These things come to him as if from a great distance:

Thot spindly limbs, fur wet-warm with blood. His name in Richard Dickerson's mouth. Abby's hand pressing down over his back. The metal-bite taste of blood, unshakeable. White noise roaring in his ears around the rest.

The pain is muted. Not gone.

Slowly, the absence of armor and helmet filters through to find him. A kite string of a realization that only propels a hand towards his throat. Thot is crushed slightly in the process, as the first press of fingers there over skin made whole again gives way to a clumsy, scraping chase after a vanished sensation. As if it might be dug out of him. (The ghost of a blade at his neck or the healing itself?) His breath doesn't steady.