Of course he didn't speak English. Just by the look of him (and of the sand that drifted in after him on hot breezes) it was clear that not a word of Dorian's own language would pass the stranger's dry lips -- but he saw a steady purpose in the man's eyes, and he heard an honest strength in that steady voice that could only belong to an honorable man. Dorian drew in a slow breath, and he lowered the blade shard as the stranger lowered the key. His heart and his instinct compelled him to not only trust this man, but to respect him.

"Bury you?" he blurted in English, as a fragmented meaning made itself clear in his head. Dorian absently shoved the shard in his belt and rubbed his face in his palms. "Hang on, hang on," he muttered, knowing he wasn't being understood, "it takes awhile sometimes. Language, language, come on come on come on..." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, his head bowed to the stranger in a few moments of awkward silence, broken only by the quick tapping of his thin fingers on the wall behind him.

He'd learned long ago, after a dozen opened doors with Agatha at his side, that there was so much more to those vines on the walls besides simple light. Coursing throughout the ship on that organic network, like blood through the veins, were the knowledge, thoughts, beliefs and dreams of thousands, maybe millions of people. The raw energy of that hive mind -- the [i]consciousness[/i], Dorian had come to call it -- illuminated the halls with a glow like the sun and radiated throughout the ship, permeating its walls as well as its passengers. After the first week of roaming the labyrinth, Dorian had noticed that he knew things he couldn't possibly have known: he understood things he never in several lifetimes could have hoped to grasp. He could pick up an alien object and know a minute later exactly what it was. It had taken him a month to learn to shut out the dreams while he slept. He wasn't sure Agatha had slept at all. He understood why she'd left. The longer they remained on the ship, the stronger and faster the [i]consciousness[/i] folded itself into his own mind. He often wondered whether he would someday lose himself entirely in it.

"Pak ourya immi -- no, wait." He frowned, feeling that was just the wrong dialect, then suddenly brightened. "Ah! As-salamu alaykum," he said in a heavy accent and with a polite nod. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Zahi Akeem Gabir Hakim Amjad -- Your Highness -- but I really must assure you that I am not a Djinn. Just a man. I am called Dorian Foster. At your service, Your Highness." He spoke in Zahi's own language, though heavily influenced by his lazy English tongue, which improved slowly as he talked. He made another small bow.

"I can [i]also[/i] assure you," he went on with a flourish, leaning foward with an encouraging smile, "that nobody is going to die today." He stood straight and proudly pointed down the hall. "Just down here, there's a --" He frowned, looking up as he thought, and he switched to English for a moment: "You don't have a word for hospital. Um. Healer!" He grinned, and repeated himself in Zahi's language. "Healer room. Down here. Fix you up very quickly, come with me, bring the key, come on -- uh, please. Your Highness."

Dorian began walking down the hall, making gentle beckoning motions to his newest friend. "You too, horsie! There's room for all, come on. Just --" he licked his lips, his brow furrowed, and pointed, "-- just leave that door open." There was no telling how fast the timeline was out there, and shutting the door could mean the difference of ten seconds or a thousand years. He cleared his throat. "So, Your Highness, if I may ask, how exactly did you come by that key?" He carefully composed his voice, and he kept his chin high as he spoke. He was frightened -- very frightened of the answer.