John is startled back to consciousness by the sound of the wolf in pain. He tries to surge upright on his tentacles, and instead finds Arthur's skinny human legs giving way beneath him. John tumbles into the tree with a groggy shout of surprise, gets a hand snagged in a vine-noose, and has to set himself to working it free.

He looks a wreck. Blood and ichor smeared everywhere, grass and soil everywhere else. His shirt is ripped or punctured in a dozen places; his belt and trousers did not survive the arrival of six new limbs, and it's left him naked from the waist down. His body is a map of scars, scabs, and bruises, but nothing seems particularly fresh. Only his yellow cowl has survived relatively intact.

John frees his wrist and looks up, blinking against the daylight. His expression breaks into open joy.

"Oh— oh, Jack!" He throws himself forward just to clasp the man on the arm or shoulders, wherever his hands may fall. "It worked!"