Chapter Text
Pick up the first tablet. Read.
It was said that Gilgamesh surpassed all Kings and all men. That no warrior stood taller. That he was beyond all others in strength and beauty, and that his presence was as imposing as the walls of Uruk itself.
His soldiers called him their shield, their unbreakable fortress, the storm that shattered all who dared to oppose him. He was relentless–a force of nature, a flood that swallowed cities whole.
His blood was that of the divine–Two-Thirds God and One-Third Mortal. Born of King Lugalbanda, and the wise Goddess Ninsun. He was sculpted by the hands of Aruru, the Mother of Creation, whom made him perfect.
Who is like Gilgamesh? Who could rival him? What other King has inspired such awe?
Who else can say, “I alone rule, supreme among mankind.” ?
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The city belonged to him. Every stone, every street, every trembling heart within the walls of Uruk was his. And so, Gilgamesh strode through Uruk as if he were a god made flesh, his chin lifted, his chest swelling with the weight of his own power. He did not walk; he trampled, his sandals grinding into the dust, pressing the cries of the innocent into the earth beneath him. He was everywhere. His shadow fell long and mercilessly, consuming all who cowered beneath it.
He was King, and his will was law.
What he desired, he took. What stood in his way, he crushed.
Mothers wrapped their arms around their sons and daughters, sobbing into their hair, whispering prayers to indifferent Gods, but their prayers fell silent beneath Gilgemesh’s laughter. He would take them from the embrace of their mothers and lead them into the night.
No husband, no matter how strong, could shield their bride from him. Their love, their vows, their sacred bond—none of it mattered beneath the weight of the king’s hunger. What belonged to them belonged first to him, and he claimed it with the same ruthless certainty as the sun claims the sky at dawn. The resistance of lovers was as feeble as a candle against a storm.
No one dared to oppose him.
And so, in their agony, the people of Uruk turned their faces to the heavens and wept.
Their laminations carried on the wind, and the Gods heard. They, though distant, were not unfeeling, and their hearts were touched by the anguish of their creation.
The Gods went to Anu, Father of all, protector of the realm of sacred Uruk, and spoke on the mortal's behalf.
“Great Anu,” they intoned, their voiced heavy, “look down upon the city you have blessed. See what has become of it beneath the rule of Gilgamesh. He, who was meant to be its shepherd, has become its predator. He seizes sons and daughters from their mothers and defiles them without remorse. The young brides all fall before him, all are his for the taking. None dare rise against him. None dare speak his name with anything but fear.
Is this the ruler you have chosen? Is this the fate you have decreed for Uruk? Should a shepherd devour his own flock, feasting upon the flesh of those he was meant to protect?”
The voices of the gods rose, urgent and insistent, their power trembling the very fabric of the skies. "Father, act before it is too late. Before the cries of the people rise so high that they breach the very gates of heaven itself!”
Anu heard them.
He inclined his head, his countenance grave, and turned to Aruru, the goddess of creation, the mother of all that breathed upon the earth.
“Aruru,” he commanded, “It was by your hands that humanity was shaped, that the first of their kind was formed from the clay of the earth.”
Aruru listened, solemn and still, as Anu continued, "Create now a rival to Gilgamesh, a second self, born of the same strength, molded with the same fire. Let this man stand against him, his equal in power, his mirror in might. Let him be the storm that tempers the raging winds, the force that bends but does not break. Only then will Uruk know peace.
When Aruru heard this, she only closed her eyes, forming what Anu had commanded in her mind.
She reached down, her divine fingers sinking into the sacred earth. The soil, damp with the breath of the gods, clung to her hands as she pinched off a portion and lifted it. Whispering the words of creation, she cast it into the wilderness, where the land lay untamed and free from the corruption of men.
She knelt, her fingers working with divine purpose, kneading and shaping, pressing the essence of life into the formless clay. With each motion, she breathed power into it, molding sinew and bone, crafting a being both fierce and noble.
A creature of the wild, unchained by the trappings of civilization.
And so, Enkidu was born.
His body was strong, his limbs thick with muscle, his frame as unyielding as the mountains. He was covered in hair, a thick, wild pelt that cloaked him like the beasts of the plains. His locks cascaded down his back, long and unshorn, flowing like the river’s current to his waist, like a woman's hair. His face, untouched by the steel of razors or the customs of men, bore the raw beauty of the untamed world.
He knew nothing of kings, of cities, of laws written in stone. The wilderness was his home, the beasts his kin.
He ran with the gazelles, his powerful legs propelling him across the grasslands, his breath steady as he raced beside them. When he hungered, he lowered himself to the earth and grazed as they did, his teeth tearing through the tender shoots of grass. When thirst seized him, he knelt at the water’s edge, drinking deep from the crystal-clear pools where antelope and deer gathered.
He was the answer to the cries of Uruk, the storm summoned to break the tyrant’s grasp. But for now, he roamed free, unknowing of the city’s plight, untouched by the burden of destiny that would soon find him.