My ears cry out in pain as the terrible noise of an enormous temple springing to life reaches my ears from everywhere, I hear the stone falling in on itself, the grind of hundreds of enormous stone blocks spinning.

I am thrown into the air by the colossal building formerly known as the ziggurat, getting up. Slamming into the enclosing walls above, I cough, my lungs empty and dull as the spit arcs into a crescent in the slowly cutting-off room.

I turn towards the entrance, wind waving off the ceiling, pushing with all my might as I blast towards the door. But my only reward is a new bruise on my hands as the door closes like a blood vessel winking shit.

I float staring dumbfounded at the ridiculous shiny memorabilia that surrounds me, now painfully aware that I might die in an egomaniacal madman’s trophy room.

I raggedly breathe in and out, the walls closing in not figuratively but literally. But my ragged breath out comes out in a spout of fog as I grasp my shoulders and bring forth an aura of cold.

I grasp the power in my hands compressing the sadness into something more than it’s pieces. I struggle to contain it, barely holding on before quickly lashing out with a contained beam of cold, ice, and the very idea of slowness.

Ice crystals emerge in visible speed spreading across the room until I find myself stuck in a winter wonderland, just as surrounded as before. But well at least this time the walls aren’t closing in.

I shiver my arms quivering in the cold air, almost embracing myself before sheepishlingly realizing it would just summon more cold. I shake my arms as if I were a man desperately trying to rid himself of a spider, in an attempt to get warmth back into my system.

“Well at the very least that shitty memorabilia has a use, reinforcing my walls.” I say putting some humor into the air.

The imbuement of slowing inside the magic should make the walls far more effective than anything I could forge myself. And it’s not like the ice will magically disappear after use, it sticks around.

So as long as I maintain this wall I will surely outlast the monstrously inefficient golem, it’s the size of a fucking building, just moving should take so much energy it could power a city.

But as my hopeful thoughts attempt to bloom I hear the rumbling of stone and feel in my gut the shifting position. The Golem is throwing itself to the side! Like a dog shaking off fleas.

I quickly grab the ridiculous podium that the biography was on, and hold on with a death grip. I dangle off the ostentatious podium almost like someone hanging off a bridge.

I smile triumphantly you can’t exactly shaft me using the same exact trick as before!

But my grin is interrupted by being smacked in the face with a cloth doll of the First Shaman. With a bit of bemusement, I bat it aside for well just how egotistic can one guy get?

But that bemusement fades when I see what was behind it. A clothing rack filled to the brim with clothes, and the accompanying jewelry. I try to get away but I don’t make it in time.

I hiss in pain as the metal bar, and the jewelry batters my face, before ducking behind the podium using it as a makeshift shield.

A good idea considering the bookshelf that flies past. And the random litany of spoons, books, and trophies that barrage my position and bruise my fingers.

I groan realizing that hey if the golem can go one way why can’t he shake in the other direction? So as the larger obstacles trickle by my position and reach the opposing wall. I reluctantly slowly waddle my way to the opposite side of the podium.

Just in time really as soon my painful journey fraught with bits of random crap, is rewarded by not getting smashed with a bookshelf. I sigh in contentment, at the very least the thing behind this isn’t smart.

If it were, it would have shaken back and forth really quickly to turn this into a death corrider of wooden shrapnel. Although maybe it might just be because the First Shaman would have been loathe to reduce his prizes to the splinters required to impale me.

Although frankly, it’s not like the golem isn’t trying to impale me. I quickly pull close to the podium as a thin black trophy spins right past my head.

“I’m going to be stuck to this podium for a while isn’t that right nonexistent gods,” I say looking up as best as I can, boredom crawling across my face.

Well, if I’m going to be stuck here a while I might as well entertain myself. With a grunt, I pull closer to the podium and prop my chest on its surface, and set the insides of my elbows over the edge. Allowing me to effortlessly remain in place.

I search the items flying passing by before catching sight of the doll earlier. Considering my options of mostly trophies and jewelry, the doll with its soft cloth body is far more forgiving than getting smacked by a pile of gold.

I wait, holding out for the next switch, and when I hear that telltale grinding my hands dart out, and grab the doll with a gesture reminiscent of a snake capturing its prey.

“Woo, digging for useless prizes at the carnival finally helped me out. It’s not like I couldn’t just replicate one, but struggles are what makes the prizes worth anything you know.” I say to a crowd of no one but the broken relics of an egomaniac.

Either way, I can get rid of some of this frightful boredom if I can crawl into the past.

I gaze at the doll, a figure that looks like the handsome First shaman, it’s stitching disjointed but charming, and unpeel its fragile skin of normalcy.

—

I see threads my sight dominated by their weaving, as my eyes are sown in, small clumsy hands resewing old holes and leaving others undone as she lifts me up. My arms dangle useless cloth approximations.

I see a little girl maybe the age of 9, wearing a simple dress with one big rune pasted onto it, a layer stitched onto the dress, worn by endless hands passing it down.

