The defections and the acts of grace created a fragile, tense stalemate. Lulal, infuriated by Shulgi's act of defiance, needed to shatter the last vestiges of trust. He could not salt every field, but he could poison the well of hope itself.
A new sickness began to spread in Ur. Not the Coughing Death, but a milder, draining ague that left the strong weakened and the elderly and young vulnerable. It was a strain that had circulated in the refugee camps.
Panic, once a slow seep, became a flood. The whispers Lulal had planted now found fertile ground. "He brought the sickness! The defilers bring their plague with them! Enki cannot protect us!"
Ninsun, of course, went to work. She moved through the sick, her presence a calm in the storm. But she was old, and the work was relentless. Within days, the chill became a fever that would not break. Enki begged her to stay in her hut, to rest.
She smiled her gentle, stubborn smile. "A healer does not rest while there is pain to soothe. It is who I am. It is who I taught you to be."
She continued her work. And in the crowded, fearful sick-houses, breathing the tainted air, the old healer, the foundation of Enki's world, finally succumbed completely.