The village had not changed, and yet to Enki's eyes, it had never looked so small. The work of building Ur was a controlled explosion of activity, and Lulal was at the heart of it, translating Enki's visions into lists, measurements, and work orders. The young man's face was smudged with dirt, his eyes ringed with the exhaustion of a mind running countless calculations at once.
Enki found him staring at a complex schematic of the main canal, his stylus trembling slightly with fatigue.
Without a word, Enki offered him a clay cup of water. Lulal took it, drinking deeply.
Enki then pointed to the first, newly dug irrigation channel, the one that would feed the entire system. "This one," Enki said, his voice quiet but clear. "The primary artery. It will be called the Lulal Channel."
Lulal froze, the cup halfway to his lips.
"So that when the children of this city ask why the water comes, they will speak the name of the man whose mind designed its path," Enki continued. "Your work will be the foundation. It is right that your name is the foundation, too."
Lulal could not speak. In Uruk, he had been "the apprentice," a useful, replaceable component in Kur's great machine. His ideas were absorbed, his labor was expected, but his name was irrelevant. Here, Enki was not just using his skills. He was ensuring his identity, his very essence, was woven into the soul of the city they were building together. He was being given a legacy.
He was being seen.
That night, by the central fire, Enki did not speak of gods or miracles. He spoke of work. He stood before the gathered villagers, Lulal a quiet, intense, and now fiercely devoted presence at his side.
"The river is our life, but it is a lazy servant," Enki began, his voice carrying easily. "We ask it for water, and it gives only what it wishes. This ends now."
He used a stick to draw in the hard-packed earth. It was not a picture, but a plan. A long, primary line from the distant river, branching into a network of smaller channels like the veins on a leaf, feeding into a series of square, designated plots.
"We will not carry water. The water will come to us."
Anu, the elder, frowned. "This is a great labor, Enki. Who will tend the herds? Who will hunt?"
"We will all labor," Enki said, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "But not as one. We will labor as a body labors. Each part with its own purpose, all serving the whole."
He then began to delegate, not from arrogance, but with the calm certainty of a man who could see the invisible architecture of a thriving society.
"You," he said, pointing to the strongest hunters and builders. "You are the hands. You will dig the great canal. You will move the earth. This is your task."
"You," his gaze fell on the patient farmers and gatherers, people who knew the secret language of plants. "You are the heart. You will prepare the seed. You will learn the new grains I will show you. You will tend and harvest. The life of this village will beat with your work."
"And you," he looked to the cleverest, those who were good with numbers and barter. "You are the voice. You will take what we grow and what we make. You will travel. You will trade with the lagoon people for salt, with the northern tribes for timber and stone. You will be our connection to the world."
He did not speak of medicine. His mother, Ninsun, was the healer. Her knowledge was a deep, sufficient well. To pour his own into it felt… unnecessary. A violation of a natural balance.
Finally, he pointed to the blank space at the center of his earthen diagram, between the old village and the new fields. "This is not for a hut. This is for a foundation. We will build a place for storage, for craft, for the voice to trade. We will build the first stone of a new heart."
He looked at Lulal and gave a single nod.
Lulal stepped forward. From his satchel, he produced a single, river-smoothed stone, dark grey and heavy. It was unremarkable in every way, except for its purpose.
Enki took it. He walked to the center of the space he had drawn, and knelt. He did not look to the elders for permission.
With a quiet, final certainty, he placed the stone on the earth.
Thud.
The sound was small, but it seemed to swallow the night. It was the first stone. Not of a village. Not of a town.
It was the foundation of a city.