A sharp, rhythmic scraping emanates from the darkness. Amidst these ivory halls, only its voice can be heard. Whatever noises might have preceded it are silent in comparison. Merely the chittering of dolls, bound by strings of black and red sadistically dragging them across a derelict stage. There is no higher authority than those thin, inexorable lines.

Here comes one such doll, dragging themself through the barren purgatory between places, where life longing to spring forth is stifled by the tread of ghosts. Witness this holy abomination: the dark bark and black sinew; the bone and ivory plating chiselled into a mishmash of familiar shapes; the crimson and onyx roots trailing behind. Articulated, scythe-like hands marred by scorch-marks, parallel scarring and the remnants of a pox; quiet despite their wooden joints. These same marks stretch across their entirety of their tall, confronting body. Perhaps in mockery. A strange assortment bejewels its waist.

Of course, the amalgamate is not alone in the spherical theatre it crawls within. From the wasteland arises countless columns, rising tall enough they seem walls in their own rights. But these monuments are not marble: they are bark and sinew and ivory. They are sculptures. And they are endless.

Scrape. Scrape.

The amalgamate pauses before the labyrinth of statues stretching before them. That sound emerges from it, having rattled through its halls for an untold amount of time. Discerning its origin is next to impossible – the lack of uniformity to the sculptures leaves the acoustics utterly bizarre. At times, it seems to be coming from all around them.

They continue anyway.

Stillness reigns, within these halls. The faces that compose them are masterfully crafted – every detail lovingly attended to – but also distorted. Most resemble humans, yet the sheer difference of their materials renders those images uncanny. Frozen wood makes a poor substitute for flesh and motion. However, that’s not the only distinction. Beyond the translation from breath to bark, there’s a distinctly agonised aspect to them.

Somewhere in the maze, some thing speaks. Ma wakes up and goes out because she has a big plan.

The amalgamate cocks their wrought head sideways, attempting to glean its location. Identically to the scraping, its origin cannot be ordained. All that can be done is to continue through the ivory murals.

Depicted in their immaculate contours are familiar scenes. Mountainous depths, filled with black-veined figures. Those figures now dead; mingling with the bodies of warriors writ against the backdrop of an immense corpse. Dusty, sandstone streets. An alien landscape: pink and red. That same landscape, covered in ice. Immense spires stabbing towards the sky, interlaced with bridges full of life. A derelict town on a hill. Shattering stone at the bottom of a crater, and the ants fighting within. A house amidst the snow, and quiet, unmarked graves. Across a plain, one squat, discontent fortress. That fort soaked in blood. Holes in the ground. A confusing castle, scattered with gold-clad figures. The innards of a god.

She goes and helps Gale, because he’s very sad.

These, intermingled with pieces of other lives. Foreign places. Unseen battlefields. People lost long ago. None of these are marked as different from the rest. All are like altars, or effigies – raised high above the cold stone beneath.

And then they join hands and go to help Babs, because he’s scared.

Because it is cold, here. If they breathed, their breath would emerge in clouds of fog. Instead, frost settles over their body, covetous of the small warmth within. Every movement and step are accompanied by a crackle as their body crunches through ice. The darkness is truly frigid.

But it does not obstruct. Here, everything is immediately apparent. Vision is unnecessary.

They go and help Tully, who’s really tired.

As the carving shivers their way deeper, the pained aspect to the statue-walls grows increasingly pronounced. Mishappen lumps appear across their wrought bodies, their slight pulsation an affront to the serenity of this place. A broken arm – seemingly gained through mundane, childish error – heals poorly, and its point begins to grow increasingly pronounced against bark.

Then Wil, who’s gotten lost.

It goes further; deeper.

Quotidian sicknesses mend, yet as a legacy leave behind frenzied humours that recognise the body itself as a malady. Tiny lumps, ravenous, corrupt the surrounding bark and continue metastising throughout the walls. Organs – eyes, ears, and others – buckle under their own function, having been fouled by their own design. Step by step, the amalgamate wanders through frozen, one-way crossroads, where the fundamental strata of being has gone haywire.

And they go and help Gast, too, because she needs to talk.

Through these scenes of sabotage, they try to follow those words.

Once pristine ivory walls have grown dilapidated. Their bark skin sags outwards. Peels away. A devoted set of hands has attempted to patch the holes appearing within them, yet these hands must have been unsteady, for their contrived repairs have themselves fallen away to reveal what lays within the desecrated sculptures.

