy straw haphazardly thrown into the right corner served as some sort of bedding.

Once he took in the sight about him, he slowly pushed himself to his knees; while difficult with his arms pinned behind his back, eventually he found himself in a sitting position. He closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness that assaulted him and concentrated once more upon his breathing.

When stable once more, the man slowly shifted his gaze to the left wall. He blinked, then squinted against the darkness to stare. By far, the most interesting aspect about his surroundings was his cellmate.

His companion's pale face was bruised and bloody, the worst wound being a deep cut on his forehead partially obscured by his dark hairline. A well-trimmed beard surrounded a split lip. He shifted his gaze to the rest of him; the dark of the cell and his clothes obscured additional wounds he might have, but from how the man's arms hung from his fetters, he highly suspected that the other's left arm was dislocated from his shoulder.

The red cloak was, by far, the strangest element about him. It was long and thick, adorned with patterns he could not make out in the poor light. Its long, prominent collar completed the picture of his outright odd-looking, unexpected companion.

As his own head began to softly throb again, he took a moment to turn away from the man and look down at himself to gauge his own injuries as well as he could. He could not see his arms, of course, but he felt no great pain beyond the discomforting stretch in his shoulders; a welcoming revelation. He was dismayed to see a long cut on his left thigh, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped some time ago.

Well, Aragorn, just how are you going to get yourself out of this one? He frowned to himself at the question. It was a fair question, too. He looked back to his torso. His outer surcoat and chainmail were gone, but they left his tunic mostly intact. This was good. Perhaps…

"Oh good, you're awake."

Aragorn jerked his head up and immediately regretted it. He shut his eyes quickly and held back a wince as his skull began throbbing once more.

"Sorry," he heard evenly spoken beyond the pounding in his ears. "And do be careful, you're suffering from a severe concussion."

Allowing a moment to catch his breath, Aragorn slowly opened his eyes to meet a keen pair looking back at him. Beneath the mask of examination he could detect that the other man held back his own pain.

"I should say the same of you," Aragorn answered. "You took a blow to the head."

The man grimaced. "I'm well aware of that," he answered stoically. "It only dazed me. You were unconscious for some time."

He felt his own lips tug down into a grimace. "Indeed," said Aragorn. "So I thought you were just now."

"No," the red-cloaked man said immediately. "I was meditating, actually."

That was not the answer he was expecting. "Meditating?"

Something like annoyance flickered across his face. "Yes. Meditating." Exhaling slowly, he turned his head away to look at his right hand hanging from a short chain that connected to the wall. He concentrated on it, and it quivered for a moment before he let it drop with another exhale. "Almost," he murmured to himself. He then twisted his eyes to peer at his left arm.

Aragorn looked at the arm as well. "I cannot see well, but it looks to be dislocated," he murmured, instinctively shifting closer to examine the limb.

He looked again over at Aragorn. "Anterior dislocation," he answered. "Little I can do about that now."

Rather than countering him, he looked down upon himself once more, eyeing his left thigh in particular. Aragorn paused to get his right leg from under him and carefully began to lift himself up. His left leg buckled, but he did not fall, and slowly he made his way to his companion. Once at his side, he let himself lean against the wall. "I believe — I do not think they took the knife hidden inside my tunic." Aragorn took a moment to catch his breath. "If you could remove it and cut my bonds, I can reset your arm."

The other looked at him suspiciously. "I don't need further damage to my arm."

Aragorn gave him a steely look in return. "I have set many dislocations in my life. I assure you I am quite apt in the task."

They held eyes for a moment before the red-cloaked man's brow furrowed. "Maybe," he finally said. "Of course, we would need that knife of yours."

"Inner pocket of my tunic on the left side," he murmured, positioning himself near the other's chained hand. His companion reached forward and began to search, but his hand began to shake, causing the chain to clatter. "Are you well?" Aragorn asked softly in concern.

"Old injury," he replied quickly and immediately changed the topic. "What's your name?"

He did not say anything at first. By the time he came out of his thoughts, the other man had halted to peer up at him. "In this place, it is best that you know me as Strider," Aragorn finally answered.

His companion went back to searching for the knife. After a moment, he said, "Strange."

Despite himself, Aragorn's lips quirked into a small, wry smile. "Not many are so candid with me."

"No, that's my name." He sounded somewhat exasperated. "Doctor Stephen Strange. I — there. Got it." He slowly extracted the knife from the inner pocket of the tunic.

Aragorn kept as still as he could, for the man — Strange's — hand shook as he pulled out the hidden knife. It was but a utility knife with a small blade no longer than two inches, but against rope, it would do. "How long can you grasp it?"

"Long enough."

Whether he could or not, he had little choice in the matter. "Very well. Hold it as steady as you may." He slowly turned around and inched his arms backwards.

"You'll need to lower yourself about four inches — there — and just, move about an inch closer to me, slowly — here. Hold still."

He remained as still as he could with the somewhat unstable leg supporting an outright awkward position. Despite the shaky hand and uncertain hold upon the knife, he was nicked but once before the ropes were cut apart. Aragorn quickly brought his arms forward and tucked them under both armpits to help alleviate the pain of blood beginning to circulate throughout his limbs. He let himself fall to his knees to take pressure off his wounded leg. Once the pain was manageable, he turned to the cloaked man — Strange, he reminded himself — and put a finger to his lips before slowly creeping forward. He cautiously leaned against the door and put an ear to it, listening.

"We are alone," Aragorn said softly after a moment, turning away from the door and approaching Strange once more. He ignored the throbbing in his leg as it protested its movement. "But I warrant they are not far — likely down the hall." He knelt in front of him, eyes carefully taking in his form. "Are you wounded elsewhere other than your head and shoulder joint?"

