Healing a Nightmare ((For darkpiety))

[grantuseyes]

So much of the ordeal blurred together. The time spent speaking with the likes of Faris, April, Tina and others at a party was a lifetime ago. Did it even happen at all? What if this is him truly waking up now? What if everything before was another reality, another Dream, one that's broken under the strain of frenzy and now he, having gone through the grueling process of adaptation once again, has surfaced someplace entirely new? What if it was all a figment entirely, one crafted by a consciousness untethered from the physical body, lost and searching, alone in the darkness and desperate for stimulation, for sense?

The realest thing to him right now are the sensations of his searing blood, the culmination of it reaching its crescendo marked by forming into a stone-like spear and punching up through his skin. Piercing him with the unusual properties of the godsblood he still holds in his frail and human veins when meeting mind-melting truths of thought.

His blood sings and flows stronger now, stabilizing Micolash's punished body. The Old Blood injected into him, once, twice, thrice, working its near-magic on keeping the man living and breathing.

Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears...

There are memories of fleeting moments, visions. The young man from the Nexus, the dreamwalker, speaking his name. A woman grasping his hand in hers. Messengers crowding around his body. The seated Amygdala statue presiding over his torment.

Red and black. Black and red. Beams of orange streaked over it all. Swallowing it all.

Wet. Always dripping wet. The floor, the stone, his body. An unpleasant stickiness in the rare opportunity it was allowed to dry. Under his nails, filling his mouth, flooding his nostrils, streaming down his face from the eyes.

The pain. The pain. The tearing, the shredding, the piercing, the burning, the cutting, the screaming.

He remembers screaming. He remembers screaming until his throat tore itself raw and then he screamed again. And again. And again.

He remembers pain most vividly and at first Micolash cannot be certain if now it is just the deep-seated, close-by memory burning bright against his skin. Or if it is the one thing he carried with him wholly through the end of the Nightmare.

Micolash cannot stir. There is no way to move himself under his own power. He hangs limply in Abysa's arms and whimpers. He is awake in the barest sense of the word and he wishes dearly that he was not.

It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.

Comments

[darkpiety]

Abysa has just finished teleporting both himself and his injured charge back home. With that violet smoke indicative of his dark magics, the two of them materialize in the centre of a magic circle, in a large stone room. There is no need to light the sconces on the walls, for the demon has no need of light to see, and Micolash does not seem capable of opening his anytime soon. He floats onwards, deeper into his lair, through dark stone halls and past countless closed doors until he reaches the hallway with their rooms at last.

Henry, the cat with an eye-shaped patch on his forehead, is alerted to the return of his owner and the priest, pushes himself through a catdoor from his room. He pads on over, tail low as he senses something is amiss. He lets out a questioning chirp as he follows Abysa to Micolash's room.

"Oh, Henry... How do I even explain..." Abysa says tiredly. "Micolash is not well."

The door to Micolash's room is opened with psychic manipulation, swinging open to reveal everything just as it was before they had left. The demon feels his heart stink. It had been only hours, surely, since they had left to depart to a festival, himself costumed personally by his beloved Lord Beauty, and sneaking a bit of holiday decor onto Micolash's cage.

Ah, that cage. He had not thought to remove it yet, keeping it on even as he holds the human, able to support it with little effort. To think that it took one simple lifting of that iron-barred tower to cause a disaster unlike any he had seen previously. A night of fun and cheer ruined within seconds... Abysa feels tears forming in the lines of his face markings, bitter and sorrowful, for all involved, but especially the one in his arms.

Then he hears a soft, weak sound from his patient, and some of that despair is quickly dissipated.

"Ah, he awakes at last, thank all that is good..." Abysa says as he floats on over to Micolash's bed. He sets him down gently, making sure that the cloak wrapped around him is sound, and finally, removing that accursed cage.

It is not like the event with the spider at all. The cage is lifted with Abysa's psychic power easily, and set aside on the floor with a muffled thunk (as most surfaces in Micolash's room are softened). Quickly, he places a soft kiss on Micolash's pale forehead, that simple, affectionate act allowing some sort of calming power to flow from demon to human. And this is in addition to exerting his calming aura, buffering the frenzied energy inherent in the poor scholar's skull. With that done, Abysa lets him down to lay on his back, letting Micolash's poor, tired head rest upon a soft pillow.

"Micolash," He says softly, "Can you speak? You are safe now."

[grantuseyes]

Feeling a soft surface underneath him is a small blessing, one his mind only notes off to the side. His entire body is a cavalcade of painful input, every inch, part and organ.

