There is a last door. Ras's head was spinning from the warmth, the solitary glimpse of gold and happiness, as a servant to an empire and a beloved spouse. The children had been figments, their aging an illusion. He was young again, underfed and bedraggled. They had never been married.

The only choice he had was forward, although this door in particular he didn't want to open. He put his hand on the handle.

He was never going to have it. A marriage, a family. The green, deep and sick, was already in him. Where was he? In a coma? Where was Gilda, had he abandoned her? Maybe there was no out and back. Maybe there was only deeper and deeper.

"I'm sorry," he wept, fat tears pricking at his eyes as he held the images from the gold door close. A life. A life they could have had. Maybe would have again, in different forms, as different people. If there was reincarnation, maybe they would have another chance.

Maybe the next time they'd get it right. "I'm so sorry."

Was she, too, alone, with her hand on a green door? She was infected, and even if she wasn't here, she would be soon. He hadn't meant to leave her again. He hadn't meant...

He didn't want to be a part of this. He didn't ask for this. Death came for everyone, he knew that, but this way didn't seem natural. It didn't seem fair. His whole life had been at the whims of a very cruel fate, and now it felt like even his Death had been stolen.

As he shook and turned the handle, he came apart.

He was back to the moment where he'd had the seizure. Where he lost her. Where everything had blurred into a cacophony of other feelings and thoughts.

But he was not them. He was still him. He still wanted, he still remembered, he still longed. There was another fracture, and when he at last opened his...and looked for his...there were no hands, there were no eyes. He looked, he felt, he opened...he....wanted to speak.

He could see Drozoleil again. The horned figure sat in a throne of flowers, one long leg folded over his other, watching Ras with keen but saddened interest. Ras stumbled, although he had no feet- drifted, moved towards- help, he tried to think, please help.

The flowers curled close to him, and entered his, not his mouth, but where his mouth might have been. The petals folded and unfolded into a lips and tongue. They filled his cheeks. His...not his eyes, but the eyelids became the soft heads of lilies, and he rotated the stalks. They acted, not quite right, but in some ways he could feel them, until he was entirely filled up with those soft, sad, intoxicating flowers that made him want to lie down and weep. They filled up and became his chest, blooming in radiant wonder, the tendrils of his hands coiling gently.

Was this, too, a dream? If he found his body, could he...?

He did, at last, find a body. But it wasn't his. He guided vines away from the warm and fleshy face, and recognized the man it belonged to. This man, too, was beloved. This man, too, was a part of a pair.

He was alone, and fast asleep. He had tried to help. Maybe he would be able to help again.

Ras coaxed him onto his shoulder, onto the shaky grasp and bed of flowers. He carried him out, away from the center of the voices and the buzzing madness. As he did, the flowers began to wilt and wander.Ras felt scattered, less himself. Ras took the other as far as he could, leaving him supine as Ras became unraveled, until he was almost nothing again.

Find her, he asked with a remaining and ragged petal, Find me.

He withdrew, to gather himself again. To not be lost. He did not understand. He did not want to understand. He only hoped.