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Nothing is working to help the kid.
Philza has tried every remedy for withering that he can think of.
Milk was the first option; he brought some with him into the Nether, just in case, but even when he fed a few sips to the little one, which usually would work on someone so small… nothing had changed.
If he was being optimistic, he’d say the blackness on his face and body had retreated a little, especially from his left eye, where it had started to creep into his sclera.
If he was being pessimistic— which honestly, he is at this point— he’d say the kid’s still on the brink of death.
Healing potions just make him sleep more. It too makes the wither retreat in increments, but it’s not enough. Regen does little as well. Bandages soaked in the potions and laid over the wounds seem to make them fester worse— honestly, covering them at all seems to be more harm than good.
Instead of a high fever, which is what he’d expect from such a sickness, he’s cold and clammy, a cool sweat settled on his brow and wetting his hairline. His temperature is several degrees too low, for a human and definitely for a piglin.
The kid can’t eat, he can barely keep water down.
He’s going to starve before he gets better.
He goes through all his books, even the sparse one he has on Nether mobs, but of course, there’s very little on the effects of and remedies for withering on anything other than humans.
His last-ditch effort, before going to track down a doctor who will work on a Nether hybrid, if one exists, is to try and feed the kid an enchanted golden apple.
He has a few, maybe five in total, kept safe and tucked away in his kitchen. They’re such a rarity, he really doesn’t want one to go to waste, but is it really a waste if he’s keeping his new charge alive?
Normal ones haven’t done anything good, after all. The one he tried to give him before wasn’t a good idea; it made his temperature spike and he was wailing for hours, as the blackness pulsed on his pale skin, fighting hard against the regeneration.
(It’s very likely than the stronger, far-more-magical kind will kill him.
He doesn’t really want to let anyone else die on his hands. It’s a horrible way to die, withering, especially for someone so small; the poor thing must be in agony.)
“Hey,” he says, just because it feels right to warn him before he enters the room. He has the apple cut into small slices on a plate, and a little cup of milk; it never does anything, really, but it seems make him happy, and he deserves anything that does that.
He’s awake, to his surprise— sitting up in his little pallet of blankets, staring at the window, sucking his thumb with tears in his eyes.
The black, crawling lines along his cheeks look only marginally better than they did a week ago. He’s paler than before, his eyes looking sunken, his mouth curled into a little frown. He looks so tiny. If he had to guess how old he is, he’d say only five or six, and god does that hurt.
“I know, it really hurts, doesn’t it?” Phil kneels down next to his little bed and pats the top of his head. His hair is greasy and limp; as soon as he’s healthier, a good bath is in order. “I’ve got something for you, though. Are you hungry?”
The kid weakly nods, sniffling, and he tries to smile. He sets the plate on the kids blanket-covered lap, and his eyes widen at the sight of the shimmery gold fruit.
He takes his thumb from his mouth, looking up questioningly for a minute, before picking up one of the small pieces and taking a bite.
There’s no reaction like last time, the wither fighting the magic; instead, he looks incredibly, if tiredly, pleased, and takes another bite. He grabs another piece, his enthusiasm rising as he’s actually able to eat.
Phil watches with his breath held as he eats, eyes wide and shiny with excitement, and--
“Thank god,” he whispers, his own face splitting into a smile, as the black begins to retreat from his face, the cut on his arm, the little scrape on his ear. “Is that good, kid?”
He nods, letting out a content squeal as he bites into one of the last few slices. His sharp little teeth cut into the fruit without issue, and he can tell just by his eyes that he’s already feeling better.
Phil sinks back on his knees. It worked; the kid is going to be fine. He’ll need to recover, it’ll take time, but the wither is getting out of his system. Maybe it’s something with the stronger magic; he doesn’t care.
He tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, eyes feeling hot.
He’s not going to die. No more blood of the innocent will be on his hands.
The kid reaches over, the most he’s really moved in days, and tugs at his shirt. He looks back down, tears on his cheeks, and smiles at him.
He gives him a wide-eyed look, maybe confused as to why he’s crying, yet still makes grabby hands at the milk. He chuckles and hands it over, helping him hold it in his shaky little palms.
He’s going to be fine.