The white sand crumbles beneath Gilgamesh’ feet.
The blood of the bull he had personally sacrificed in Enkidu’s honour stained it a deep scarlet, red as the blood that once flowed in Enkidu’s veins, that yet flowed in Gilgamesh’s - for after all his tribulations, the truth that he was a man still struck at him like a viper
Before him sits the baked clay coffin that houses his love. By him kneels a weeping woman, eyes painted, a prostitute’s cord-crown circling her braided black hair. Her name is Shamhat, his men reassure him, and she loved Enkidu dearly
About him sing the priests of the gods, exhorting Ereshkigal to hold the great Wild Man well. It was meaningless. Gilgamesh had seen the depths of Namtar, and it was naught but dust.
He longs for it, now. With Enkidu by his side, even dust would taste like the sweetest honey. And without him, even the richest wine was bitter and tasteless
Before him stands a great statue of gold, lapis in its eyes. It was wrong, all wrong. Beautiful, certainly, but the face was wrong. Too coldly serene, like a god's face. The sculptor never saw Enkidu alive.
It had taken the palace sculptors seven tries before Ninsun finally stepped him and forced him to approve the eighth. Seven statues for the seven nights that civilised his love, the seven nights that doomed his love
Far beyond the walls, Gilgamesh can see a flock of gazelles on the hillside. Beasts live unknowing and die without fear. A man could envy them
His hand falls and rests on Shamhat’s shoulder, heavy and pressing. She looks up with tear-stained features, clearly expecting a rebuke or an insult - and indeed, Gilgamesh was tempted. What was this priestess of Ishtar doing mourning one doomed by her patron ?
But he was tired. And hate did not become one mourning his love
“Cheer up girl”, he says, his voice heavy, “Everything dies. Even ones loved. Especially ones loved”
Kings are clay, and then dust. So are cities. All that lives is wild and untamed - gods and animals, shapeless and uncivilised
Writing tablets go to dust, too. But words on clay can be copied, and copied again, outlasting memory. Stories are like animals, as wild, as untamed, as shapeless
The dead eat dust. The dead eat clay and dirt, and words pressed into earth will always remain. Those gone speak with voices of earth
He turns to one of his advisors.
"Bring me a scribe," says Gilgamesh the king. He'll see his story written before he dies, “and tell him to prepare. The story of Gilgamesh and Enkidu is a long one”