And they even help Blake, who wants what he’s not allowed to have.

It’s blood. What else could it be?

They go to all the angry people, and listen to them.

It’s everywhere. Running through every piece of this labyrinth as an unbroken chain. Within those pristine faces made hideous, and running through the ground beneath, and most of all drumming a beat far above. One everything here marches to. As the cold breaks superficial chunks of the amalgamate, they find a drop within them as well. That same radiant drop that fell, long ago.

They cradle it deeper within them.

And then they…

Soon enough, pulsating pieces freeze into stillness as the amalgamate crunches further inside the maze. The cold itself is now their foremost obstacle: a tangible, covetous force seeking to rob them of their hard-won impetus. To repel them from this place.

The amalgamate won’t allow it.

And then…

The maze opens. Those heinous walls fall away.

In their wake is an immense courtyard. Flowers grow in patches, free and wild, as branches heavy with fruit offer shade. Vines intertwine carefully constructed supports, forming rings of hedges through which to walk. Bushels of berries are daintily plucked by small birds and other creatures, as insects root through detritus below. People step along dirt paths, inspecting their surroundings mid-conversation with their peers.

All is still. All are carved. All face the same direction: towards what beats above.

The amalgamate walks through the frozen garden. Beyond the sound of their body dragging through ice, all that can be heard amidst the darkness is that ubiquitous scraping. It emanates from the centre of this place, where a mound of sculptures are piled. At its apex, a hole can be found, containing a small kitchen full of bronze pots and cookware.

There, a collection of small, hand-sized carvings are arranged along its floor, where a thing sits and carefully, meticulously carves pieces of itself into sculptures before breaking them away. Upon its face, it wears the long, beaked skull of a bird.

The amalgamate halts behind it.

It begins shaking.

And then what? they ask.

Gingerly, it retracts its knife back into its arm. Then it takes the familiar figures scattered around it in its many hands. Each trembles; almost too weak to lift them.

It swallows. Then they…

It hesitantly tilts a few of them together in the manner of children, as if to make them fight or touch or argue. Then it carefully places them down.

Then nothing, it concludes.

They regard it for a moment. Are you sure?

Yes. It’s sure.

The amalgamate carefully lowers themself beside the thing. ‘It’?

The Vulture. Picking at long-gone bodies.

That’s only a name, given by people who know nothing of you.

It does not face them. They do not push it further. They simply stare upwards, where the orb of blood beats its omnipotent tune. With each notes that passes, the quiet feels increasingly fragile.

The thing breaks first. What you want isn’t here.

And what do you think that is?

It digs its carving blade back into its body, sawing through meat and bone. Though it does not flinch, the tension in its body betrays its pain. But that’s not enough to prevent it from continuing.

A change. An exit. But all you’ve done is delve deeper.

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Come now. What other path is there?

There is no path, it scoffs. There are grooves. The tensing of muscles. The flickering of eyes. The beating of hearts. The machinations of minds. The coursing of blood. The patient pull of gravity. Souls are simply chaff carried along those tides. Inexorably pulling us down; down; down. Channels through which we flow down.

Here and now lies the very bottom.

That’s one way of seeing it.

It’s the right way of seeing it. There isn’t some other, secret route that will make all of this go away.

…

You’re speaking to a god. There is no higher authority to consult. No better, alternative perspective.

If that’s true, then who are you talking to? Who do you think is speaking, right now?

A long pause.

Godsdamned ghosts, it eventually replies. Just like everything else here.

Ha! they bark. Ghosts, you say.

The thing carves another angry piece from itself.

Yes, ghosts! Just puppets, animated by that thing up there; scrimshaw in someone else’s skull. With fates pre-written by the laws of blood and bone and brain. In all lives, have any of you a made a single choice? Everything does as it must. And it will not do this for you.

Yet another abandonment of responsibility, from you. To change.

With an excruciating snap, it breaks the carving from itself and places it in front. The figure it has created is over ten-feet tall; a hulking beast of an Oxblood. It wields a halberd in one hand. Then they begin another.

Responsibility. Right. Why don’t you explain, oh wise god: when every direction is a wall slowly closing in; every path a cog designed to grind the soul to dust; every river a torrent of red built to break itself apart – where does ‘responsibility’ lie? Where can the accused dwell? If each twist of this labyrinth belies the fact there is no exit from the bone surrounding it, what does it matter if the self does or does not change? All choices are writ in the same ink.

