SLAYER OF WICKEDNESS

𒌍 SCP-8660 𒁹 Hub 𒁹

Irkalla burns.

The grave-wind howls through the stalactites of quartz and mica, that shine like stars on the ceiling of that almighty cavern, and carries with it the scent of smoke, of spilt blood and flickering flame, of red-handed war, vengeful and ascendant.

Beneath the ground, in pale Irkalla, in the House of Dust, an army of ghosts marches along an avenue paved with skulls.

See them, these warlike shades, wrists bearing broken manacles, banners emblazoned with a bronze axe on sable black. See them, sickle-swords at their sides, rifles slung over their shoulders, marching-hymns on their lips. From the Ashen Plains they come, from the Clay Hinterlands they come, from Gibil-Uruk and Ugal-Nineveh, from the Hanging Forests and the Screeching Deserts, these gray men and women who have broken their chains and masters, who come now to break their tyrant god.

See many such columns flow into one, an armored serpent a thousand ranks deep and fifty broad. Terrible things join them, stranger still than the marching dead. Overhead and besides, behind and underfoot, scurrying with chitinous hands, flapping with leathery wings, scuttling with many legs, whispering with choral voices, monsters redeemed and redeeming.

See the procession crest a final hill, to overlook the tahazu-ki, the Killing Fields.

And there, so very near at hand, squatting like a bloatfly upon a wound, the pale bulwark of Hulgig-Babylon, Nergal’s City of Dread, wretched capital of the House of Dust. Ten tiers of walls upon walls upon walls, rising from the bloodsoaked earth to graze the shrouded undersky, a child’s fantasy of war and fortification, crenellations and bastions and kill-zones and the gleam of dozens of portcullises, a fortress beyond mortal reckoning, even reduced. Its outer defenses are overrun, some walls reduced to slag and rubble, a wounded beast bleeding black smoke and flickering with flame, but it is the demesne of an undying god, mighty in aspect, and to see it in its totality is to know oneself as flotsam trailing in the wake of leviathans.

But it bleeds, nonetheless.

The procession marches along.

See the mighty war-camp that surrounds it, silken pavilions blooming around the outskirts of the fortress-city like mushrooms over carrion, outlined by traceries of fortifications and counter-fortifications, mage-towers and artillery emplacements, trenches of flame, shattered walls, and anti-aircraft cannons bristling like porcupine quills.

And still the grave-wind blows, ever overhead.

Hear that infernal chorus play, that symphony of discorporation, of twice-death, of those feathered spirits burned and rent like insects, their smoke caught by the gallows. It catches on canvas tarps, on silken pavilions, on a thousand fluttering banners of bronze on black.

See the vanguard of the Army of the Dead enter the camp, kneeling in the dust, left hands pressed in the sign of supplication, hail, hail, hail.

And at the center of it all he is there to receive them, to affirm their oaths, to clasp their withered hands in his, to pull them out of the dust and set them to their stations.

He who is king and god and country, all in one.

Twice-slayer of the Bull of Heaven and Hell, slayer and savior of Humbaba, slayer of demons, slayer of monsters, Slayer of Wickedness, claimant ascendant to the throne of Hell.

GILGAMESH, King-in-waiting of Irkalla, Bringer of Hope and Breaker of Chains, anointed champion of the Goddess of the Dead, 𒄤 𒈗.

See him, standing at the summit of the siegeworks erected encircling Nergal’s City of Dread. See his vibrant skin of feathers and lacquer now almost as flesh, his eyes of amber vibrant and sharp, his armor of gilded steel repaired and enhanced and affixed with Irkallan bronze and engines from the Furthest West, at his side Violence glinting in the twilight, axe-head as broad as an Akkadian shield.

He raises it now, hefts five-hundred pounds of bronze with a single mighty hand, roaring his acclamation to the stony heavens, the sound roiling like a wave, thundering over the battlefield, resounding off of the ivory walls of Hulgig-Babylon, dread and awe and bloody vengeance, vengeance come at last.

The dead roar with him, all as one.

---

Now the hero-king sits in private council, in the vellum tent of Ashurbanipal the Invincible, sukkal to the Kingdom of Dust, who signs with many arms and sees with many eyes, who whispers in the secret dreams of Buffett and Fink and Golub, who covets much and takes much of what he covets. At his feet lie the minion-things Memory and Ledger, reedy throats endlessly intoning the Twenty Thousand Words of Power, holding in their minds of wax every word ever put to wetted clay.

At the hero-king’s right hand sits jeweled Shamhat, bearer of the secret names of the wind, arrayed in the imperious regalia of a harimtu at high court, refined and fragrant and elegant, who men now call Silkworm and Spider, highest spymaster of the Kingdom of Dust, first amongst equals in counsel and wisdom and the esteem of the king.

And at the hero-king’s left sits Staff Sergeant Jack Montague, Dead-eye, warrior and emissary from the Furthest West.

The council begins with little ceremony, for there is much to be said.

GILGAMESH: Hail, brothers of my blood, hail, sister of my heart, hail, you three who are my highest councillors, exemplars of my Kingdom of Dust.

ALL: Hail Gilgamesh, King of the Dead, king of kings, Slayer of Wickedness, rightful ruler of Irkalla, of the House of Dust.

GILGAMESH: Four days ago I rode with my cuirassiers and cataphracts and chariots of wood and iron, and met with Nergal’s great sortie upon the field, and crushed it, and took the head of Ishum, the watchman, in single combat. Two days ago, counter-battery fire from our emplaced guns silenced the last of Nergal’s field artillery, and the Dead-eye’s scouts overran them, and turned them back upon the walls. Seven hours ago, our fliers met with the Host of the Furies in the undersky above the city, and broke them, and did greatly attrit the Jackal’s A3/AD bubble, in concordance with the principles of SEAD.

MONTAGUE: Well spoken, my lord. We have them on the ropes, that is to say, victory is near at hand. With the last of Nergal’s counteroffensives crushed, and our cordon interdicting all supplies of foodstuffs and materiel, it is only a question of starving them out. Our numbers swell every day with fresh rebels, now that our banners are raised beneath the walls of the capital itself. Hold fast, and we cannot lose.

SHAMHAT: That is a question of some concern, Emissary from the Furthest West.

MONTAGUE: What do you mean?

SHAMHAT: The capital will starve, yes, without supplies of corpse-grain, and wine, and udug, and eventually its host will wither and fail. But Nergal has twenty-thousand gallu in the city, and five thousand demons of Tartarus, and five thousand Luciferean mercenaries, and a population of some seventy-thousand ul-uzuh, the last of his faithful. Traitors they may be, and of the highest order besides, but if the capital starves the gallu and demons will seize upon them like ripe fruit, and slaughter them to a man for sustenance.

