Many years later, when the heavens finally split asunder to reveal the Master of Mankind descending in a shroud of solar fire—the one the people of the world would worship as the "Eternal God-King"—Enkidu-Sa, then the High Chancellor of a unified world, would often find his mind wandering back to that dusty afternoon when he first met Gilgamesh.
Back then, the world was merely broken, not yet reborn. Enkidu-Sa finally understood the primal terror and awe that had forced his knees to buckle. He felt no shame for that surrender.
After all, Gilgamesh was the Absolute; a soul forged to drag this land out of the muck and into the stars. Enkidu-Sa had not just seen a man that day—he had felt the gravitational pull of a destiny too heavy for the earth to bear.
Following the question, Gilgamesh remained silent, his rubicund eyes weighing the scholar's soul. He waited for the man to speak, his presence filling the tent like the pressure before a lightning strike.
Siduri leaned against a support pillar, her thumb hooked into her sword belt. She watched Enkidu-Sa with a sharp, cat-like curiosity. She wanted to see if this traveler, who had survived three thousand miles of wasteland, would break under the King's gaze.
In that moment, Enkidu-Sa felt an invisible weight pressing upon his shoulders. It wasn't just fear; it was a soul-deep recognition of a higher order. His instincts screamed that standing before this man was an act of unintended arrogance.
Driven by a spiritual reflex he would spend the rest of his life analyzing, Enkidu-Sa dropped. His knees hit the dirt with a heavy thud as he performed a deep, trembling kowtow before Gilgamesh.
"What is this?" Gilgamesh's voice was like grinding stone. "Stand up, Enkidu-Sa. I did not raise this army to gather a collection of footstools."
Startled by the scholar's total submission, Gilgamesh moved with a speed that defied his heavy frame, reaching out to hoist the man back to his feet.
Siduri straightened up, her smirk vanishing. She had expected the "pretty-boy scholar" to stammer or boast, but this total abdication of ego was something new. She stepped forward, her hand moving away from her hilt, watching Enkidu-Sa with newfound intensity.
She wasn't worried about treachery. No blade in the world was fast enough to pierce her Abu's guard. She remembered the assassins—shadow-wraiths sent by the old court—who had been found in this very tent, reduced to broken heaps by Gilgamesh's bare hands before the guards could even draw their breath. To attempt to harm Gilgamesh was not an act of war; it was an act of suicide.
Now, she simply wondered what this scholar had seen that made him so certain of his own insignificance.
"Enkidu-Sa, look at me," Gilgamesh commanded, his voice tinged with a weary frustration. "I have told my people a thousand times: I am no god. I am a man who is tired of seeing children starve. Why must you persist in this?"
"My Lord," Enkidu-Sa gasped, his head still bowed even as Gilgamesh's hands supported his arms. "The stars have been absent from this land for centuries. I do not kneel to a god—I kneel to the Sun that has finally returned to us!"
Gilgamesh sighed, a sound that carried the weight of ages.
"Another one blinded by the light," Siduri remarked, her voice a mix of pity and amusement.
"See, Abu? You can burn your scrolls and dress in rags, but the world knows its Master. It doesn't matter how much you claim to be mortal; the heart doesn't listen to logic."
Gilgamesh released Enkidu-Sa's arms and ran a hand over his face in a gesture of profound exhaustion. He had conquered armies with less effort than it took to convince one man of his humanity.
"Enkidu-Sa," Gilgamesh said, regaining his composure. "I am honored by your zeal, but I find no comfort in being worshipped. It is difficult to have an honest conversation with a man's forehead while it is pressed into the mud. Will you stand, so we may discuss the logistics of a revolution?"
Enkidu-Sa, sensing the King's genuine distaste for the divine theater, slowly rose. He smoothed his mud-stained robes, though his eyes remained fixed on Gilgamesh with the burning intensity of a convert.
"You are a man of the academy, I am told?" Gilgamesh asked, shifting the topic back to the mundane. "Good. Since I first tore down the imperial banners, we have won every battle. But we are losing the peace. My men know how to kill, but they do not know how to govern."
He gestured to the holographic maps on the table, littered with flickering data-streams and half-eaten rations.
"The scholars of the cities fear us. They think we are mere butchers. Consequently, I am drowning in ink. I spend my nights balancing ledgers and my mornings directing trench-works. Even Siduri is forced to drop her spear to count food bags."
Enkidu-Sa nodded, his scholarly mind finally clicking into place. "You need a spine of bureaucracy to support the muscles of your army."
"Exactly," Gilgamesh said, a ghost of a smile appearing. "You are the first 'man of letters' brave enough—or mad enough—to walk into my camp. I am willing to pay dearly for your service, if only to save myself from another night of accounting."
He leaned in, his amber eyes flashing.
"But I do not take men on faith. I will test your mind, Enkidu-Sa. If you survive the trial, you will be my Registrar—the architect of a new order. If you fail, I will give you enough silver to reach the coast and pray you find a quieter life."