It hurts.
It hurts.

His whimpering becomes a gurgle as his eyes are struggling to open and failing. He heard a voice...

It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.

Micolash weakly tosses his head, turning it from looking upwards to sidelong instead. The opposite direction of where Abysa sits and speaks gently. Struggling to remember even how to move, how to control his tortured muscles.

It hurts.

[darkpiety]

"Ah, no, this way. I am going to turn you." Abysa says gently, not liking that gurgling sound, nor the fact that his charge seems to be looking at the wrong direction.

With the smooth and weightless motions that come naturally as a result of his telekinesis, Abysa turns Micolash to his side, facing him. He is thankful for his natural psychic affinity, wondering how much of an ordeal it must be to move patients by hand, to carry them in stretchers, so on and so forth.

"Dear Henry, if you could fetch me some replenishing water, I would be grateful." Abysa requests of his feline 'assistant'. With a small trill in reply, Henry jumps off the bed to trot out the door with silent paws.

"You must be in such agony... I will do my utmost to calm your pain." With that being said, Abysa seats himself next to his patient, placing his palm over Micolash's forehead. The human's ashen-pale skin is stained with dried blood, and his hair is matted with the same, the way it feels against his fingertips sadly similar to when he had first brought him here.

With a moment to concentrate, Abysa pours out as much healing energy as he can in a single wave, the air around them turning to swirls of purple, more like a whirling fog, like ink dropped into water, as it is channeled into the human head-first. One could liken it almost to the sensation of receiving anesthetic by injection or IV, with the effect starting slow and then seeming to flow throughout the body, radiating from the point of entry. It will not fix everything at once. In fact, Abysa doubts that he has put a notable dent in the actual injuries he has sustained, as they are not just physical in nature. What he does know, from years of experience, that a single, concentrated spell will overpower the nerves' pain signal enough to bring some temporary relief, at the very least.

Henry makes a little whine as he pads back into the room, a thin crystal vial being carried in his mouth delicately. He hops back onto the bed to pass it onto Abysa, dropping it in he priest's free hand unceremoniously.

"Thank you, Henry. I have used a great deal of my magickal reserves tonight. This should keep me from running low." Abysa uncaps the vial without needing to touch it, letting the cork float in the air as he sips the glowing blue liquid within until it is drained. So, 'replenishing water' seems to be a sort of mana potion, meant for Abysa! How about that.

"Micolash? Do you feel any better now?"

[grantuseyes]

The gentle surge of demonic healing powers flowing through him is like water onto a roaring flame. It might not be enough to extinguish it all at this time, but it still puts out patches of it. Still is met with the release and hiss of steam. Tension drains from Micolash's body, his neck being held taunt without realizing it and shoulders much the same. His mouth hangs open slack as well, his breathing coming through it now with ragged, wet sounds.

His lips move, as does his tongue, trying to form words. A word. Anything. Trying to respond to Abysa's words that feel and sound so far away. Finally, one is said weakly, little more than a breath.

"...Kin..."

The effort ends with Micolash's mouth hanging open again, even moving his jaw so briefly enough to strain the tender muscles there.

[darkpiety]

"Ah, good, you recognize me." Abysa too seems to relax somewhat, worried up until this point about just how much damage had been done.

"It is me, yes, the 'kin'. You are back here now with me, in your room. Henry is here too. I will need to spend some more time healing you, but it will be slower now. Would you like to sleep more? You need not stay awake for me."

Abysa sets aside the empty vial and its stopper for now, edging closer to his patient. On impulse, he leans down once more to give him another kiss. Rather than the forehead this time, he places a gentle, warm kiss on the human's mouth. He comes away from it with a bit of blood on his own lips, but seems not bothered by it so much as saddened.

Henry, seemingly curious, sniffs at his human master with great thoroughness. Each unfamiliar scent on that borrowed cape, the somewhat unpleasant undertone to his blood, and a number of other smells that are otherworldly give the feline familiar much to ponder over, in whatever way a Henry may ponder. He settles near Micolash eventually, purring deep.

"All will be well, now. I am sorry I could not - I really should have.. ah..." Abysa sighs, trying to find the words.

"If I had been more vigilant, perhaps. I could have kept better watch over you. You were nearly upon the shores of Death's river, and I brought you back just in time. If I had lost you..." Oh, that would be awkward, wouldn't it? If he begged his dearest Lord of Death to fish out the soul of a rotten mortal from the river? But he would do so all the same.