GILGAMESH: That cannot be. I will not allow it.

MONTAGUE: My lord, a frontal assault on the walls of Hulgig-Babylon may cost us everything! Their host is still mighty, and Nergal himself is yet unseen, at the height of his strength. If we make a run at the walls, the Jackal will make his move. It may be that he will seek to kill you himself, my lord, and should you fall, all will be for naught. That is an unacceptable level of risk to take up over the lives of traitors-

GILGAMESH: Enough! Traitors they may be, Dead-eye, but they are brothers of my land all the same! Or have you forgotten the oath I swore upon the names of the gods and the faces of the sun and moon, to consign no more of my brethren to twice-death than absolutely necessary? By action or inaction both, Dead-eye! The course you speak of is massacre. I will entertain it no further. Risk is the necessary burden of kingship.

MONTAGUE: I apologize, Lord Gilgamesh.

GILGAMESH: It is forgiven. Ashurbanipal, foremost of my mages, I turn to you now. Have you any workings which may level the blasted walls of this place? Any sorcery which would aid in our assault?

ASHURBANIPAL: I have many, my lord. However-

MEMORY: And he shall hold twice again the grain in reserve, to weather the famine, and give unto the tax-collector-

ASHURBANIPAL: Quiet, you. But yes, therein lies the issue. For though I am mighty, and suzerain, and my will is invincible, breaching the walls of Hulgig-Babylon of my sole accord would leave me utterly spent. And then Nergal would seize upon us, and rend us to ash, for I must keep three-fourths of my strength in reserve at all times, to defend against such a stroke. I cannot level the walls alone, my lord.

The council breaks into contention then, while the hero-king sits on his simple seat of clay, and closes his eyes in contemplation, for a time. When he opens them again they are bright, and his smile is feral and wild, and the beating of his heart of clay echoes throughout the room like thunder.

GILGAMESH: You cannot level the walls alone, you say? And well said, for a sling is useless without a stone, and a bowman useless without his arrows.

ASHURBANIPAL: What is your meaning, my lord?

GILGAMESH: Hear me, councillors to my Kingdom of Dust! Our plan is as it will ever be. Violence of action.

---

September, 1982

A single Bell UH-1 Huey screams through the frigid night. No escorts this time. If everything goes according to plan, we won’t need ‘em. If not, well, it’d just be wasting lives.

The king occupies his half of the chopper with poise and grace. He’s meditating, hands clasped. I wonder if he’s praying, and to whom? We’ve strapped his axe, that fridge-sized hunk of bronze called Violence, to the side of the airframe, and the pilot is countering the added weight admirably. She’s stoic, keeping us level no matter how much her stick yearns to veer left. In any other unit in the world, we would’ve needed to draw lots to figure out who would be forced to go on a mission like this. But in the King’s army, we had to pick from a dozen volunteers, all eager to ferry our leader to his final battle. She had seniority, go figure.

I glance at the other passenger on my side. Ashurbanipal, trusted sukkal of the King of the Dead. After I finished my degree, I went years without thinking of him as anything other than a footnote in history; now he’s two seats over. I don’t like making eye contact with Ash, but it’s hard not to: he’s got eyes on the back of his head, and on six of his palms, and a dozen more tracing swift orbits around his torso. I think he notices the discomfort, relishes it. A man doesn’t become like that unless he really relishes it.

The Huey lurches, my hands straining against the straps. The monstrous shape of Hulgig-Babylon looms larger and larger in the windscreen, and this close it seems even the winds bow to the tyrant, Nergal. Not for long.

The radio crackles. Tailwards, on a distant hill, Pentagram warfighters have assembled eight PM198 towed heavy howitzers loaded with CAIN rounds. Rugged, sexy machines, each capable of launching a hundred-fifty pounds of sanctified steel at supersonic speeds to hit a target the size of a basketball from fifteen miles away. I’m almost sad I’m not there to watch the enfilade, but this view is still to die for. The silent signal goes out, and the grand guns open fire in one unified volley, the resounding boom echoing in the corrugated valleys of Irkalla. Eight warheads streak over our rotors almost too close for comfort, trajectories aligning on a single point dead ahead.

They strike the grim walls of Hulgig-Babylon simultaneously, sending shockwaves resounding through the structure as cracks spiderweb around the impact crater and outlying walls shatter. It’s not enough to break through a dozen layers of enchanted obsidian brick, but it doesn’t have to be. The structure comes alive like a beehive, fires alighting in every nook and cranny as the Nergalites ready for the assault. Scores of winged gallu drop from balconies and scream towards our rotors. They’re willing to dash themselves in our blades, if it’ll stop our approach. From a thousand embrasures, many-armed archers launch arrows tipped with red-hot ceramic vessels. It’s a Nergalite solution to anti-air, and unfortunately more effective than you’d think. The marrow-ooze inside sticks like tar and can melt through an engine block in fifteen seconds. We’ve lost two Hueys in as many weeks to the damn things, and nearly a dozen fliers.

The king shifts, imperceptible to the eye, but when his attention coalesces you feel it in your gut. He gives Ashurbanipal a nod. I’ve never seen another man who could convey this much meaning with a single tilt of the head.

The dead archmage begins to chant. His many arms spin around him as if to stabilize a wild gyroscope, picking up speed. At first I can’t keep track of what language he’s using, and then I realize it’s more than that; I count at least four languages, three pantheons, and two contradictory systems of magic spilling from that man’s parchment lips. It’s like a song, all the dead wolves of Yellowstone crying out at once, whale-calls and birdsong in a symphony of extinction. They cry for vengeance, and the universe twists to fulfill them.

In the space around our chopper, six skeletal limbs unfurl, bones thick as tree trunks, splayed out in a lotus. They’re adorned with spectral bracelets, rings and bangles, mirroring Ashurbanipal’s own, and when he moves his many arms they mimic him perfectly. He opens his eyes, all of them, all at once, and the air reeks of ozone.

From starboard, a shrieking flock of winged gallu dive at the windows, the massive limbs swatting them aside like flies, tearing through the swarm in clouds of pink mist. Splattered harpy blood paints the side of the Huey, but we keep flying, windshield wipers smearing gore over the cockpit windows. Impossibly fast, the arms whip back to block a barrage of acid-tipped arrows from 12-o-clock, corrosion fizzling against enchanted bone. From port, a Jersey Devil swoops, a mess of hooves and leathery wings, emitting a blood-curdling cry so harsh it makes the windows shake. Inside the chopper, Ashurbanipal reaches forward, grasping empty space, and closes his hand into a fist. The noise stops.

Ahead of us, the crater in the wall looms closer. Our pilot bears forward full tilt. Ash gathers his arms, and they each brace, forming a barrier of spectral bone at the craft’s nose. I brace against the hull. Gilgamesh hardly moves.