Wise god, this place is lost; for when every step leads to the same destination location itself becomes a feeble, futile notion.

You demand ‘change’. No god alive has that power.

Stop playing the fool. Nothing changes here because nothing happens here. With each revolution, you are slowly grinding yourself to nothing. Go to where things happen. Go out there.

‘Nothing’ is fine. It’s workable. And it’s not as if only good things happen out there.

The amalgamate sighs. Gods.

You’re not even real.

The problem isn’t that nothing here is real. The problem is that it all is.

Believe that. See where it gets you.

Their visage splints into a scowl. You are impossibly stubborn.

Comes with the territory.

The amalgamate leans backwards, staring around the hole in which the pair dwell in. Bronze pots gleam – except they’re not bronze, are they? An easy mistake to make, in a place absent of all light, but they resemble upturned craniums more than anything else. Unsanitary, and likely unappealing for any would-be customers.

But there are no customers.

You were not always like this, they lament.

The thing continues scraping at itself. Yeah. Should’ve just left those kids in the hole.

Because that would be the ethical choice, they drawl sarcastically.

And you were such a paragon of morality, it retorts.

Enough to not abide dead children.

Yet you’ve killed plenty of parents.

They stare at the carved Oxblood in front of them; wrought of the thing’s flesh. Is that truly what you thought?

You killed the one parent you should’ve never touched. Though its voice remains level, a shake of its hands betray the severity of that statement

It was that or let you die. Which couldn’t be allowed.

Within that mound the sculptures, there is little room to move. The space is cramped; scarcely large enough for what’s already inside. And it grows tighter with every sculpture added to it. But there is no limit to the sculptor’s dedication, nor the materials with which it crafts. One day, there will be no space at all.

Which is to say, though the thing tries, it cannot walk away.

The thing’s jaw clenches. That’s exactly it, isn’t it? You couldn’t. You only had one choice. And only one choice is no choice at all.

Of course not. They shuffle closer. Child. It was a choice made out of love.

And did you really choose to feel that way? Or was it just some… invisible pulsing of human nature? Did you make a choice, or did your blood choose for you?

They raise a hand. It wasn’t your fault.

It flinches away. No. Someone else could have saved you. Someone better. Someone who’s not here.

Then be that person-

You don’t think there was no attempt?! But it was made clear that what was, what is, and what will be are all, in fact, the same thing; from here until the edge of eternity. The end, the beginning, the middle. All trapped. With this chain-gang of idiots, in a prison of their own flesh.

Come now, they snap. Did you really try? Truly? Or did you make a half-hearted effort, and upon failing abandon all hope?

The thing twists; contorts. Its blackened flesh quivers with barely contained violence. You don’t get to die, it hisses, and then demand perfection from everything you’ve broken.

It wasn’t meant as an insult.

Then how did you mean it?

They pause. As truth. You can still be that person, child.

It shakes its head, bird-skull rattling as it does so. People like that stand on bricks of starlight. Their foundations are strong enough to withstand any blow, and whatever resources are given to them they will use to climb higher. A god might kill them, but it will never break them.

That’s what is most loathsome, about all this. Even as diseased and flayed as this place is – flesh wound in a hundred mirrors through which a yellowed soul sneers – one truth remains. A thing can only ever live in the ruin that’s been made of it.

So you don’t get to say ‘change’, as if it’s some godsdamned transcendental piece of profound wisdom, and not the most obvious thing in the world. It’s not that simple. Staying here, where no one can be hurt by this divinity, is the right thing to do. It will save everyone else from this fate.

The amalgamate rubs the bridge of their nose. …Now’s not the time to question your efforts, is it?

There are no good times. Not when you’re the one saying it.

The amalgamate finds themself shaking. Some long-dead feeling courses through it. A raw, exposed wound, sadistically prodded by the only creature with any right to do so.

…Do you remember, back in the Fort?

When you apologised. For leaving.

They nod. Terrible things happen to all people. And sometimes those things are so terrible that we will live in their shadow for the rest of our lives. There is no greater shame, than being that shadow. Their hollow gaze softens. You never truly acknowledged what was said. Never forgave anything.

And now it is the thing’s turn to begin shaking; to turn its many eyes as far away from the one beside it as possible. For there is nothing more hideous than resenting someone for their sacrifice. But with that foul, lurking truth exposed to the open air, it can only acknowledge it.