"Minor contusions across my torso and back," he answered methodically. "I don't think anything's broken." As Aragorn began to reach out towards him, Strange said quickly, "Are you sure you know what you're doing? I would much rather have it set in a sling than risk further torn ligaments from an amateur's work."

Aragorn raised a brow. "As I told you, I have set many dislocations. They are a common battlefield wound."

Strange raised his brows in turn. "You're a combat medic?"

Despite the situation, something of a strange smile played at the corners of his lips. "When need called for it." At Strange's disgruntled look at his answer, he placidly lifted a hand. "I assure you, Master Strange, that I am very well-trained."

The other man looked very dubious, but all he said in reply was, "Doctor. Doctor Strange."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Strange." He took a step forward, though paused as he caught movement in the corner of his eye beside the man's leg. When he saw nothing there, he turned his attention back to the other's arm. "It is an — an uncommon title."

Strange examined Aragorn as the other began to carefully examine his left arm. "It's not used around here?"

Aragorn gave him a strange look at the question. Where are you from? he wondered, but aloud he answered, "It is not common. More preferred are healer or leech. On occasion you find one with the moniker of physician."

"Ah." He gritted his teeth as Aragorn carefully felt about the joint. He quickly then asked a question, likely to distract himself from the pain. "So what did you do… to end up… thrown so unceremoniously into this cell?"

He paused and studied Strange for a moment, a keen stare boring into his eyes. The other held the look. Eventually Aragorn seemed to make his mind up about him and said, "My company heard rumors of trouble in this part of Rhûn."

"Rhûn," he repeated after Aragorn, as if he were tasting it like a new food.

Aragorn nodded. "Our third day in this region brought an ambush in the evening. I was unfortunately separated from them." He then smiled grimly. "I suspect I am only alive so they may... extract information."

Strange made a face. "Pleasant." He looked again at his arm.

"And you?"

He twisted his eyes to Aragorn. "Uh…" He paused. "Well, it's… complicated. I can tell you I did not mean to be here. I wasn't planning on coming near any civilization — as primitive as the civilization may be — but it seems that I was slightly off in my calculations, or timing…" He trailed off in thought.

He stared at him. "What do you mean?" Aragorn asked evenly.

"Well… I am not exactly from around here."

"That much is evident, Doctor Strange."

He quirked a brow. "Is it, Mister Strider?"

Aragorn snorted softly. "Quite."

"Well, I suppose I don't look much like the pleasant gentlemen that shackled me here, but that's beside the point. I believe I'm about ready to get out of here and I'm not in the mood to wait for them to return before getting out of here."

He raised both brows. "'About ready to get out of here,'" he repeated.

"Yes. I can do, uh, things — you know, it'll be easier if I just show you. I should be able to do it now."

"Do—?" But before he could so much as finish his sentence, Strange's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out.

"I've been doing some reading on these different dimensions."

Wong gave him a sharp look. "No, Strange."

Stephen Strange shot him an exasperated expression in return. "I was hardly finished!"

"I know that look. It is the same look you have whenever you have a bad idea."

"My ideas are not bad."

"Dangerous, then," Wong countered easily. "Jumping into different dimensions in the multiverse is no easy feat. There are many things that can go wrong."

He waved a hand dismissively and rounded the table Wong sat at — well, he was standing now. The library of the New York sanctum was empty, otherwise, and quite clean; one would never suspect that its entryway had been partially ruined less than a month ago.

Stephen placed a book down in front of him. "Between cleaning and resting, I've had plenty of time to thoroughly research a good dimension to start off on."

"Need I remind you," Wong began evenly, "that we have only just recovered from the attacks upon us? That we still have no Sorcerer Supreme?"

"I'm well aware of that," he answered coolly. "But to defeat any of these potential enemies that are looking to attack Earth, knowledge of dimensional travel is necessary. Better that I know how to travel before we are attacked." Wong began to counter him, but the other sorcerer quickly cut him off. "Look, I've found a good place to start." He pointed to the pages of the open book. "See, this one — it's not an alternative timeline to modern Earth, so there is no need to worry about bumping into myself or someone who knows me. Its technology is primitive, the passage of time there nearly mirrors Earth, and it is known to support magic. It's perfect."

Wong peered closer, briefly, and shook his head. "Some sort of magic, but there has not been enough study done on which — that much is evident. You may very well end in a realm that does not support your powers!"

"You're worrying too much," Stephen said. "Look, there's even a map." He turned the page.

"There is barely anything labeled."

"Hardly matters," he answered. "As I said, it's primitive. It will be excellent practice." With that, he grabbed the book and moved away from the table purposefully. Wong frowned and followed him.

"This is a bad idea."

"You already said that."

"It is worth repeating!"

Stephen chuckled softly as he came to the foyer of the mansion. "You worry too much, Wong. I won't be gone long."

Wong shot him another look. "And how long do you plan to be gone from the sanctum?"

He shrugged. "No longer than a couple hours. I'd like to explore a bit."

His look did not falter. "So when the second hour passes by, I'll be sending someone after you."

"You won't need to send someone after me," Stephen retorted in annoyance. "You're not my mother, you know."

Wong did not look amused. He said nothing as the other sorcerer flipped the book to the beginning pages and, sling ring upon his left hand, began to conjure a portal in the middle of the room. As expected, the scene was not clear like the portals that took you around the Earth, but rather a strange blur. Looking quite pleased with himself when a portal took form almost immediately, he shot a smug look at Wong. "I'll see you soon."

Wong simply stared in disapproval.

With an overly cheerful wave, Stephen turned away from him and stepped through the portal.