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.