Eleven's too unsteady to protest, leaning on Archeval and doing his best to carry as much of his own weight as possible. But his body is overtaxed and running on too little, disinclined to let him push it further than he already has and works to try and slip into unconsciousness in blinks.

He's lost track of where they are or where they're headed, trusting the rest of the group to get them somewhere safe. He's grateful for the warmth of the indoors when it blesses them, sloughing off the cold in shivers. Voices wash over him, led further in, and then finally, he's lowered down to sit.

Eleven blinks tiredly.

"Thank you," he says, voice heavy with gratitude. "I wouldn't've made it..."