Loneliness.
If there were a single word that defined Gilgamesh's life, it was that.
When his memories flowed into me, it wasn't like watching scenes from a distant past.
I felt them.
His experiences.His thoughts.His emotions.
Pain, sorrow, rage, pride, joy—every sensation carved itself into my mind as though it were my own.
Gilgamesh was born the son of Lugalbanda, King of Uruk, and Rimat-Ninsun, the Sumerian Goddess of Healing and Love.
A being beyond mortal measure.
Two-thirds divine.One-third human.
There was no other existence like him in the world.
He was born supreme—so transcendent that even the gods acknowledged his uniqueness. His body was perfected beyond mortal standards, and his knowledge brushed against truth itself. From birth, he was appointed King and named the Wedge of Heaven, a bridge between ascending humanity and fading divinity.
His role was clear.
He was to protect mankind as the Age of Gods waned.To stand between rulers of the past and rulers of the future.To judge both from a neutral vantage.
He carried the blood of those who had ruled and those who would rule.
At first, the young king fulfilled that role beautifully.
During his early reign, Gilgamesh was praised as kind and just. The people loved him. His only flaw, whispered quietly, was that he never bent his knee to the gods.
Then, as he matured, something changed.
The gentle king became an absolute ruler.
Tyranny replaced mercy.Command replaced dialogue.Self-interest eclipsed restraint.
The people mourned the king they had lost. Even the gods were unsettled by how thoroughly he had transformed.
But the truth was simple.
Gilgamesh had been born with the answer already reached.
Neither god nor human, his perspective surpassed both. His vision extended beyond what the gods themselves could comprehend.
Power that overwhelming brought isolation just as absolute.
Yet his pride would not allow him to abandon his throne or flee the mission imposed upon him.
So he chose a path.
Revering the gods—he would depose them.Loving humanity—he would come to despise it.
Foreseeing this outcome, the gods created a countermeasure while Gilgamesh was still a child.
Enkidu.
Formed from clay by Anu, King of the Gods, and Aruru, Goddess of Creation, Enkidu was neither man nor woman—merely a being crafted to restrain the cornerstone of the world.
The chains meant to bind Gilgamesh.
They first met outside the temple of Uruk.
Enkidu declared he would rebuke the king and correct his arrogance.
Their battle lasted days.
For the first time in his life, Gilgamesh was forced to draw upon all his strength. He mocked Enkidu as nothing more than mud, yet irritation—and surprise—crept into his heart.
He had found an equal.
Reluctantly, almost resentfully, he opened his treasury.
Thus began the first true use of the Gate of Babylon as a weapon.
Golden portals tore through reality as treasures rained upon Enkidu. What began as humiliation turned into exhilaration. Gilgamesh laughed as he unleashed everything—without regret.
When the vault was finally emptied, Enkidu was reduced to a mere tenth of his original form.
Gilgamesh collapsed onto his back, roaring with laughter.
"There's only one strike left for each of us," he said. "No defense. That means two corpses."
Enkidu couldn't tell whether Gilgamesh meant a draw—or that he intended to ensure there would only be one.
"Do you regret wasting your treasures?" Enkidu asked.
Gilgamesh replied brightly, "If there's someone worth using them on, then that alone makes it worthwhile."
From that moment on, they were inseparable.
Their bond became the only story of unchanging value in a world defined by impermanence.
Gilgamesh rose to become the greatest king on Earth, gathering every treasure the world possessed. Uruk flourished like never before. His power grew so immense that even the gods could not ignore him.
One goddess, Ishtar, fell in love with him and proposed marriage.
Gilgamesh rejected her without hesitation.
He knew her nature—faithless, cruel, a corrupter of men.
Enraged, Ishtar went to her father Anu and begged him to unleash the Bull of Heaven.
The divine beast brought famine and ruin, threatening to drown the world in despair.
Together, Gilgamesh and Enkidu bound it with the Chains of Heaven and slew it, dispelling the storm clouds and saving humanity.
Ishtar's humiliation was absolute.
Her vengeance was not.
She demanded their deaths.
The gods granted her request.
Enkidu—created by the gods—could not defy the decree.
He weakened. Cracked. Returned to clay.
Gilgamesh held his crumbling friend in his arms, fury shaking his entire being. He believed the punishment should have been his.
Enkidu tried to comfort him.
"I'm just another treasure," he said softly. "You'll find countless greater ones."
Gilgamesh's reply was absolute.
"You alone have value. In this world, only one shall be my friend. That value will never change—not for eternity."
Then Enkidu was gone.
Until that moment, Gilgamesh had lived without fear of death.
Now, seeing an equal perish before his eyes, he finally understood it.
Not as an abstraction.
But as reality.
Death was no longer something that awaited others.
It waited for him.
The despair that followed shattered him. Death was an escape from duty—but Gilgamesh's duty was to witness humanity to its very end.
Falling into grief, he sought the Herb of Immortality, desperate to deny the fate that had stolen his friend.
For the first time since birth, Gilgamesh feared his own mortality.
He wandered the desert for decades, described in the epic as "crawling pathetically," consumed by a single thought—
I do not want to die.
He cast aside pride, authority, and kingship, clinging to life with desperation that surpassed even that of humans.
Because when faced with death—
Not even a child of the gods was different.