He buried her himself, in the quiet earth behind her hut, under the simple marker of a healer. He did not call for mourners. He did not speak a word.
As he packed the last handful of earth, a cold wind blew, carrying the scent of salt and a distant, rolling thunder from a sea he had never seen. The first drops of rain began to fall, slow and heavy, like the tears of the sky.
He looked up. The bruised, grey clouds he had seen on the horizon now covered the entire sky. The rain fell on Ninsun's fresh grave, turning the earth to mud.
Lulal, watching from his hill, felt a primal fear that had nothing to do with his philosophy. This was different. This was wrong.
Enki stood, the rain plastering his hair to his scalp, washing the mud from his hands. He felt nothing. The war, the city, Lulal's anger—it was all noise. The only thing that was real was the grave at his feet and the cold, endless rain from the heavens.
The garden was dead. His mother was dead. His heart was a hollow vessel.
And the waters were rising.