We make impact.

---

𒀭𒀭𒀭𒀭

The sky-chariot, cradled in the arms of Ashurbanipal the Invincible, pierces through the weakened barricades of Hulgig-Babylon as an arrow pierces soft flesh. It emerges into a twilit void, the hollow interior of Nergal’s grim capital, and its round wings beat upon an eerie silence. The crooked streets lined with clay hovels and obsidian battlements are devoid of movement and unlife, baskets of goods scattered about the ground, market-stalls empty but with braziers still alight.

The sky-charioteer guides the machine to alight upon the rough stones of the City of Dread and its mechanical heart murmurs as its wings slow to a stop. And then there is silence, as Ashurbanipal’s phantom limbs become one with the dust of the street, mingling with the scraps of slain spirits that litter the gutters.

See the hero-king dismount, hear his sandaled feet striking the cobblestones. With his eyes of lacquer he surveys the city, the seat of Irkalla’s rule, wretched crown of the Netherworld, now still and rigid as a corpse. His companions follow in his steps.

MONTAGUE: I do not understand. The guards have left their posts, to the last man. Look, see their weapons lying in the dust. Has Nergal abandoned the defense of his city?

GILGAMESH: I think not. Listen, friends, to the grave-wind. If you allow it to fill you, you may distinguish the clamor of crowds, the jeers of an audience, and the tense air of anticipation.

ASHURBANIPAL: I hear it, my lord. The jackal-god has prepared for us, as we have for him. He would have you settle things in the oldest way, a test of champions. As we foresaw. Are you ready?

GILGAMESH: No man is ever truly ready to fight a god. But I am ready to do what is necessary for my people. I will always be ready.

MONTAGUE: There is no man alive or dead more worthy than you, my king.

And so the retinue of the dead-king marches to the place of endings.

In the center of Hulgig-Babylon is an arena, built brick by brick by Nergal’s own hands, hewn from marble quarried by the god himself, raised over the course of centuries by divine will and nestled within the heart of the wretched city. It does not bear the marks of Irkalla’s masonry, it does not bear the foundation-pegs inscribed with the name of Irnina, the goddess of victory. It does not bear flowing inscriptions of Sumerian, Akkadian, or Arabic, but instead the bare, rigid script of Rome, and of America, of the Furthest West. The sweeping buttresses of marble, the facade open to the void, the circular arena, foreign to behold, presents as a pale cyst upon the face of that darkling, hollow city.

Gilgamesh, king of kings, strides through the entryway into the bloodied sand of the Colosseum of Nergal to resounding cheers and the stamping of feet.

The hopeful dead of Irkalla fill the rows of that colossal space in their thousands, and more besides. The rows between are filled by the gallu soldiers and demon mercenaries of Nergal’s army, and winged beasts swoop overhead in the rafters, jockeying for space. The eyes of all Irkalla bear down upon the First Hero, each seeking a different turn of victory, and he must deliver.

Look, but shield your eyes: seated upon the balcony is Nergal glad-of-war, red-hand, jackal-god, lord of inflicted death and tyrant-god of Irkalla. He is a thing of shining black chitin, a beetle’s shell fashioned into the shape of a muscled man, a head taller than even the king. His smile stretches wider than his face, his teeth sharpened to bloodied points, and his crown is a circlet of steel and fire. His seat is the Throne of Ereshkigal, the once-blessed focus of her dominion, from which she ruled with compassion and justice until sundered by basest treachery. It is more than a throne, that seat of chalcedony and amethyst, it is divinity incarnate, woven power, the me of the God of the Dead.

NERGAL: Welcome, beloved guests! Oh, once-king of Uruk, you are twofold as majestic as the poets sing!

GILGAMESH: Silence, jackal-god. Your end has come. I will grant you one measure of respect for confining our fatal struggle to this arena, but speak no more jests at this hour, lest you be taken for a cur.

NERGAL: Dearest Gilgamesh, you fail to understand. I do not jest. My heart fills with joy to see you and your retinue come to meet me at last. I have followed your rebellion with rapt interest and admiration, and I have come to respect you all, truly, as friends, and indeed, as worshippers most adept.

NERGAL: You, representative of the United States of America. Know that I favor your homeland above all the nations of the living. In ages past, I would have granted boons in great proportion to spur a nation of such strength to grind its young in the mortar of war forevermore, but your leaders do so without bribe nor divine encouragement. Your struggles are delightful.

MONTAGUE: You assume much of which you do not know, Jackal. I will gladly lay down my arms when the cause is done. We stand here as liberators.

NERGAL: Liberators! We shall see, American. And you, Ashurbanipal the Invincible, known to the Hebrews as Osnappar, know that I speak truly when I say: long have I admired you and your deeds, in life as well as death. Scarce in all the annals of history has a king done me greater honor than you. You slaughtered the Elamites nearly to the last child to slake the bloodlust of your people and prolong your reign, measuring their lives as grains of wheat upon your scales. You sieged Babylon and set it alight with your brother still inside. How many cities did you burn solely to sack their libraries for ritual texts?

ASHURBANIPAL: I lived on Earth the way I chose, and used my time and means as I saw fit. For that I will not apologize.

NERGAL: Nor should you, great scholar of murder! I have not forgotten how you burnt offerings to me before each battle, animal as well as man. How you rebuilt my great temple, E-Meslam, and reconsecrated it in my name. I remember your offering, breathing my hundred names as you drove the silvered dagger through the heart of your mistress. I remember how you promised everything to me, if I would only give you power. Tell me, sukkal, are you happy with your choice?

ASHURBANIPAL: I regret nothing.

NERGAL: Of course, of course! I so love to please a believer. But now you turn on me, pretend as though you never revered me. Do not lie to yourself, Ashurbanipal. I know the faith still burns in your heart.

ASHURBANIPAL: I sought your power in life because it suited my goals, and now I seek your destruction for the same reason. You are now as you have always been: subordinate to my interests.

GILGAMESH: Cease this chatter. Great Destroyer, He Who Has Come Out of Meslam. I am GILGAMESH, two-parts god and one-part man. I have been anointed by Ereshkigal, rightful ruler of Irkalla, and she has granted me leave to take her throne back from you, wretched pretender. I challenge you to a test of strength for your throne, by the most ancient compact of men and gods. Wrestle me, as I wrestled the Bull of Heaven, so I may take your throne from you. Wrestle me, so that I may tear your crooked crown from your crooked brow and show to all powers, living and dead, mortal and godly, the false king that you truly are, that I may spill your tyrant’s blood and wring your traitor’s entrails!

