"Aye."

His hand drops back over hers again in a last rough clasp, some offering of reassurance in kind. Yes, he's alright. Stubbornly alive, spitefully, defiantly. And the singing choir of various aches and pains at every little movement is a testament to exactly that that, as he feels it next when he breathes in deeper.

Right. All that, still. "I'll sit for the rest," he suggests, now allowing a little curl of dry humour to enter his tone, grasping less tightly onto his own sense of pride as he moves for somewhere shady.