It's only after recognizing the blood on his hand as his that the pain begins to set in. The throbbing gives way to a burn, but Francis does not inspect the wound himself, keeping his mind on the simple, important task of moving. One foot, then the other, each step closer to the goal, and further from the danger he cannot be sure doesn't follow him still.

The outline of a man's silhouette coming into view spells some kind of safety, and that's well before Francis' mind can catch up to what his eyes and ears are taking in. That voice that pours ice in Francis' veins, and a face he would recognize among a sea of ten thousand sailors.

"James?"

Francis' mouth falls open, pitching forward on unsteady feet to take one of the man's shoulder's in hand, fingers curling into fabric. Whatever excitement has flooded his body doubles now, limbs shaking, head suddenly clear of all notions of danger and instead tumbling with questions. How? Why? He squeezes James' shoulder, unthinkingly staining his coat with blood.