I see her squint as she stares at me, her warm brown eyes focusing on me, a thoughtful frown placed on her face, made slightly ridiculous by the fact that she is 9.

I inwardly chuckle unable to do much as a doll, but before I can further think of that I am sped through the air.

My arms flap, Funny I haven’t truly felt the wind for a while, and I reach it through being stuck in a toy. Either way, the child speeds through the house eventually reaching the kitchen as I hear her bare feet slap against the stone floor.

“Mommy, Mommy, he doesn't look right,” the little girl says.

I am held up high as I see a mature woman, a baby cradled in the crook of her right arm, skin filled with callouses and wrinkles well-earned. Her belly pushes out of her dress, a practical brown piece filled with a litany of tiny runes, a belt holding it all together.

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A soft smile born of hard work adorns her face. I see her gently rock the baby, transferring her to the left arm, as she grabs me and brings me up to her eyes.

“Anisa I can’t help you right now, your little sister needs all the eyes she can get,” She says

“But Mommy this is for the First Shaman, and if I don’t give it to him tomorrow I’ll have to wait another whole week. That’s forever and ever away!” Anisa says her points emphasized by the clutching and shaking of her mother's dress.

“Hmm well maybe I can help you out if you bring the enchantments over for renewal,” the mother says gently swaying away from the grasp of her child and her face out of the child's sight, a little chuckle and a clever smile coming across her face.

“OH REALLY, YAY YAY YAY. Thank you Mommy I’ll get all the enchantments ready! Tomorrow, after I sleep.“ Anisa says running around at the speed of sound in the stone room suddenly stilling, before pivoting and running up the stairs with a series of thumps as she rockets into a bed.

The woman chuckles warmly, before bringing me over to a wooden table, my button eyes seeing intricate designs embedded into the table. I marvel recognizing different styles and handwriting amongst the runes. This table must have been passed down for generations.

“Oh, children so intense with their obsessions. But I remember what I was like back then, although I am certain that I was not so loud as my little one,” the mother says a hand placed over her head, her face locked into the sigh of melodramatic dismay.

Before letting go of the face with a guffaw.

She places me on the table and studiously examines my body. Tut-Tutting at Anisa’s impatience, and lack of study. Before quickly and expertly taking out a series of bone needles, and sewing me tight until I poof with vigor. My insides filled with cloth, and love.

Before laying me on the table a job well done, with a yawn she ascends the stairs and goes to sleep herself.

I lay there on the table the night passing through like sand time seeming to become irrelevant. Before I am held once again in the clumsy hands of the child.

Anisa screeches in joy before being handed the handle to a floating cart filled with gold items sourced from the rest of the house, the two-story stone house looking a bit empty now.

Anisa excitedly ran towards the temple quickly, her short legs hoofing it towards the temple only to have to pump the breaks a bit early. Which makes sense considering how the line starts scarcely a few streets down from her house.

Anisa waits as patiently as she can, which is not much dancing, singing, and jumping amidst the line. Out of place amongst the throng of serious adults. But regardless she goes along, bouncing, and babbling her way through the hours.

As the line dwindles and she approaches the temple me in hand I can begin to hear the conversation. I hear snippets of complaints and ribbing, Hmm it seems like the weekly recharging event is also an opportunity to speak to the first shaman about your complaints.

Good idea in my book might as well hear from your people right after you did them a favor.

But soon enough Anisa walks through the temple, eventually turning left, and walking into a sprawling complex of rooms, filled with offices, storage, but most importantly a throne.

I see only the ground from the view of Anisa’s hand, but I can imagine the hilarity of a child dragging a cart floating nearly as tall as they are.

As she advances forward I am suddenly dragged up and placed on her heart, her steps turning rigid from how nervous she is.

She steps through the doors and walks into a truly ridiculous room, the entire room is made of gold. The banners that hang from the ceiling are gold thread, the steps are golden, hell I bet if there was a toilet here it would be solid gold!

But that isn’t the main attraction. I see the First Shaman dressed sparingly a simple skirt paired with a pallet of gold jewelry suits him just fine. The lack of a shirt just gives him a chance to show off and prove he doesn’t need any weapons, for when you enchant the simplest tunic can become a threat.

The First Shaman is a disarmingly handsome and charming man, tall especially for his time, with ebony skin, and eyes that seem to contain everything. Sitting straight on his throne flanked by two men, wrinkled, and housed in robes covered not in runes but decorations. Presumably for the same purpose of appeasement as the First Shamans, but well they can pull off no shirt.

I fall as she bows and then gestures something at the First Shaman before walking up.

She first hands him the basket, and he waves his hand over it, the ring on his finger flashing with a strange grey light. An awkward silence forms as Anisa neither brings up a complaint nor leaves. Before with a hesitant step she takes her dolly and hands it to him.

A surprised look flashes across his face, as he quickly gestures to shush the advisors around him.

“Thank you but today is for the ritual of replenishment, and addressing important issues maybe sometime else.” The First Shaman says softly.

But the little girl pipes up

“But this is important!” She says indignant at the suggestion otherwise.

