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Thylacine feels the creature sink its teeth around his torso, and the last thing he sees before he goes limp and still and all his senses dull from the pain of his vertebrae being disconnected, is the terrified face of Ambrosias. Poor man. This must be his first time watching someone brutalized in an adventuring party.

Thylacine does not pass out from the pain. He needs to stay awake this time and keep pretending to breathe. If he rests, they will abandon him to her. He is so afraid of being alone again that it's all the fuel he needs for the next few hours, focusing on this single mind-numbing task as pain permeates every sense he has.

Thylacine registers the slower party finally catching up with them, the familiar cold hands of a fae cradling him as he's carried away somewhere. His eyes are unfocused, and his vision is blurry. He can not see anything but colors shifting around him between wheezing gasps and gargling. Fuck, he hopes they skin that gnoll and use it as a shit wipe.

It is embarrassing how he fights the healers, but every bit of magic they press against him in an attempt to help is like iron on his skin. Thank the godless earth that not many know this weakness of his.

Thylacine breaks something before they finally cease their attempts and begin muttering to each other, and one finally suggests a familiar name. The words are muffled, and he can not understand anything anymore, but something about the syllables brings him reassurance.

The few minutes he is left alone is hell, he wishes only for a moment to rest and stop pretending, but he is filled with the dreaded understanding that the healers would not abandon their own tent, and are most likely still listening in on him. He has no control of the situation, he is helpless, and wants nothing more for this all to be over.

Thylacine feels Ser Hendrix before he recognizes anything else. His hands warm and rough as they sink under his armor and feels his bones. The familiarity of his fingers warm against his flesh, the only comfort as pain takes his mind hostage as the man pushes and prods his vertebrae back together. He does not beg, (Never again will he beg) but he still weeps for it to end.

The relief of his dearest companion finally releasing him is immense. He wants to be held. He never wants another to touch him again. His senses have dulled, and his tongue tastes nothing but the memory of sweetness. His skin feels nothing most days but the phantom of warmth. This is the closest sensation to another’s comfort he shall ever receive again, and all he feels is pain, pain, pain.

Thylacine feels the belt of his satchel unbundled, and he is filled with dread and memories.
The Butcher has found many in the boneyard, and it might yet again find him. It hungers for his misery and tears.

Oh, gods. It's near. It's in the tent with him. It's starving for his pain and hunger. His starvation for hope is to endle-

Something small and sickeningly sweet is shoved into his mouth, and he chokes immediately, his throat too busy mimicking the need for air.
He’s so fucking stupid and weak. He thinks. That in his attempts to keep the green one safe, he endangered the entire party, and has disabled himself yet again.
Thylacine deserves this, doesn't he? All he has ever been is a fool and easy prey.
The hands are back again. Holding him, still? Down? No. Holding him against a familiar rhythm.
He knows this heart. It is good.

Thylacine does not choke on the next portion. It is horrible. The taste is so cloying and intense that he think for a moment that it is his own bile, and swallows it back down anyway. The relief is immediate. The pain is still there, but lessened. The feeling of his spine righting itself is a horrible sensation that fills him with much comfort. He could get up if he tried now, he doesn't.

There is nostalgia in being fed by a guiding hand, his mother, his master, his muse. The intimacy, something so valuable to him and common to others. This is not something he gives willingly.

His senses settle slowly. The coldness of the bloodless body he's had for months is slowly disappearing. This is good, this is safe, he is alone in his head but not his flesh, this is weakness. He revels in it.

Thylacine stops breathing, his heart does not need it, and it's okay to indulge even if he is not alone, for now. The man who holds his aching body does not fret away at his change. Hendrix is here, and Lorick is most likely outside. It will be okay. He can rest for now, just a little bit. Surely tonight will be kinder than today.