"Well," Prior practically spits back, face half-shadowed. He considers. Silent. Judging. There's a twitch abusing his lip into hints of either a sneer or a smile.

The makeshift torch is swung away and with a clatter its tossed back onto the fire as the young man paces away. His lungs are tight and his arms and sides and shoulders ache, but oxygen, blessed oxygen, is an improvement. As is the realization that, with any luck, his ailment can remain strictly between them and them wolves.

"Better than the alternative?" His boots scrape against the floor and a moment later he's settling right next to Fitzjames. With great aplomb, he offers a artfully mangled half-can of warm beans. "Let's hope."