Oh listen how Nergal laughs so! Listen as the halls of the arena are filled with the whistle-wind laughter of the Lord of Poplars! Hear the creaking of his throne as he leans to gaze down upon Gilgamesh, the fires of war shining in his insect-eyes like rusted coins at a dry well's bottom.

NERGAL: Oh, mighty Gilgamesh, are you still yet to see? Has no-one informed their king of the truth? Perhaps none remember. Listen, and listen well, to the truth I now bestow. It has been many ages since I have been challenged in this manner. Indeed, yours is not the first rebellion to rally all Irkalla against me. Oh, there was once a leader like you, your equal in strength and courage. A wild-man was he, and he did challenge me to a wrestling match as well, to tame me and my savage ways, he said, to reform me as he did for you.

GILGAMESH: You speak of my other half. You speak of the friend who was taken from me. You speak of Enkidu. Where is he? What have you done to him?

NERGAL: I bested him, Gilgamesh. I forced his face into the sand and I made him yield, made him plead for mercy. Then, I ate of him. I rended him as a child would an insect, and I ate of him. I crushed his soul between my basalt teeth and I made him less than dust. For I knew, great Gilgamesh, that he was most loved by you. I knew that you would fall into the House of Dust as willful as you were in life, and mighty in spirit, that you would reject my yoke, and break my chains. I knew that you would raise a rebellion and bring war to Irkalla once more, and bring new purpose to my eternity. And I knew, oh first hero, that when you learned of your love’s twice-death, as you have now, your fury will be as such that no poet can describe. Come, come, give me a contest worthy of the God of War! Come, First Hero, now knowing the truth of my deeds, I am here, I am waiting!

Gilgamesh is still, then, as still as stone, as stoic as the cavern-walls of marble that encircle Irkalla, as still as the firmament of the undersky above, and his dimmed eyes are dusty with the dry tears of the dead. Oh hear his voice, hear it tremble as his cobwebbed beard trembles, gutter as the torches gutter, as he pronounces his final challenge, his voice heavy with the sorrow of five thousand years of longing, as his gilded armor whirs and roars with sympathetic fury.

GILGAMESH: Hear me well, Jackal. I will kill you as one kills a rabid dog that bites its master's hand. You, Drought King of the Summer Solstice, are to die on this day by these red-soaked hands of mine. You, Lord of Misrule and Mars, shall answer for your crimes against the living and the dead, for your wars, your pestilences, your droughts and famines. You will answer for the desecration of my great city of Uruk, and for the twice-death of my lover Enkidu, and for your cruelty and your tyranny and the million voices you have cast into the grave-wind. For this and more I will have you grovel at my feet and kiss the soles of my sandals. It shall be you who is made less than dust, and I shall scatter your ashes before the widows you have created and the orphans you have sired so that they may know peace, so that the land may know peace by your passing, and the country may be made whole by your absence. This I swear upon the faces of the sun and moon, upon the names of all the gods. Enough talk, wretch.

With this, Nergal rises from his stolen throne. He stands, naked and unadorned, his skin like the shells of carrion beetles that crawl over the dead after a battle, a shining lacquered black glistening with sacred oils and unguents. See the jackal-god’s eyes, shining like rusted coins at a dry well's bottom. See the glad-of-war descend his dais of broken crowns, see the red-hand jump from his balcony and land in the arena sands to look upon the hero-king from level ground. See our hero raise a mighty fist to wipe away his tears of dust.

See the war-god smile.

NERGAL: I accept your challenge, king of kings. Let libations soak parched tongue and food satiate empty bellies for all that come to see the great game. We shall fight without magic, without weapons. Just the flesh of man against god.

Gilgamesh tosses Violence aside. The king readies a grappling stance, divine muscle sheathed within god-slaying machine flexing with a sound like mountains splitting in half.

Nergal’s gaze fixes upon him, burning like molten copper, like the blood of the earth, like setting sun seen through the haze of battle.

NERGAL: Let us begin.

And then he is gone, in motion, faster than shadow, faster than the flickering tongue of a viper, the air splitting as he moves, bloodsoaked sand spraying like a fountain.

He is upon the hero-king, grappling, covering twenty paces in half a heartbeat. Servos scream as Gilgamesh strains to restrain the jackal-god, to catch his arm as it wraps around his torso. The hero pivots, feet sliding in the loose sand, bending the jackal’s arm against his back, fingers scrabbling for purchase against smooth carapace, slamming his armored knee into the back of Nergal’s own, hoping to bring him to the ground. But Nergal is the god of inflicted death, red-handed, and murder is his greatest aspect. The jackal undercuts Gilgamesh’s blow with a leg-hook, bringing him off-balance and allowing Nergal to free his arms, twisting his back further than should be possible, popping vertebrae as he turns about in Gilgamesh’s embrace, clapping his palms against Gilgamesh’s ears, splitting the air once again with his speed.

The roaring of the crowd is dulled by the ringing of bells as the dead-king’s vision narrows and blackens, tufts of cobweb shaken free from his beard, but he shakes his head like an ox and lashes out once more and slams his gauntlet into Nergal’s jaw, knocking the jackal back. Gilgamesh pushes forward and takes up the god in his arms, squeezing tight. Servos whine, pistons shake, and he feels the carapace of the war-god’s shell creak under his ministration. Nergal bucks against his grasp like a wild stallion struggling against the saddle, but Gilgamesh holds on.

GILGAMESH: You will not leave my grasp until your final breath leaves your body, tyrant.

Nergal writhes, trying to escape Gilgamesh’s grasp, slippery as an eel. The struggle is such that it takes both of them to the ground, sprawling in the bloodied dust. They are chest to chest, hot breath upon each other’s cheek, spittle upon each other’s lips. See them tumble in the dust like lovers, see their shining teeth bared, see oiled muscles roil, first one on top, and then the other, shifting like the tides.

See Gilgamesh wrap his arms around Nergal’s thorax and arms and lock them together, gears grinding and snapping in the joints of his blessed armor from the strain. The jackal wriggles and squirms like a rabbit in a snare but is held fast, beating at the hero-king’s back with clenched obsidian fists. The crowd roars its acclaim in one voice.

GILGAMESH: Unseemly acts, dread god of Babylon! I expected a better fight for your divinity! Listen to the crowd! Hear how they call my name! Hear how they clamor for your death! I shall grant their wishes, in a way that you never would. Submit to my strength, wretched weakling Nergal!

Nergal the carrion crow cackles then, his scraping laugh carving skin and flaying flesh with dripping malice and battle-lust.

NERGAL: I saw your revulsion at this coliseum when you first entered, kinsman. It is patterned off of the buildings of a people shaped after my own heart. They called me Mars as well, you see. Oh, how I loved them, and their principles. This dread form has a function, you know.