[grantuseyes]

Regardless of where the kiss is placed, it still carries the same soothing effects. Applying another layer of psychic dampening upon the hideous energy that seethes inside Micolash's skull. The same energy that turned what began as a night of merriment into one of nightmarish survival for so many. Nearly two dozen lives changed irrevocably on this night because of him...

Hearing Abysa's voice and feeling Henry's purrs, though. Feeling the bed underneath him, the cloth wrapped around him. Little things that are all adding up slowly, agonizingly so, to inform the unlikely fact: he's not in the Nightmare anymore. Whatever that Nightmare was, surely not his, was it? But it was a Nightmare all the same. He would know. And now it is over. It must be. It has to be.

"Kin. P-...Please..." The words are small and weak. The motion of his hand twitching nearer to Abysa even moreso. "Hold-...Hold so I. Don't-..." So he does not what, it's uncertain, as Micolash cannot muster any further words. But he remembers a hand. Smaller, softer, the fingers slender and woven between his. A hand holding his own as the spears of frenzied Old Blood continued to punch through his body. Something to reassure him that he is not alone.

He need's Abysa's hand to do the same for him now.

[darkpiety]

Abysa doesn't catch on right away, until he notices Micolash's twitching hand, and remembering the kind woman who had been there with him before. He does not hesitate in taking Micolash's hand in his, and then placing his other hand on them both. It feels so delicate, like when he had first seen him collapse on the library steps all those months ago.

"You are safe, and back... back home. Let that knowledge give you peace, and dull your pain."

Without letting go, Abysa concentrates once more on channeling his own inner power into a healing spell, letting it flow from himself into the weakened human where their hands meet. The spell isn't instant, nor will it be noticeable at first, more like a subtle fog rolling in that becomes thicker over time. As time passes, Micolash may feel it, bit by bit. It is as though one must fill a parched canyon with one ewer of water at a time, Abysa thinks, and feels, his empathy able to sense just how deep the frenzy had wounded his charge.

[grantuseyes]

Home.

That's always been a strange word to him. How can anyone feel at home anywhere when the entire plane you exist upon grates and feels foreign? How can someone who yearns to live amongst the stars make peace with calling any dwelling on earth his home?

The last time he ever thought of a place with that word was the house he grew up in. Home was where you retreated to hide, home was where the woman who gave birth to you lets you bury your face in her apron or cower behind her skirts, home is where he arranges and sorts his most precious belongings and findings and keeps them.

He has not had a home in a long time. And now this kin of the unknowable says this is home.

This is home.

The healing and this thought swirling inside of him makes Micolash's body relax further. Makes the pain ebb deeper. Holding Abysa's hand weakly, the scholar sighs, his head falling further against the pillow with his eyes still closed. His poor eyes...

Abysa's psychic probe will find...a lot. So much psychic damage inside Micolash's skull, that horrible latent frenzy wrecking havoc with nothing to contain or control it. Muscles that have pulled themselves to the point of tearing all over his body. Internal damage to things beneath the skin, especially the tissue of his back and chest, where those spears pierced him. A throat gone raw from screaming, catastrophic blood loss, broken fingernails from clawing at stone. And his eyes...

They are closed and likely will remain that way, but the damage to them is just as bad as his brain. Another casualty of the frenzy as their function links so terribly closely with the Truth it represents. Damaged is putting it mildly. They are nearly destroyed.

[darkpiety]

Time stretches on long enough that Henry has settled into a nap, his purring eventually fading out as he curls into a circle next to his bedridden master. When Abysa decides to take a break from his healing, he looks down at the feline fondly before letting out a tired, small sigh.

"There is so much to be done... But I suppose the eyes in particular will need special attention." He mumbles to himself.

"Micolash, are you awake still?" He says, clearer now that he is addressing his patient. Henry's ears twitch at the sound but remains in kitty dreamland, whiskers twitching just slightly.

[grantuseyes]

He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness. Fading off into a half-sleep over time. When there is a voice again, speaking his name, it feels like it's pulling him out of someplace he'd only just gotten comfortable. Somewhere small and warm and dark, where he could curl into a ball and stay there. Far away from all the things that had previously savaged him so terribly.

Micolash makes a weak noise in response. His fingers twitch in Abysa's hands.

[darkpiety]

"Oh, did I wake you? I apologize. I will let you sleep some more, it is not urgent. If you need something, I will be nearby, so you need only make a sound." He does feel slightly guilty for disturbing Micolash's comfort, but he did want to hear him one more time before letting him rest.