If all these sculptures could not bury this resentment, it begins, voice hoarse and shuddering, then nothing can.

It’s not your fault you feel that way. It’s natural.

You don’t deserve it. You never deserved any of it. To be dragged back out, over and over again, for an unappreciative, hateful thing.

Child…

With one, final scrape, the carving ceases. The thing’s divine flesh twists, and soon enough its project is gone. As if it never was. It looks to the mounds of carvings surround them; blocking all vision around it. Finally, the thing turns to the entity that has been patiently waiting beside it. Eyes of all colours trace over their form. They fall upon the sword.

It’s okay.

You are suffering.

That’s fine. This is all tolerable. It must be.

The amalgamate closes their ivory mouth, and listens.

Some have lives full of laughter. Others songs; conversation; love. A few have none of those. But though the amount changes, all have tears.

It seems right to think that our shared pool of sorrow is meaning. That our suffering is beauty. That it’s the price we pay to be wise. But the longer this ghost lingers here, the more it seems that’s an excuse. One made as a concession to hope.

That, in truth, no amount of tears will ever extinguish the fire that birthed them.

Thunderous beats ring from above. Ice crackles as the amalgamate moves, knocking over the small, familiar carvings arrayed across the small crevice it has dug for itself. Where time might be convinced to stand still, if one only holds their breath.

They lay a hand upon its shoulder. Then LET GO.

***

Why are they gone? If this world is an act of artifice, then it is amongst the cruellest. And why, when they disappear, do pieces of them linger still? To torment those left behind?

No one can bear such weight. That’s what they say.

So let go of the man killed by a child who could not do better.

Let go of a soul, lost in a sea of silence.

Of the sensation of being eaten alive

Of seeing a life’s work brought low.

Of that rotting landscape that longs for more.

Of quiet, and all contained therein.

Of desperate, hopeless clinging.

Of the person who gave everything.

Let go of it all.

…

Is that right?

***

The hand remains. Nothing happens.

The thing stands, eyes immense and bloodshot, and says, No.

***

Why does the past linger?

Not to torment. Not out of hate.

It’s because grief is sacred. The faded afterglow of a bright, holy thing.

The amalgamate – that small, radiant shadow – demands that this sorrow be relinquished. To push away mourning itself is to abandon a far more essential fragment: the reminder that something precious dwelled here, long ago, and that pieces of it linger still.

And knowing that a hole exists is painful. Impossible not to probe, like a sore on the inside of a mouth. There is no doubt that looking away is easier. Perhaps even a gift – a reprieve from that eternal itching. But to conceal a pit is not to mend it. It is only to forget it.

The amalgamate has forgotten what it is they speak to.

What picks at the souls of the fallen for what it’s owed? Never once relinquishing what its talons pluck from the rubble, even as the weight of it threatens to break them entirely? Only one knows the answer: the one with many names; the Vulture; the Inheritor; this Here; this thing; the one who remembers.

Who will never abide such sacrilege.

***

It had been dismissed as a child: ignorant, foolish, single-minded. But, here with it towering over the amalgamate, no mistake can be made: it looms.

A mistake has been made. A tiny miscalculation; massively inflated by the sheer gravity of the calculations inflict upon it.

Alright. No need to make accusations of ‘sacrilege’. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.

It cranes its neck down. What? it asks, incredulous. Though it once seemed its eyes had grown as far as they could, somehow, they grow wider.

But there is something else you need to do.

You already know-

Nothing impossible. It should be well within your repertoire.

No-

You know how hard it was to get here. Are you truly so dismissive of that effort? Put in the work; if only to prove that you were right all along.

Well… A tension is dispelled from its broad shoulders. …Fine. You deserve that.

The amalgamate supresses a relieved sigh. Nine places were visited on the way here. One was missed.

Why didn’t you go there first?

Out of hope you could manage yourself.

It barks a humourless laugh. Very funny. And you can’t do it because…?

Because it is impossible for mortals to understand. A translator is needed.

The amalgamate stares up. The thing’s midnight flesh roils, bone, bark, and vines lashing angrily.

It rubs its head and off-handedly gestures for the amalgamate to lead the way.

They check their blade is buckled and, together, the pair help one another over the wall of sculptures. When they finally crest its lip, the land outside is changed.

Above, the blood pulses.