For a moment Raju doesn't answer, frowning out at everything that he can't see. There are sturdy ways to cross that bridge, when they can be seen. And the ravine is very deep.

It was hours ago now when whoever it was had died but he remembers Francis behind him, the noises he'd made. He knows at least one of Francis' men is down in Lakeside, the men he keeps himself so isolated from, the men he worries over, the men whose deaths he carries such terrible guilt for, the responsibility of it heavy enough over his shoulders that Francis isn't always sure he's strong enough to keep his feet under the weight. The men who need him.

Raju's fingers curl into fists. The mittens keep his fingernails from cutting into his palms the way that he needs them to. He pushes a heavy breath out of his nose. He realises, dimly, that his jaw is tense, his teeth are clenched together. He holds himself that way, and he is still.

Francis needs light. He's going to need a lot of light.

"We should have something like a torch." He says it without looking around. His voice is solid and businesslike, a voice more used to giving orders than chatting, or laughing, or thinking very much beyond the things that it needs to. "Something that can carry a flame without burning up. A... bucket? Something metal? Wood won't do."