The world was only white. Not white super bright and empty, rather a white with lots of minor changes—like sunlight in milk, or smooth alabaster, or a pearl with a whole bunch of colors inside. The Sanctum was no more. The Mycelial Wastes had disappeared as well. There was no Ribcage or Dermal Plains left. Only the Body. And they were that.
Being aware was a widened idea. Benny—or the entity which was formerly Benny—was not in one place. He resembled the slow movement of material through a small tube in what used to be the Spine Mountains. He was also like the serene patience of a moss-farm in the old Atrium of Breath, absorbing the sunlight. He was like a memory being sorted in the quiet, dark space that used to be the Lobe.
He was also Elara. He was like a root going for water. He was like the silent tune that supports the growth of the seeds. He was like the deep, joyful tone of the Heartwood Spire, its giving now a mark of pride in the common flesh.
There was no he or she. Only their actions, their memories, and a calm, gentle knowing. The fear of vanishing was like a pain in a missing arm. The arm was gone. Now there was just the whole thing.
They recalled things. Not like brains remember, but like the world itself remembered, in every cell. The joy of Aethelrex's first dream was like a taste in the hot water deep inside. The pain of the first cut was an unusual sound in some crystals, kept safe and calm by the stuff around them. The Cult's desperate hunger was like a bad taste in the old tanks, now being cleaned up by fungi.
And they remembered being little. Maxine, with her knife and her broken heart. Joan, with her work and her secret fright. Naomi, tasting sorrow like wine. Lucien, breaking love down. Bianca, with a quiet wish in her hands. Benny, screaming inside. Elara, talking to the roots.
These memories weren't regrets. They were the foundation. All the difficult things that had made them human were now the things that the new mind was made of. The loneliness was the space between cells, necessary for the things to flow. The fear was like the immune system, always on the lookout.
Time was different. There was no day or night, only rhythms: the slow beat of the Heart (their heart), the pull of water, the seasons of mushrooms growing. A thought could be a year long, or it could be in a second all over the place.
The very first real thought was not a word. It was a sound. A sound of understanding. A profound, powerful chord that penetrated everything. It said: We exist.
Not a disagreement, only a fact. A screwed up, beautiful, healing fact.
And within that We, the remnants of Maxine Sharpe were feeling more happy than ever during the surgery. The entire thing was not only grasped, it was simply there. And she was a part of it.
The remnants of Joan Rhodes felt more serene than they ever did when she was giving orders. No more us and them to protect. Only the Body to look after.
The remnants of Naomi Frost experienced the taste of something far better than anything previously: the pure truth of being one cell in a vast, living thing.
They had enough of being separate. Now they were good because they were together. They were the meal. And it was enough for the first time.