Then, too late, Gilgamesh catches the scent of sorcery on the grave-wind, as it howls through the rafters and whips through the hanging banners. Nergal the war-god, Nergal the death god, his curved legs lock around Gilgamesh’s back, and he bears forward, his forehead brushing against Gilgamesh’s own, breaking Gilgamesh’s hold and hoisting his arms above his head, strengthened by the magic upon the grave-wind, that wicked gallows-wind, bearing the regretful moans and the anguished screams of the twice-damned above the cries of the distraught audience of the dead.

GILGAMESH: Trickery, you bastard.

NERGAL: You have waged war against me for these past days and weeks and months. You have worshipped upon my blood-dripping altar, you have sung such praises in my name while spitting upon my face. Your act of revolt is an act of devotion to me, pure and clear as flowing water. Your sacrifices to depose me do nothing but strengthen me.

There, the magic tightens like a noose. Emblazoned upon the pale marble, writ upon every grain of bloodstained sand, emerald sorcery shines like a comet in the night. There is war in Irkalla, in the air, in the river Dumzu, in the grain and in the ground, flowing into the Jackal, heeding his call like a hunting-dog. The coliseum collects it, directs it, and Nergal grows, thickening, blood-lust curdling in his eyes. He turns them both over, pressing Gilgamesh beneath his bulk. His legs tense around Gilgamesh’s back, crushing him within his armor, his clawed fingers digging into his gauntlets, burying them within the sand. The spit upon Nergal’s lips foams and drips upon Gilgamesh’s face, searing and caustic.

NERGAL: See now the fruit of your worship!

The infant star within Gilgamesh’s chest shrieks and whines as it leaks light and steam and sparks, strained beyond strain. Nergal rakes his claws across Gilgamesh’s arms and chest, carving upon his armor like a scribe upon a wetted tablet. Nergal tears the hero-king out of his gilded armor, wires trailing like entrails, holding him gasping and naked within his blackened, insect-like arms, man-skin pressed against god-skin.

NERGAL: I thank you, Gilgamesh, son of Dumuzid, son of Lugalbanda. You, in your blood-slicked communion, have become my finest priest by far in these famished years. Gilgamesh, son of Dumuzid, son of Lugalbanda, exalted of my children, you have given me so much joy in your righteous crusade and your wondrous battle-rage. I love you as one loves their prized wife and their fattened lamb, and I will be honored to eat of your flesh and drink of your blood.

Nergal wraps his fingers gently around Gilgamesh’s neck, under his chin, and begins to squeeze, choking the last vestiges of life out of the would-be king of Irkalla, out of the Ashen Son, out of the Bringer of Hope.

---

I can’t believe it.

I’ve been by his side for a year and change. I’ve been at his side for every plan, every sortie, every diplomatic summit, every heart-pounding moment of battle and terror, and in the quiet moments before dawn, in fields of corpse-grain and cities of the dead.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

I’ve read the documents, I have read the analyses from the jarheads and the beancounters, the psychiatrists and the anthropologists that say he isn’t what he claims to be, that say my field reports can’t possibly be accurate, that I am biased and too close to the target, that my judgment is compromised.

They are wrong.

I have seen him through OCULUS scopes. I have seen how his body isn’t cast in dull shades of gray, like the rest of the shades, but a pure, brilliant white. A solid white, like a brick of lead in an x-ray. I have seen his strength, I have seen his love. I have seen the way he inspires others, how he fills them with a bright and shining purpose, how he lifts them up and gives them the will to keep fighting. I have seen his dream, his beautiful dream of a free Irkalla, of a land without chains, without tyrants. I have heard his booming laugh, his wracking dust-choked sobs. He isn’t a ghost, he isn’t a confused spirit, he isn’t a remnant memory…

He is something else entirely.

He is GILGAMESH.

I believed in him. I believe in him still. But to see him in Nergal’s hold, to see him on the ropes like that, so close to death, so close to joining that damned corpse-wind, it’s too much to bear.

I join the rest of the spirits in prayer. My hands are shaky in my lap. But I’m not praying to God.

I am praying to Gilgamesh.

Please. Please beat the son of a bitch, my Lord.

---

𒀭𒀭𒀭𒀭

Behold Gilgamesh, in his titanic struggle against fate! See him rage against the red-hands of war that enclose him, see the light fading from his eyes, the light that so closely resembles life! Watch his ghosts of muscles flex and strain, see his broad feet digging into the sands of that arena, the steam vent from his flanks, as he fights against divinity itself!

His vision tunnels, narrowing upon the eyes of his foe, his nemesis, the god of war Nergal, beautiful and terrible in all the ways the gods are when laid bare. Nergal’s grip is total, inexorable, his hands as old as the first weapon and his grip as strong as the blood-fervor that strikes even the mildest of men when the time ripens, that call to rend, to rip and tear.

He fights against entropy, he fights against rot and the tides and the end of all things, staring into Nergal’s eyes, against easy cruelties and wicked pleasures. He fights for his kingdom, for his people, who have borne so much, even in death.

He fights for Enkidu, beloved Enkidu.

But it is not enough, it could never be enough. For he is not even a man, only a shade of himself as he was in life, fighting against divinity full and ripe. And what shade could best the power of a god? His grip slackens, his ox-broad shoulders slump. His eyes darken, losing the spark that burned as furiously and intently as the sun. The grave-wind howls in his ears, the sound of Nergal’s cursed ritual the last thing the hero-king will ever hear.

But there is a voice.

There on the brink, on the cusp of twice-death, floating upon the grave-wind, the gallows-wind, the corpse-wind of Irkalla, the event-horizon where all else fades to blackness, he hears it.

Please, King Gilgamesh, save us from our servitude.

Please, my champion, best him and save my children, my orphaned throngs of clay and dust.

Please, by all the gods above and below, persevere, Gilgamesh…

Please, my lord, who I remade with my own hands, avenge our lover, avenge our people, our brothers and sisters of the land…

Please. Please beat the son of a bitch, my Lord.

The words become a chant, a chant mouthed from ten thousand voiceless lips. The chant fills his ears, rattles his bones. The words fill his heart with song and his mind with joy. The prayers of his people, the prayers of the siblings of his land and the subjects of his kingdom fill him with strength. The very sorcery, the very ritual that granted Nergal his powers, turns unfocused onto Gilgamesh, filling the object of prayer with power like a cup running over with wine. The prayers of his citizens, the oaths of his soldiers, the discharge of munitions and the blessings of children and the sowing of corpse-grain and the threshing of wheat, every action taken by his subjects flows into him, every action taken by the dead to make life fills him, and he is renewed, brimming with vigor, eyes burning once again.

