Maybe I'll expand it later, and maybe I won't. My brain is hurting as it is and this writer's block WON'T FUCKING LEAVE ME.
XXX
They came at dawn, and, as prepared as his people were, Gilgamesh knew they stood no chance in the face of the inevitable. It was simply fact.
The sky is fire.
The earth is salt.
Smoke is burning his nostrils, and his City, oh, oh by the light of Ishtar, his City is burning.
Gilgamesh walks through the flames, and the death, and cries of his people as the enemies of Uruk take her walls and her streets, and the fools, ah, how the mongrels that are his people look at him! Always judging! Always expecting! Always seeing only what they want to see, even though his countenance offers neither hope nor salvaà
Salvation? What do you know of salvation, God-king? I am going to die for your--
...Gilgamesh shakes his head, and banishes the thought of even thinking of such a word from his mind. Salvation simply did not exist in his world or any other, when the whims of mortal Gods could take away the one...Again, Gilgamesh shakes his head, and continues down his path, as resolute in his course of action as he will ever be. Uruk will fall without him, and his peopleàHis people need him not only because they are weak, but because they are fools and he is the only one who deserves to control them.
"There he is, the King of Kings," his people whisper in hushed, careful tones when they see him, always averting their eyes, always groveling and preening and prostrating themselves before him, as if he were something more than the sum of his parts. As if, somehow, what Gilgamesh was, was something great and terrible to behold; his power, his godhood, and his station hanging about him like some kind of tangible banner of his own Greatness, beautiful and flowing and tied ever-so tightly about his neck.
( àSo much like a noose, he thinks, and believes, when Enkindu is not near and neither wine or fire can keep the dark at bay. So much like a noose..)
"There he is, Our King of Kings! Our God-Slaughterer, Wall-Builder and the man First To Reject The Goddess Ishtar! There he is, Lord Gilgamesh of Uruk, our Conqueror of Conquerors and salvation in our darkest of hours!ö
Gilgamesh hates his name; loathes his titles. He is no King. He is no Godling, or Tyant, or any of the thousands of names his people give him -- Gilgamesh is simply Gilgamesh. There is nothing else: he is human, and mortal, and so many other things that he cannot escape, and these things...His name embodies them; defines him. Every letter, every syllable is another iron band that chains him to the inevitable knowledge that he will always be what he was destined to be, that Uruk would, if not today, somehow inevitably fall, and that he will die, and that the world will move on without him.
ôGilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh!ö
The walls of his city stand before him, as monolithic and foreboding as the small army gathering around him is not. The Goddess Ishtar is beside him, at the head of the crowd of his people, nubile and lithe and every other perfect thing that a Goddess should be, her mouth moving in her same, silent plea:.
Be mine, Gilgamesh. Be mine, be mine, be mine. I will give you wonders. I will make you Legendary. Be mine, and I will give you the world and more.
He looks at her; looks at the walls of Uruk, and the millions besieging it; at the mere hundred behinds him. Babylon is falling, he thinks, and knows, and Ishtar agrees; whispers: Be mine, and you will live forever, as the first King of mankind should. Accept my offer, Gilgamesh!
(Babylon is falling.)
...It is a tempting offer. It is a terribly tempting offer, but the King of Kings is no fool. Tonight, he will die, his City will burn, and the fact that he turned down the benediction of a Goddess when his people needed it the most will live on forever.
Be mine!
(The King of Kings looks at Enkindu as the sword of the Gods pierces his neck, and his insides twist. This is not what it meant to be "Great", and "Powerful.", and he knows it.)
"No, Goddess. I will not."
XXX
They came at dawn, and, as prepared as his people were, Gilgamesh knew they stood no chance in the face of the inevitable. It was simply fact.
The sky is fire.
The earth is salt.
Smoke is burning his nostrils, and his City, oh, oh by the light of Ishtar, his City is burning.
Gilgamesh walks through the flames, and the death, and cries of his people as the enemies of Uruk take her walls and her streets, and the fools, ah, how the mongrels that are his people look at him! Always judging! Always expecting! Always seeing only what they want to see, even though his countenance offers neither hope nor salvaà
Salvation? What do you know of salvation, God-king? I am going to die for your--
...Gilgamesh shakes his head, and banishes the thought of even thinking of such a word from his mind. Salvation simply did not exist in his world or any other, when the whims of mortal Gods could take away the one...Again, Gilgamesh shakes his head, and continues down his path, as resolute in his course of action as he will ever be. Uruk will fall without him, and his peopleàHis people need him not only because they are weak, but because they are fools and he is the only one who deserves to control them.
"There he is, the King of Kings," his people whisper in hushed, careful tones when they see him, always averting their eyes, always groveling and preening and prostrating themselves before him, as if he were something more than the sum of his parts. As if, somehow, what Gilgamesh was, was something great and terrible to behold; his power, his godhood, and his station hanging about him like some kind of tangible banner of his own Greatness, beautiful and flowing and tied ever-so tightly about his neck.
( àSo much like a noose, he thinks, and believes, when Enkindu is not near and neither wine or fire can keep the dark at bay. So much like a noose..)
"There he is, Our King of Kings! Our God-Slaughterer, Wall-Builder and the man First To Reject The Goddess Ishtar! There he is, Lord Gilgamesh of Uruk, our Conqueror of Conquerors and salvation in our darkest of hours!ö
Gilgamesh hates his name; loathes his titles. He is no King. He is no Godling, or Tyant, or any of the thousands of names his people give him -- Gilgamesh is simply Gilgamesh. There is nothing else: he is human, and mortal, and so many other things that he cannot escape, and these things...His name embodies them; defines him. Every letter, every syllable is another iron band that chains him to the inevitable knowledge that he will always be what he was destined to be, that Uruk would, if not today, somehow inevitably fall, and that he will die, and that the world will move on without him.
ôGilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh!ö
The walls of his city stand before him, as monolithic and foreboding as the small army gathering around him is not. The Goddess Ishtar is beside him, at the head of the crowd of his people, nubile and lithe and every other perfect thing that a Goddess should be, her mouth moving in her same, silent plea:.
Be mine, Gilgamesh. Be mine, be mine, be mine. I will give you wonders. I will make you Legendary. Be mine, and I will give you the world and more.
He looks at her; looks at the walls of Uruk, and the millions besieging it; at the mere hundred behinds him. Babylon is falling, he thinks, and knows, and Ishtar agrees; whispers: Be mine, and you will live forever, as the first King of mankind should. Accept my offer, Gilgamesh!
(Babylon is falling.)
...It is a tempting offer. It is a terribly tempting offer, but the King of Kings is no fool. Tonight, he will die, his City will burn, and the fact that he turned down the benediction of a Goddess when his people needed it the most will live on forever.
Be mine!
(The King of Kings looks at Enkindu as the sword of the Gods pierces his neck, and his insides twist. This is not what it meant to be "Great", and "Powerful.", and he knows it.)
"No, Goddess. I will not."