And there's some other poor bastard face down in the snow. With a broken leg, no less; Miles winces in sympathy, remembering how much those had hurt before he'd gotten all of his bones replaced. (Which doesn't make him impervious, of course, but not quite so ridiculously fucking fragile.) He doesn't have anything better to do, having cleared out what he can of snow for the day and not quite ready to submit himself to whatever else his gran'da wants to inflict on him, and yet just as infected by the inability to be still as his double. No, he's feeling distinctly helpful all around.

"Come on," he says cheerfully, reaching down for the man's arm and moving to tug him up. Huh, kind of spindly. No larger than his own, which is highly unusual here. A child then? They'd have to be if Miles is making any progress here. He'd be huffing and puffing trying to lift even the smallest solider in this village. "At least roll over for me and I can help you up the rest of the way."