Dorian Foster ached with waiting. He was dying of waiting. He could hang himself with a rope of waiting, and the braiding of it would pass the time better than this. He sat now on the wooden floor with his arms on his knees, staring by the light of the vines at the mahogany door that Agatha would come back through any moment now.

Any. Moment.

There were deep white gashes in the iron-bolted door from the hours he'd spent striking it and leveraging it with a sword (which now lay in useless pieces on the floor). It was charred from the torchfire he'd set against it (an idea abandoned when the smoke filled his lungs). There was blood on the wood and on his torn fingernails. He'd have to go back through the halls for food soon, his stomach whined.

"You know," he told the door, "I don't think she's coming back." He sniffed, rubbed his nose, tipped his head. "Nah, she's left me. Found somebody sane. She's been eager for this, you know. A cruel joke." He shouted those last words as if Agatha would hear them and repent. He ran his tongue over his teeth and scrubbed his fingernails in his hair and leaped to his feet. "She'll pop in with that big innocent grin on her face and she'll have bought me a new hat and she'll make those big eyes and hell, I won't stay mad. I'm weak." He sighed and leaned back against the wall, lifted his arm, sniffed, and wheezed. His uniform had been drenched in sweat several times since he had decided Agatha was taking too long, and now the stains were deep and rank. "I'm a weak, weak man," he groaned, and he scratched at the whiskers at his chin, dreaming of a razor. For the first time in a week he considered abandoning Agatha in favor of a shower. He was bitterly proud of himself for that first step of acceptance.

But then, something clicked in the door, and all those thoughts of hatred and anger and sore smelly waiting were gone in a flood of relief. Instantly he was at the door, just as the first light shone through the seams. He picked up the biggest piece of the shattered sword, wedged it in the door and helped to pry it open, grinning through the effort, only imagining exactly what he would say to her when they finally stood face to face.

Only the face in front of him was a bit more beardy than what he was expecting.

Dorian stumbled backward, panting, the shard of sword clutched in one hand, his eyes wide as he stared at the dark intruder. He glanced once in alarm at the key, and then at the trail of blood seeping from the man's stomach, and back to that small-eyed face he didn't recognize. Slowly he put distance between them, until his back hit the wall. There were hallways to either side of him, and he knew he could outrun and lose this injured would-be attacker in the labyrinth, if necessary. He couldn't decide whether he should be helping this man or whether the intruder had sustained a wound while attacking Agatha, so he stayed where he was and watched the man's face carefully. He liked to think he was a good judge of character, and people mortally wounded, in his experience, tended to bare themselves handsomely.