The absence of immediate retribution loosens the tight knot of apprehension in John's chest. It leaves a little space to consider all the usual aches and pains that settle into his body after a long day, compounded by the bolt in his arm grinding against bone each time he resettles his weight on the crutch, or the needling dig of half-embedded arrow in his hip.

And exhaustion is creeping in, the telltale warning that he has flexed near to the limit of his ability.

Having descended, John reaches for Flint's shoulder. The weary procession back stretches out before them. (It stirs memory of another march, years ago, when John had been in a different kind of agony.) He draws breath to say something, some nonsense thing in acknowledgment of their good luck, but—

But their good luck extends only so far, apparently. There is the faintest grinding of boot on grit, stirring a scattering of small stone before a body launches from the rooftop, knife in hand.

So John says, "Fuck," with extreme feeling instead.