The sight of him, old injuries and covered in blood, makes worry and memory well up in Cassandra in equal measure. She’s terrified for him. The memories of watching her family die, watching them be murdered at the hands of the very people who they’d welcomed as guests. As bloody as he is now.

She has to help him. She can’t… she won’t just leave him here. “It’s just me, I’m afraid.” But I’ll get you out. I promise.” It’s spoken fervently, a promise spoken, and a promise meant from the depth of her soul. She won’t leave him. “I don’t have a rope. But…” She pauses, thinking furiously. “Let me try something.” She withdraws, then, and he’ll be able to hear the sound of fabric tearing, as she begins tearing long strips off of the skirt of her dress. It just has to work long enough to get him up. Get him out. She doesn’t stop until it’s above her knees, and she quickly and deftly braids them into as much of a rope as she can manage. It’s long enough that it should work. Just barely.

Then she’s scrambling back for the edge of the hole. Ignoring the cold of the snow against her now-bare knees. Her boots help keep the rest of her lower legs a little less cold. A little less snow-covered, at least. “Here.”