Altar of Twilight if you do not know which way to go

His grip on consciousness was so tenuous, Antares did not have the energy to fight his collapse. He simply let it go, letting himself crumble into this tired, battered heap in the moonlit snow no matter how fundamentally wrong it felt to not be warring back against the mountain's fate. For only an instant, though it felt misplaced to him, he was grateful to go with such a flow as this one his exhaustion finally demanded. To now be still, quiet, while his mind could recede into the haziest, darkest depths. Antares didn't want to see what new horrors the world might throw at him anyway.

So out of it, without a sense of time or his life lately to help ground him, he was slow to react to such a kind nuzzle to his cheek--first only with fluttering behind his closed eyelids, something that likely almost looked like a grimace--where were the stones to cut him back, the ice and earth to rip away beneath him? No, this was too gentle. Too foreign, and who was left to hold him in such a favor? He didn't deserve it, surely, but it was pulling him out of the undertow of the dark. He seemed to struggle with the notion until finally he groaned, growled pitifully low in his throat, and tried to blink open his eyes, fighting to focus them at all.