For just as every act of war is in service to Nergal, for just as every act of love is in service of Ishtar, every action his people take to defy the gods, to defy fate, to defy death itself, is an act of worship to him, to Gilgamesh.

For he is their king and god and country, all in one.

His skin darkens, from woven gray feathers to hardened baked clay and finally to the toned sun-darkened skin of his youth, tanned and vital. He feels his strength increasing, to two-sixths, three-sixths, four-sixths, then five-sixths his strength in life, Ereshkigal’s half-blessing taking in the faith of his people, taking in their love and their hopes and their dreams to forge him anew, pushing him closer to life than a dead man has ever been.

His senses sharpen, his reflexes once slowed by the turn of ages now again lethal and vibrant. With the strength he once had, an age and half ago, the strength that shattered mountains and blackened the heavens, he tears Nergal’s hands from his neck, sand turning to glass beneath his feet, hands sizzling and searing from the force and strain.

GILGAMESH: ENOUGH.

With the fists that grappled the Bull of Heaven in the fullness of its glory, Gilgamesh lashes out against Nergal, shattering his carapace and mangling his jaw. He leaps upon the jackal again, a wild-man, filled with the vigor of life, filled with what the sages call ug-ulla, the battle joy, the berserk fury of heroes.

Watch as he strikes the crooked king again and again, every blow eliciting a cry from his lips, every blow bringing forth a title.

GILGAMESH: I am the Twice-Slayer of the Bull of Heaven and Hell! I am the slayer-savior of Humbaba, slayer of lions, slayer of demons, slayer of wickedness, the first hero, the reborn hero, the Ashen Son, the Mightiest Son! I am the god-man, the dead-man, one-third man and two-thirds god! I am the Sower of Seed, the builder of the walls of Old Uruk, Bringer of Hope, Breaker of Chains, Breaker of Gods! I am the Accursed Half-Dead of Ereshkigal, Champion of the Goddess of the Damned, the Lord of Sorrow! I am the Dead-King of Uruk both old and new, I am king of kings! I am GILGAMESH, and I will never yield!

See Nergal as he is overcome! See the crooked king stunned where he lies, buried waist deep in the sand, buried in his hour of triumph! See the tyrant-god’s battered form, see his shattered carapace leaking golden ichor, the blood of the gods! See the roaring spirits in the audience as they lift Violence into the air with countless unnumbered hands! See how the hero-king’s people aid him in his hour of need! See as they pass the axe down to their countrymen, closer and closer to the sands until Gilgamesh can grasp it by the hilt without difficulty! His axe that weighs seven talents and seven minas to them, see how it weighs only five minas to him, buoyed with the strength of life! See him plant himself above Nergal, see his axe glinting in the false-light of Hulgig-Babylon as he raises it above his head! See Gilgamesh and his ascendancy!

GILGAMESH: Now begone! Begone from my Kingdom of Dust!

And with a blow that channels the anger of his people unnumbered, with a blow that could level mountains and snuff out the sun, Gilgamesh brings Violence down upon Nergal, splitting his body at the waist. He raises the axe again, coated with gold, coated with the blood of the gods, and brings it down again, hewing Nergal’s head from his body! Behold, as he smites the body of Nergal twice, splitting his body into three! Behold, the apotheosis of King Gilgamesh!

Hear the crowd rejoice, see how they pour from their seats down into the ring like a roiling sea to meet Gilgamesh, that grand king. They call to him for vengeance, for righteous justice.

ALL: Destroy him! Destroy the tyrant Nergal! Dump his body in the Dumzu, let gallu feast on his corpse! Ascend the stone stairs of Irkalla and place his body in the light so Enlil fate-weaver may know of your victory! Reduce him to less than dust!

The king stands, and leans on his axe, hearing the roars of his people, steam rising from his flanks, the blood-fury, the battle-joy receding in the face of his conquest. He is contemplative even in victory, the wisdom of ages upon his brow. He stands, and thinks, and finally speaks.

GILGAMESH: The wishes of my people resound in my bones, and I long to make them manifest, but in truth, I cannot bring myself to. In an age past, Enkidu, my poor Enkidu, wrenched me from my despotic throne and made me humble. Even I, who did not leave a son to his father nor a wife to her husband, could be redeemed. Enkidu believed that I could be saved. If I believe, if I strain to wish that even the jackal-god may be saved, then I honor Enkidu’s memory forevermore.

See Gilgamesh kneel to hold aloft the head of Nergal, its tendons and leaking veins still twitching with immortal life.

GILGAMESH: Though you are wicked beyond measure, there have always been those who saw light within you, lord of deterrence, lord of the poplar, King of Sunset. Just as the daughter of fair Ereshkigal heralds new life, so too are you capable of bringing goodness and joy to Irkalla, given the right guidance. I will remake you a new man, as Enkidu remade me. You have destroyed my greatest love, but with my hands I shall ensure that the beauty of his righteous deeds will persist until all the world crumbles and becomes dust. You will be a better man, because of Enkidu, because of the lessons he taught me, that I shall teach you in turn.

ALL: What would you have us do, Lord Gilgamesh?

Gilgamesh looks out to the sea of shades crowding around him, filling the blood-slicked sands of the arena, the stands ensconcing them, and yet still further to the streets of Dread Babylon, as slaves are freed from their pits and the condemned wrested from their gibbets and pikes to walk once more. Their gray faces shine with joy and wonder and righteous anger equal, yet they are restrained, awaiting his command. For he holds their future in their hands. What he decides will change the arc of Irkalla's history, twist the fabric of its destiny, command its philosophy and ideology for the yawning ages ahead. His first act as king. He grows certain of what he must do.

GILGAMESH: You, weavers! Come down from your seats, take from the broken bodies of the dead spirits, the memories of mortal life! You, blacksmiths! Come down from your seats, take from the forges precious orichalcum and gold, the metals of gods and men! You, scholars! Come down from your seats, and take from your desks and offices your wetted clay tablets and wedged styluses! Weavers, weave for Nergal a new heart, that he might know of mortal love and virtues! Blacksmiths! Smith for Nergal a new body to house his heart, one of orichalcum and gold, the stuff of the earth, that he might know earthly things! Scholars! Write of our epics, our histories and our tragedies, that he might know of us, our victories and our losses! Turn this immortal into a mortal, make him two-parts god and one-part man! This, your king commands!

The mass of shades swarms upon the body of Nergal, visions of a radiant dawn swimming in their minds as they work to bring a new man into being.

And so the labor of years begins.

---

Open the gates of Hulgig-Babylon! Open them up! The throngs cry out. Why should I, we are surrounded by the enemy! To open them would be to admit massacre! The gatekeepers return. Our king demands it! Our king demands it! Replies the mob. Why would Nergal command such a thing? The gatekeepers say. No, not Nergal, no! The new king, the just king, Gilgamesh, orders! Open the gates!