"If you like, I can lull you to sleep like I have before. Ah, with the magic." Abysa clarifies, waiting some sort of positive or negative noise from the human.

"It will help with tonight's healing, if that is incentive." He adds.

[grantuseyes]

Micolash just breathes softly for a time through his mouth, narrow chest rising up and down slowly with the same. Trying to muddle through the blanket of confusion being half-asleep causes. That strange feeling of everything not being quite real.

He does not want to be aware any longer. He has been too aware this whole while leading up to this sorry state.

The scholar nods weakly, just once, a single dip of his chin. Please. Put him to rest and ensures he stays there.

[darkpiety]

"Very good. I am sure you will find some improvement when you wake next. May your dreams be gentle, dear Micolash." With that, Abysa uses his free hand to press his fingertips gently to the scholar's forehead. He mouths a few silent words, going over the spell in his head before it takes form. The sleeping spell appears like a soft cloud of dust, or perhaps soot, due to the shadowy nature of Abysa's power, which dissipates as it falls onto Micolash's body. To the human, it might feel like a puff of cool mist has fallen onto one's bare skin, before all goes dark, drifting into sleep.

As much as he feels lonely now that Micolash's consciousness is drifting in the realm of sleep, Abysa knows that now is the time to prepare properly for his patient. He nudges Henry awake, (Henry responds with a whine and a wide yawn), checks Micolash one more time to assure the spell has taken, and sets about to work.

Much of the night is spent cleaning, as the poor scholar's body is caked with dried blood. Abysa works patiently, opting to clean him with a cloth and basin rather than dip him in the bath. Something pleasant like a bath is better left to when he is awake, and requires comforting. He has to refill the basin more than once, the water becoming cloudy and dark with old blood being rinsed from the hand-cloth (which will now not likely resemble its old colour ever again, stained a sickly rusted colour even after a washing).

The bed is then prepared with new sheets and blankets. Though soft, they are of a special fabric woven expertly by demonic hands to account for messes efficiently (that is, absorbing much and dampening little), which will be handy, considering the amount of blood Micolash is prone to losing. The embroidery is white on black, depicting various demonic designs, mostly stylized depictions of native underworld plantlife.

Abysa also spares no expense drawing up an order for more supplies from his home realm, scrawling it on parchment as he occasionally looks to his sleeping charge. It is then rolled up into a tight scroll, which Abysa affixes to Henry via a handsome ribbon around his neck. The nice thing about Hell-born cats is that they understand how to navigate through the portals and channels needed to reach their destination. This makes them perfect messengers, if one corresponds often with demons.

Once Henry is sent on his errand, Abysa seats himself back near Micolash, who is now significantly cleaner, and tucked in with new and clean blankets. It is an improvement, at least by looks alone, yet the human still looks so frail and wan. It still feels too much like a deathbed, and not simply his bed. With some time before Henry returns, and before the scholar will wake, Abysa sits himself cross-legged besides him, bows his head, and begins to pray.

It is rare for him to pray seriously in this manner; clothed and chaste, rather than reveling in the pleasure of a ritual, but his spirits are low and his drive similarly so. Instead, he prays with all his might that one of his dear Lords will take the chaste and solemn plea of their betrothed with seriousness.

It feels like hours pass as he remains in that spot, begging for a merciful blessing. He is about to weep from feeling dejected before he senses an answer. There are no words, no visions, but the echo of his loves' affection and well-wishes. It is a soft, encouraging warmth that fills him from within his skull, and down his spine, until he feels refreshed and relaxed.

He wonders if they called each other first to discuss what the problem might be before their answer. It had happened before. Oh, they better not send an entourage with Henry if that is the case...

[darkpiety]

"It is just to declare the promise made so that it shall be kept, and the spell created. Much the way a ritual creates an offering. You understand, yes?" Abysa is aware that contracts and the like may be different from world to world, so he decides to clarify.

Before he leans in to seal the deal, though, Abysa places his hand over Micolash's open eyes once more. That orange light lingers like a grudge behind those pupils, enough that even a demon like him is a bit unsettled by it.

"I must fetch you a blindfold after this." He says, and then, hand still over Micolash's eyes, leans in to give him a kiss on the lips.

There doesn't seem to be a tangible reaction at first. The kiss is nice, and Abysa's calming touch is present in it, as usual. The priest, however, shivers a little.

