The world was reduced to two elements: mud and memory. Five days after the great waters had subsided, the ground still exhaled the scent of wet death. Enki stood by the reeking bank of the re-born river, a single, shriveled seed pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He felt the weight of it—not the physical weight, but the weight of all it represented. His mother, Ninsun, returned to the earth. Lulal, his mind and heart broken, swallowed by the very truth he sought. A world, twice ended. Everyone he would ever love would, one day, be taken. The thought was a yawning chasm.
Gilgamesh found him there, the young king's boots sucking at the muck. "The people... they are shells," Gilgamesh said, his voice hollowed out. "They huddle on the high ground and look at the water as if it will rear up and strike again. They ask me why we should raise a single brick, if the gods can just breathe and blow it all down."
Enki looked at him. Truly looked. He saw the vibrant, fierce life in Gilgamesh—a life as bright and brief as a spark struck from flint. He saw the shoulders that would one day stoop, the face that would one day leather and line. A candle flame next to his own enduring, cold torch.