It's not much of an anchor but it's enough, a mental fortification more than physical; he is not dragging her down with him, and his scrabbling kicks a rock loose, makes a divot for his shoe to find purchase - and then he's up and out, and he collapses onto the snow in a heap, breathing heavily from the exertion even as a desperate, relieved laugh bubbles out of him, and as he sighs with relief he pushes himself up onto his knees.

His suit would have been modern by Cassandra's standards, closer to something the Briarwood staff might have worn, albeit in an autumnal brown that's still visible in places not completely covered in blood; but when he looks at her, those dark brown eyes are exhausted and warm. "Thank you, dear."