At first there was no reaction from the bear, still breathing deeply in slow rhythmic breaths, until suddenly and without warning he made a snorting sound, the breathing stopped, and a mighty bandaged arm swooped the plate near his face as he awoke from his dreamless torpor into a dazed and feral state.

It was like this coming out of winter hibernation too; all hunger, disorientation, and wild instinct as the mind struggled to pull itself together and the body went on fully automatic responses. At least coming out from it this time he wasn't constipated or dehydrated, but the splints and dressings encasing his body and limbs made his movements clumsy and awkward-- the broken and fractured bones they were supporting drove a hot nail of pain through every action. It took several seconds of this raw torture for his mind to reengage, by which time he had already inhaled half the hamhock laid in front of him.

Human-like awareness came like the buzzing of angry bees in his aching head, bouncing first from terror at finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings, alarm at finding himself eating something without knowing where it came from, shock and dismay about having bindings on, and a flurry of other emotions and worries as the light of consciousness replaced the feral gleam in his eyes.

Deliberately, he sat the half-consumed roasted leg of pork down, inhaled deeply then coughed from the pain in his ribs, before shuddering, then looking around the room. 

Memory of where he was, how he got there, who these people were, why his whole body hurt like he had gotten in a fight with a troll, and realization that the tight bindings surrounding him were not ropes, but splints and bandages --somebody had tended him while he was out-- clicked into place.

He sat there, half supported on his front limbs while still laying down with his hind quarters for several more seconds, drawing his bearings, appraising the situation, and feeling like a grand fool.  He always felt vulnerable and self-conscious about the post-hibernation confusion. It was way too easy to hurt someone in that state and not even know it. Add to that, painful traumatic memories of the Rascade dungeons, and the sensations of being bound...

He shuddered, and gently shook his head.

'How long wuz I out?' He asked flatly, as much to save face as to break the silence.  

The hamhock smelled and tasted better than it had any reason to.

He looked down at himself, and winced at what he saw-- emaciation, slack skin in loose folds, and mud-matted fur encased in clumsy bandages. Somebody had removed his robes-- a quick scan of his head showed them draped over the remains of the low bench he had been seated on during that so-called breakfast that morning.

This day had well and truly been terrible in every way he could imagine.

Suddenly, over the collage of fresh food, woodsmoke, unwashed humans, charred flesh, and acid-ruined everythings, a familiar scent he had committed to memory days earlier caught his attention. He swung his head altogether too quickly i  that direction and snuffed loudly, before once more becoming acutely selfconscious of the spectacle.

There, near Madame Matilda, was the prince.

'Oh, thank what'er gawds may be, i's da prince!'

Relief washed over him like a cool splash in a mountain stream. He laid back down with the hamhock in front of him, and tried to relax. 

'We got 'im.. we actually got 'im...' he muttered to himself, before resuming his meal, much more humanlike in the actions this time.