And the gatekeepers comply, opening the ten sets of gates, breaking the dam of flesh and spirit as Gilgamesh’s rebels flood into Hulgig-Babylon, seeking, finding lost family, forsaken children, brothers and sisters long thought crushed by Nergal’s tyranny. Weapons and armor are shed as they hug and kiss and clasp arms, lovers with lovers, teachers with students, father with son, reunions overdue by an age and a half. The weeping joy of thousands echoes through the crooked streets of Hulgig-Babylon, there is singing and dancing and mourning and praising all in one, as the city is filled with half-life and the cheering of the damned.

Gilgamesh sees it, he hears it, he basks in their praise and their thanks, giving him alms of crowns woven of their broken chains and offerings of their meagre foodstuffs, as they touch him, touch the beating heart of the rebellion, the beating heart of the toppler of their god!

The dead-king comes across Montague and his ilk, the living soldiers, the men from the Furthest West, the men that aided them in their hour of need. Gilgamesh clasps arms with Montague again, and the king’s hand is warm and vital to the touch, for the first time in an age and a half.

GILGAMESH: Hail Dead-eye, hail brother-in-arms, hail voice of the Furthest West. For all of my people, for all of Irkalla, I thank you for your aid.

MONTAGUE: Thank you, my lord, for your thanks and your kindness. I am truly elated to see your triumph. But that is not what we sought you out to speak of.

GILGAMESH: You seek repayment for the investment of the Furthest West, now that the deed is done. A debt to be paid.

Montague’s eyes shift, glancing away from Gilgamesh’s own. Where once he learned to speak freely while in the king’s presence, to speak his mind as he would with a brother, now he is hesitant. Meek. Cold sweat beads on his brow, and his hands shake, as they never did even in battle. All this the king sees.

MONTAGUE: Yes, to use so blunt of a phrase.

GILGAMESH: Then speak. Do not worry over your words, let them flow, let me hear of America’s price of freedom. I knew that it would come at a cost, that a country like your own would never be so feckless as to give a country thousands of leagues away money and weapons and men if they did not expect something commensurate in return. For the favor of empire comes always at a cost, lest their treasuries empty and the doors rattle in the wind.

MONTAGUE: As the new… incumbent regime, there are some requests and favors that America would ask of you. Though I merely wanted to warn you of this, I had no intention of actually negotiating them myself-

GILGAMESH: I will not hear of these terms from an ambassador, I will hear them from you now, brother of my blood. So speak, and speak them loudly!

MONTAGUE: Very well. America is unconcerned with the internal affairs of Irkalla, do be clear. I have conveyed the provenance of your kingship to my superiors, and they are pleased, Lord Gilgamesh. But, ah, there is the issue of trade and foreign relations…

GILGAMESH: Dead-eye, for my sake and yours, do not let your words tarry long upon your tongue.

MONTAGUE: America wants you to stop trading with the Soviets, for starters. Keep manufacturing pneumanite, and export it only to America and its allies, though preferably to just America. Our nations will have peace, and terms for mutual defense, as we have aided you in your time of need, so will you aid us in ours, if such a time ever arises.You will also help us with any paranatural operation in the Middle East in the future, aiding and hosting our troops, if necessary, and you will allow American companies to develop any natural resources they may find within Irkalla itself on favored terms. Washington also wants a military base near Ugal-Nineveh, near the hell-gate, to monitor developments in Lucifer’s realm, and to remind them of our presence. As a security guarantee.

Montague adds that last part onto his speech like a salve on a wound, like balm upon the sting that his words inflict upon Gilgamesh, who gives a mighty sigh in return.

GILGAMESH: I knew, the moment I saw those crates descend from the heavens like gifts from the gods, I knew that they would come at a cost. I knew that a country like your own would never give the tools to our freedom willingly and freely. I reject your demands outright, Montague. This is the message you will ferry to your masters above.

MONTAGUE: My lord, please. You cannot just deny them outright. The cost of materiel, the cost of the weapons, the casualties, the soldiers here. It all mounts up. There will be a reckoning for this debt.

GILGAMESH: Your country calls to make Irkalla a client-state of your empire. Your country calls for the submission of my people, freshly freed from one tyrant, to that of another. Your country would make my people suffer and labor and die for uncaring men across the sea. I do not care what your country calls for, I reject it wholesale.

MONTAGUE: My lord, my masters will not see it as such. If you will not be a friend and serve their interests, they will treat you like an enemy. My people will return with forces tenfold and replace you with someone more pliant, they will exact a level of barbarity and base cruelty upon your people that even Nergal could not match.

GILGAMESH: And now the threats of your masters are laid bare, Dead-eye. You speak of Nergal, that patron god of the Akkadians and Assyrians, and what terrible empires they were! But the Furthest West is no different, no different at all. Your country makes even the Akkadians shiver with your brutality. Your country and their fiendish weapons of war make even the Assyrians cry out with fear. If not for your political aims, mayhaps your country would have found itself prostrate before Nergal’s altar, as your foremost patron god. Mayhaps he was not wrong, what he said in that cursed arena.

MONTAGUE: My lord-

GILGAMESH: Hush, Montague. I care not for your words. I have made my case to my people and yours, to my country here and your country above, I have stated my claim. I have shown that arms raised against me will be smote down with righteous fury. I have shown that I would rather embrace my foe as a friend than an enemy. But I will not be a pliant lapdog for your rulers in Washington, despite the aid you have given us. If they would seek to depose me, as you say, let them try. But I will believe it when I see it.

GILGAMESH: But, to you all, to you who fought much and sacrificed more for my cause and my claim, I offer great boons, brothers of my blood. Come live here, make a home in Irkalla in life and in death. To each of you who have shed blood in my name, I grant you a homestead and a good plot of land, that you may labor through the honest sweat of your brow, that you may work and grow and bear fruit in the land of the dead. You will be protected as all my subjects are protected, you will be shielded from the Pentagram’s wrath by Ashurbanpal’s magics and my strength. As a gift for all your efforts, this I grant to you. As friends. As brothers in blood!

Gilgamesh extends a hand, a callused, bloodied hand to Montague and his band, the offer hanging in the air like a sword upon a thread. They are quiet, for a time, eyeing one another to see what the response of the group will be. Then, slowly, like the dripping of tar, men break away to join Gilgamesh. First a rough-hewn artilleryman, who has known nothing but hardship, a lean logistician, with no family or property to his name, them and more, until but only Montague and precious few others remain. Montague looks at Gilgamesh’s hand, stares at its creases and scars, and chokes.

MONTAGUE: My lord. I can’t possibly accept such a gift. To make a home in such a marvelous place, full of history and myth and wonders, it would be… truly magnificent. More than I deserve. But I love my country even still, and I cannot turn my back on it. Not now, not ever. Not even for you.

