"Aw, she's no animal!" Dorian grinned and petted Anat's muzzle, though gently leading her away from the wound as he did so. "Are you, lovely?" he cooed, laughed, and raised his eyes to the man he only assumed to be the nurse. "This beautiful lady is the reason your miraculous patient has remained standing and moving and living far longer than he really ought to." He kept a hand on Anat's face, and he looked down at the sleeping patient. "That, and the weight of a thousand souls rests on this man's shoulders. A little flesh wound wasn't about to slow [i]him[/i] down." Zahi looked so ... [i]average[/i] ... laying there like anyone else, in a hospital sack like anyone else, scrubbed down and sewn up and tucked in like anyone else. He could just as easily be a vacuum salesman as the heroic prince of of a noble desert people. It wasn't right at all.

Dorian snapped out of his reverie and took a breath, blinking. So the nurse was still here, like a hangnail. "Yes, well!" He cleared his throat and clapped his hands. "How about his things? His clothes and the ... [i]stuff[/i] he was carrying when he ... ah ... nearly died?" While he was in the mood for cleaning up, he might as well wash and polish whatever needed washing and polishing -- though he expected at least half of the prince's clothes to have been destroyed in the surgeons' haste to clear and staunch the wound in his stomach. Zahi won't be happy about that. He'll be less happy when he sees the [i]fine[/i] selection of bleach-smelling tee shirts and sweat pants the hospital would offer him. Dorian wasn't quite sure whether this was sad or hilarious; he folded his arms with a bemused smile.

"And when, would you say, might I be able to take him home?" [i]Home[/i] was only a simple word for something that would take too much explaining, to someone he wasn't at all keen on explaining anything to. "As soon as he wakes up, he's going to want to get on with his life. Immediately." This, of course, was fair warning.