“I sincerely doubt that,” Herbert said, hurrying forward, kicking up swirls of powdery snow and ice. The oath he swore, and had long since broken, drove him forward in autonomous motion. Icarus was forgotten. 

Stood next to the woman, he offered a hand, looking down at her sullied face. 

“This Twain of yours might be able to help with the right supplies, but first you need to get to him. Will you accept my help, given freely, without obligation, let, or lien?”

Icy winds nipped at him, clothes already soaking through. Ice had refrozen around his trouser legs, making them stiff and brittle. His muscles ached, and fire burnt in his lungs. He was not sure how much help he could be, but the woman was mad with the trauma; no breath clouded from the body she carried. 

He tilted his head to the side, “Perhaps that way we’ll get to him before your kidneys give out.”