Gilgamesh lets his hand fall to his side, the Dead-eye’s words drawing a single dusty tear from his amber eyes. The king is silent, for time. But he accepts. He nods.

GILGAMESH: Then let us part as friends, not as enemies. Go and tell your masters in Washington that I will forget their threats, and repay their boons, on mine own terms, in peace and brotherhood, not in bloodshed. Go now to Kur la Nippur, go now to the staircase to the surface, go back to your beloved country and tell them of my rejection. But Montague, dear Montague, remember this: You will always have a home waiting for you here in Irkalla, if only you dare to ask. Unto eternity.

The two men embrace and part ways, Montague fights against the tide of death and spirits to leave Hulgig-Babylon for good, and Gilgamesh turns away to focus on the task at hand, pushing away the mourning, the rending of his garments and the beating of his chest, for the loss of another dear friend. That may come later, but there is one final task he must do.

---

Gilgamesh, fresh from battle, bearing bruises and cuts still fresh upon his skin, smelling of sweat and oil and blood, still wreathed in garlands of chains, ascends the stairs to the balcony to where the throne of the dead lays. He ascends alongside his retinue, alongside his vizier Ashurbanipal, his spymaster Shamhat, and his queen Ereshkigal, Montague long since departed. He ascends those twisted, crooked stairs, until he sees the false-light of Hulgig-Babylon, until he hears the dull roar of his subjects, until he smells the corpse-wind, smelling of citrus and spices and all good things.

He sees the throne, the Throne of the Netherworld, me of the God of the Dead. It is a slender thing, a mild thing, made of stolid poplar and inlaid with lapis and chalcedony, carved with symbols of life and death, of children and elders, of war and disease, of birth and love-making. Of the Wheel of Time, ever turning, ever spinning.

He brushes his hand along its back, along its rests and seat. In reverence, and in trepidation.

GILGAMESH: Long have I awaited this day. Oh Shamhat, your prophecy, made on a balcony much like this, oh how it comes true, all these ages later.

SHAMHAT: It comes only because of your labor, your love of your people, and your great strength. I merely guided you. My lord, My king, please sit on your throne, as is your right.

And Gilgamesh sits, and all the power of Irkalla and death flows through him, as he takes the mantle for himself. He sees all, he sees the waters of the Dumzu cascade down rapids of twisted human arms, he sees the flocks of winged demons nesting in the star-tipped stalactites on the stone firmament, and sees the corpse-grain in the shallow fields, stalks bending and rippling in that sweet-smelling breeze. He feels the corpse-wind against his face, he is the corpse-wind, he is the land and all that inhabit it, and in that instant he weighs the hearts of all those dwelling in his kingdom and finds them all worthy of his love, worthy of citizenship in his suzerainty, worthy to call him lord, for he is GILGAMESH, King and God of the Dead, Ruler of Irkalla, Ruler of his Kingdom of Dust. He opens his eyes, once rich and brown now black as night, and he speaks, his voice girded by the weight of divinity.

GILGAMESH: I see them all, now. I see as Nergal saw before me, and as Ereshkigal before him. They are all so… small, like grains of sand resting under my feet.

ERESHKIGAL: You are a god, my lord. As you sit upon that throne, you are no longer mortal. Where you were once two-thirds, you are now fully god, no longer of mortal make.

Gilgamesh stares into that blackness for a long while, for uncountable seconds, his eyes weeping tears of tar.

GILGAMESH: I cannot do this. I am not aloof to my people’s struggles, content to watch them suffer from my seat of poplar and chalcedony. If they grieve, let me be alongside them, that I too may grieve. If they celebrate, let me be by their side to celebrate in turn. I may be their king, but I can never be their god. Ereshkigal, Once-Queen of the Netherworld, Pale Queen of Night, take this burden from me, and ascend to your former throne.

ERESHKIGAL: You are god, my lord, I could not possibly take what you have gained by right–

Gilgamesh snaps, roaring with the voice of a god, tempered by millennia of want, shaking the very foundations of Hulgig-Babylon, disturbing the Bašmusila-gub in their flight, rippling the waters of the Dumzu, the damned river.

GILGAMESH: Woman, if you are goddess of Irkalla, sit upon your damnable throne. If I am god of Irkalla, obey your lord and take my throne from me.

Ereshkigal bows low, a pale smile playing upon her face.

ERESHKIGAL: As you wish, my lord.

With the strength of ages, with the belief of all Irkalla aiding him, Gilgamesh grips the armrests such that they might break into kindling, knuckles white and sweat beading from his brow, he stands, rejecting godhood, rejecting the crown of divinity, rejecting all that renders him less and more than human, and stands, losing the all-sight of gods, losing the cold, calculating gaze of a higher being, returning to his earthly form, his earthly powers, returning to himself. With shaking, trembling hands, Gilgamesh aids Ereshkigal, blind, crippled Ereshkigal, into her rightful seat, her rightful place at the Throne of Irkalla. He bows and prostrates himself.

GILGAMESH: I am truly sorry, my lady. I did not wish to raise my voice. I want to be one of my people, among my subjects. I want to be a mere mortal. For to be a man is my nature, and with the power of gods what would I become, what would I do with such awesome ability? I shudder at the thought of what I, once a fickle and vain and evil creature, would become with eternity to think and rot, ever stagnant, ever-powerful. I was and am scared, my lady.

Ereshkigal, beautiful Ereshkigal, with eyes of night, eye sockets glimmering with all of the stars in the sky, her thin body more regal and righteous than ever, reaches with a scarred hand and cups Gilgamesh’s chin, lifting his gaze up to hers.

ERESHKIGAL: You are not weak, my king. For weakness would have led you to succumb to the seduction of power and all its corruption. You did not waver, you did not hesitate to cast off the chains of godhood when they tempted you. And this is true strength. For I may be Goddess of Irkalla once more, but you are King. HAIL KING GILGAMESH, KING OF IRKALLA, SOVEREIGN OF THE KINGDOM OF DUST!

And there arises a roar from ten thousand lips, tears of dust flow from twenty thousand eyes, ten thousand spirits chant his name, all as one, as all of the damned spirits in Hulgig-Babylon kneel, left hands pressed in the sign of supplication, hail, hail, hail-

Hail to the twice-slayer of the Bull of Heaven and Hell, slayer-savior of Humbaba, slayer of gods, hail to the first hero, Mightiest Son, the god-man, 𒀭𒄑𒂆𒈦.

Hail Gilgamesh, King of Irkalla, king of kings.

𒌍 SCP-8660 𒁹 Hub 𒁹 The Fruit of Eight Millennia 𒆕