"My horse threw me." Francis' tone is rueful, even apologetic. He reaches up with one hand, touching the swelling under his eye, and clearly it stings, for he flinches a little. "It is little enough, next to the broken neck I might have found myself with. But... Yes, sitting would be a good idea."

And so he does sit, as close to the fire as he can manage, hoping more than anything to chase some of the numb cold from his bones. He rubs his hands together, blowing into them to work some feeling back into the fingers, and looks up at the younger man over his shoulder. "Nothing is broken, I think," he says, after a moment's consideration. It's all the reassurance he can think of to give.