“Alright, Alright, what’s so important about this,” The First Shaman says making a placating gesture with a relaxed smile on his face.

“Well I gave it to say thank you, I heard that you were the one who made the baby-protecting charms right!”

“Right,” the first shaman says strangely without a sense of pride in that words.

“The doctor said that mommy would have died without it, and you give it to everybody! Now my little sis is here. I wish that she actually did something other than just eat, and cry, but nonetheless, in my grace, I have given you my dolly. I made it look like you see!” Anisa says her face drifting from sadness to joy, to a stern look of seriousness. Holding up her dolly into the First Shamans' eyes.

The shaman looks strangely at me, almost sheepish, before turning to the girl and giving her a warm smile.

“Thank you, what was your name?” The shaman asked

“Anisa,” she said suddenly demure, a look that didn’t fit well.

“I will cherish it forever young one,” The first shaman says finally taking me for Anisa’s hands, embracing my cloth form.

The little girl releasing the starn face runs away with a look of glee. Before promptly running back in the stern face back on, grabbing the cart, and booking it away. The chaos heard all the way from the throne room as the girl excitedly runs back home.

I hear a little guffaw from above me, and see the small smile of the advisors, from my position in the First Shaman’s right hand.

I drift through the proceedings, some commenting on my addition but most of them just show up to complain or to essentially use the shaman as a tiebreaker. The First Shaman cleverly maneuvers everything as best he can so that all parties exit with a smile. But it is clear that by the end of the day, he is exhausted.

As the people stop trickling in, the First shaman gets up says a short goodbye to his advisors, and walks strides towards curiously the trophy room I’m in. He expertly weaves past all his own traps before arriving at the room.

He comes upon a wall, it is filled with small humble things, such as a fork, or a ring too small for him to wear, each with a small tag attached affixing a name to each object.

He gets out a strip of cloth and writes Anisa, before waving a hand, the cloth pulsing to life, and gently wraps itself around my arm. He sets me on the shelf my useless legs failing to hold me up, yet he slowly nudges me until I sit upright.

I see him face to face, a grimmer look than he gave his people, the look he can only wear in front of objects.

“Huh I don’t deserve this praise, the enchantments were supposed to make me soldiers, give me more men to fight the good fight.” He says with a slight tinge of despair in his voice

“But in the end, it’s one more life saved, one more life given, and one more life made better,” he says his face in his hands, almost afraid to confront this ginormous wall.

“So it deserves to be up on this wall,” he says conviction made real, and hands off his face.

I fall into a pit, seeing time pass by as if I were a rock in the river of time. I see the first shaman occasionally glance at me, or maybe those that surround me, as he gets devoured by mountains of paperwork, and failed inventions.

I see him grow old at his desk, working tirelessly, sometimes adding to my wall, sometimes adding to others. But always striving for more.

I see those after him, and their attempts to make the legacy of the first pristine, I see the desk disappear, and others walking through the generations. I see someone who looks very much like Anisa maybe a granddaughter, or a grandnephew of hers, someone who was born maybe because of the charm that he invented.

I hear the shouts of war, and the sizzle of sacrificed blood as I am sent here. I see countless years in the void visited no longer just one doll, the only proof remaining that Anisa lived, a small scrap of cloth, and a gesture of kindness.

Eventually, I see myself. I look ragged but considering how I had just gotten beaten up by a gang of golems that is understandable. All ending with my being rocketed into my own face.

—

I gasp like a man breaching water, my body covered in bruises, as I see shelves, and forks scattered everywhere.

I look around desperately but the more I like the more of those little knick knacks I see, the more of those little labels I find.

I nearly retch thinking of all these priceless memories, used like a goddamn battering ram. Some were irreversibly broken by me flash-freezing them and then using them like an impromptu filler in my wall.

I reel from the knowledge I learned, from the perspective I’ve gained. I just lay there hanging onto the podium feeling like I just got hit with shell fire. I wouldn’t give up the information I just learned for a pile of enchantments, but I almost wish I never tried to look.

It’s exhilarating and crazy. I lived the life of a person thousands of years before my time, born on a planet that used to be a vacation to me. Something completely alien to me, and yet they were people, with the same children, hopes, and dreams as anyone I know. And I saw their deepest secrets. The thing they hold to their chests until their deaths.

My lungs heave as I expel air, but as my eyes dart, I can’t help but groan.

The ice grew a ton of cracks from the shaking, and if I don’t patch this up I might be crushed.

I get off from the podium and stretch lifting my arms up as I arch my back. Releasing my arms from the strange position I used to hang on to the impromptu shield mid-vision.

I sigh with satisfaction as I hear the rippling cracks of my bones, but with a frown, I notice those aren’t the only cracks.

I hear the smashing of stone and cracks, as I turn around to see a small army of tiny golems stacked in the now open hallway smashing against my walls.

I scowl staring at the beast that contains me, I say with rising indignation present in my voice.

“What do you think I am fucker, a bacterial infection!”