"You may notice the difference within the day. Your situation can only improve either way, the more you recover. I, however, already notice a piece of me drained away... Not that it is an amount to worry over. I will grow used to it."

[grantuseyes]

Considering the multitude of problems the light in Micolash's eyes has caused, surely no one would fault Abysa for being unsettled by it. Even those without eyes can see that whatever this energy is, it's of a wicked, rotten sort. The hand covering his eyes makes the scholar frown in confusion before realizing that, yes, his eyes are open. He'd not even noticed he'd done so, especially because there is no change or transition in his sight. It remains the same black either way. Not even a faint haze or glint of light is getting through his tortured eyes and the fresh realization of his situation makes Micolash whimper again.

And then the kiss is placed against his lips. It's brief and warm, such a mundane and simple gesture. And while the human has yet to feel anything beyond the usual application of Abysa's calming aura, the shiver the demon makes is felt. Hard not to, since Micolash is gathered up in his lap like he is.

"Is this going to cause you to sicken? What a ghastly thing to be responsible for, were it so." Harming so high a Kin just for his own gratification or self-aggrandizing? Terribly morbid and profane.

[darkpiety]

"I will not be sick, but my limits in terms of the amount of magic I use and how fast I will naturally replenish it will be less. This can be remedied with medicine! In fact, I have an order of supplies on its way, directly from Hell." Abysa seems pleased with himself. Such a statement might be cause for worry from anyone else.

"In the meantime, of course... aha!" Abysa says as a long strip of cloth floats into Micolash's room. It appears to be a sash made with luxuriously soft and exotic fabric, dyed a deep teal-blue. Not that Micolash will see it, but Abysa promptly grabs it from the air as it floats close, and it loses its flying qualities.

"Feel this. This is one of my blindfolds, I made sure to call one that was of a very gentle material. And,though you cannot see, I expect it to be quite fetching on you." Abysa places the cloth on one of Micolash's hands. Go on! Feel how soft, yet a little silky, yet durable this 100% Hell-Made accessory is.

[grantuseyes]

He is at least mindful once again to close his eyes and keep them that way. When he feels the offered cloth against his hand, Micolash gropes for it a few times before he manages to get it properly into his palm so he can rub his fingers at it. He looks troubled still with this entire situation but doesn't want to be rude either. "It feels. Wonderful. Thank you, Kin. And will this...protect them? My eyes?" Not to mention protect others FROM them.

[darkpiety]

"Yes, of course! And I will only give you ones that will give you a handsome look as well. Why not try it now? Here, lean back a little. You will find it is quite comfortable and stays on well. Eyeless demons wear all sorts of masks, blindfolds and hoods, a traditional item you could say." Abysa puts his hand on Micolash's gently, holding it for a moment before he takes the sash back.

He straightens it out to its full length, and if allowed, he will begin to wind the cloth around Micolash's head. Abysa might have a little trouble with Micolash's hair, but eventually figure it out.

[grantuseyes]

Micolash does as he's told, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes closed. Again, his brow wrinkles with worry at the fact he can feel the cloth winding around his face, but his field of vision remains black. His hands worry and grip at Abysa's robes again, needing something to occupy them in his anxiety.

He stays still for the process and, once it's complete, reaches up and touches the cloth where it's now snug over his eyes. His frown only deepens.

"...The Healing Church did this. Their blood-drunk hunters hid their eyes behind bandages. The Choir, behind their caps. Said to be done in homage of Master Willem. But only a mockery. A complete and total mockery..."

[darkpiety]

"You speak ill of this Healing Church, and I do believe you, but these are not bandages. This is finely woven cloth from one of Lord Beauty's divine ateliers! Made specifically for being handsome." And he just wrapped it around the head of a detestable little mortal, didn't he? Though, Abysa's free gifting of treasures seems a little subdued after vowing part of his soul to heal that same mortal man.

"It is symbolic, yes. Eyeless demons are especially reviled and hated amongst the many-eyed Heavenly Ones, and our adornments enrage their sensibilities, for covering our faces does not obstruct our vision. There are no eyes to blind. It is a pointless act of binding, spitting in the face of their manifold shackles and chains, said to keep them pure and close to the Creator's ideals." Abysa follows up with the softest little hum of laughter.

"I find their willing bondage just as pointless."

[grantuseyes]

Micolash listens, feeling as if he's wasting this opportunity to learn more about Abysa's amazing world, the cosmology and pious meaning that has formed there. This fantastical war going on between two factions of higher beings. But all he feels aware of now is the increase of his heart rate and the sound of it echoing in his ears, muffling the demon's words. His hands that had been worrying at Abysa's robes stop, pulling close to himself instead to pick at his knuckles and fingers.

