There's some half-hearted, incoherent grumbling but no actual resistance; in fact, once Zerxus actually relaxes he goes boneless. Sleep comes more quickly than it has even after long battles and wilderness treks, and for a time it even lasts.

He'd forgotten how much easier it was, with someone there.

For a long time he is simply drifting, somewhere deep in the sea or far in the sky, the songs of whales and stars in his ears. They are telling him things he'll forget upon waking but know in his bones. He is drifting, and he is -

He is flat on the ground with blood in his mouth, and the stars are falling all around him. He tries to move, but he's trapped or numb or broken; he can do nothing but stare as the skies are torn apart. These were the stars above Cathmoira - is that where he is, the home he couldn't save?

"Stop. Stop, you don't have to do this, stop - " It's his voice, but he isn't speaking. Perhaps this is what praying feels like.

Thank you for trying. He has never heard her voice, and yet it is profoundly familiar. It's the sound of doves in flight and crackling hearths; it's as stubbornly passionate as a dying flame, as fiercely soothing as a parent's final embrace. In that moment, as the stars go out and the sea boils and the grass is scorched to glass, hope blooms in his chest.

Then the goddess of compassion screams.

Zerxus jolts upright drenched in sweat, his throat raw with broken pleas he can't quite remember.