Slowly, she says. Good enough. He takes a last moment to steady her from the elbow, then releases her entirely when he's certain she can stay upright without him. That's one problem resolved for the time being. The dark though--

That one may take some doing. His kit and the wrapped torch with it is far above them, packed neatly behind the saddle of a roan mare picked to a tree in the woods hardly eighty meters from the place they'd fallen through the ground. It's no good at all to them down here. Luckily, they've plenty of shredded cloth between them. His own sleeve is in ribbons around his elbow. It's quick work for the dagger in his belt and forms a lopsided bundle when tied around the point of the fine silver sword.

It's as he's tying it in knots that he asks her, "Do you carry a flint?"