The dread is growing, forming into a dark pit in his stomach. Abysa is a being that lacks eyes. Reviles eyes. They're the symbol of the faction he is opposed to. And they are the symbol of his research. Of Bergynwerth's legacy, of the Great Ones, the answer to humanity's salvation from their own fatal idiocy.

Micolash lacks his now. And he has put his hope of repairing them in a being that has just spoken at length at how eyes are the trait of his enemies...

He feels sick and his face pales visibly.

[darkpiety]

"Oh, you seem to be going pale again." Abysa says with slight concern, unaware of the implications of his words. He places his fingertips gently under Micolash's chin, hoping to urge him to look up. His mouth is a thin line as he observes the scholar, regardless.

"Perhaps, you require a meal? I could prepare some liquid nourishment, be it broth or sweet. Hmm, or, perhaps you require more rest? You do not feel feverish; if anything you are still rather cold." As if looking for something to do in the present, he wraps the blanket hanging off Micolash farther around him. Then he adjusts the human's curling hair around the blindfold here and there. Then makes sure the blindfold is secure and tied correctly. Just aimless fussing as he decides what might be best.

[grantuseyes]

"O-Oh. Forgive me. I was...lost in thought. That is all." Not that Micolash stops looking worried or terribly pale. Perhaps he did accept this agreement with Abysa far too readily.

He'd let himself grow lax in his conviction. He'd let his research falter. He was letting this Kin, though it be Kin, influence him too heavily. His path was one that was absolute; he knew exactly what to do to get to where he needed to be. He should have been focused this whole while on regaining his revelation lost in the Nightmare. Instead, he is letting this demon convince him that the body is just as vital as the mind, that it carries the value he knows it does not.

This whole ordeal was a terrible wake-up call.

Only now does Micolash realize he's been silent and looking haunted, sickly a worryingly long while. The scholar works his mouth, struggles to find words, trying to feign gratitude. Normalcy. His guts are churning like a pit of snakes. His eyes ache.

As he focuses on just trying to find his tongue again, to act as though he is not having a moment of horrific doubt, he doesn't feel or notice that there are two dark blotches forming on his newly applied blindfold. Tears of red seeping through the cloth.

[darkpiety]

"Oh dear, you may need the bandages after all. Worry not, I will make sure to have fresh cloth on hand for your poor eyes. It is troubling, you just now leak blood as though other fluids have been replaced. I hope my ministration was not incorrect..." Abysa sighs worriedly.

"Either way, your body shall mend. I will see to it, both consciously and not. We are joined through our bond, through our spirits! Your being shall regenerate and be nourished at a quicker rate than before... I suppose I should make sure i have enough medicine for myself. Or perhaps, I should prepare a ritual for a special blessing?" The priest snaps out of his thoughts as the blood continues to stain Micolash's blindfold.

"Listen not to my rambling, dear Micolash. All will be well. Let me prepare some extra coverings for your ailing eyes! I will return shortly." He leans down to place one more peck on Micolash's head before gently moving the human from his lap to lay back down. He then lifts off of the bed to float on out.

"And where is that feline... I swear, one little scare and he does this..." The priest can be heard muttering as he exits.

[grantuseyes]

Micolash remains silent as his fingers continue to fret at the other hand, cracked nails picking at the lines of his palms and rubbing against the spaces between his knuckles. Once he's back lying on the bed, the scholar spends far too much time simply trying to roll over. The pain doesn't bother him, it's just so much of his body is damaged or not responding as it should. It's frustrating. Once he IS on his side, Micolash pulls his legs up as best his torn muscles can allow, folds his arms in to rest against his chest. Making himself small. Suddenly so disgustingly aware of his body because it is so insistent on remaining in pain, as well as the fact he cannot take stock of it any longer by sight. (What little he ever did before, anyway.) He can only know by the sensation of it, which feels as uncomfortable and distasteful to him as being forced to blindly plunge your arm into sewage.

His fidgeting hands soon clasp together not only to still them, but to begin quietly praying. Softly saying the words that had become his mantra in the Nightmare of Mensis. She did not answer him there, but maybe she will here...

"Kos, some say Kosm, do you hear our prayers? As you once did for the Vacuous Rom, grant us eyes. Grant us eyes. Plant eyes on our brains to cleanse our beastly idiocy..."

Micolash repeats it again and again in a whisper.