Cold.
It was cold.
Very cold.
It hurt.
He might have been more concerned about that, had he been able to remember what that meant.
Were his eyes open?
Maybe.
Everything was wrong, white and brown and black blending into blurred nothingness.
Yes, his eyes were open.
White.
For all there was darkness above him and shadows flitting past his jumbled memory there was quite a lot of white.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he realized he was lying in the snow, but all he did was blink slowly.
A snowflake was on his eyelash.
He stayed like that for a while, thinking, but not really, barely there, shadows shifting and blurring into the snow around him.
He felt like he should know them, the shadows. Like if he asked them of something they would listen. But it was only for a moment and then the thought was gone, and he was left, barely breathing, blinking again.
At some point, he did not know how long it had been (perhaps hours, possibly minutes, maybe days, he wasn't really counting), he realized there was another shape, another being in his limited line of vision. A voice, too, he heard. It wavered in and out, he couldn't understand what was said, and only blinked.
His vision turned black as whatever it was lifted him up, and then he was moving.
The figure holding him was shades of muddled brown and grey and sometimes he thought he could make out eyes, peering down into his own, but the next step jostled him and his vision lost it's focus.
Vaguely, he wondered if he should struggle, but he found he didn't know how, arms and legs remaining limp. Even as the jarring steps made the pain he only half-registered flair, he couldn't even flinch.
Eventually, through the unsteady jerking up and down in the figure's arms, the swirling shadows in his vision grew stronger, until black and nothingness was all there was.