He then turned from the arguing men and looked to the youngest among them, a girl who helped with the sheep and whose eyes had seen too much. "Little one," he asked, his voice gentler than they had ever heard it. "When you stand here at dawn, before the work and the worry, what does this place feel like to you?"
The girl, startled to be addressed, looked from face to face before her gaze settled on the soft morning light painting the river in hues of gold and rose.
"It... it feels like it gathers the light," she whispered, as if confessing a secret.
Enki looked back at the people, his eyes holding theirs. "There is your name. Not a boast. Not a cower. A truth. Uruk. The place that gathers the light. Will the gods be angry at the light?"
The people were silent. The fear in the air began to thin, replaced by a fragile, dawning courage. It was a name they could build upon, a purpose they could hold in their hearts.
Gilgamesh looked from the girl to his people, and he saw the truth Enki had shown them. He stood tall, not with the pride of a conqueror, but with the responsibility of a steward.
"Then we are Uruk," he declared, his voice firm and clear. "And we will live up to our name. We will be a people who gather the light, and in doing so, drive out the darkness of fear."