Once upon a time, Enkidu, you were mine.
I called you from the edge of the waterhole where you stood thoughtless and innocent in the darkness of ignorance, a child of the beasts and the gazelles and the wide open fields. I called you and you came, and you were mine.
Once upon a time, you sat at my feet like a child and I spoke and you listened. You were frightened, you were lost. I clothed you and I guided you. I took your hands in mine and shaped them around loaves of bread and cups of beer, taught you to eat and drink and be merry. I taught you humanity and I taught you love. You wept for your innocence, but you wept into my breast.
And you were mine.
It was by the word of Gilgamesh, that great king of Uruk, that I tamed you, Enkidu, and that I loved you. But it was by the design of the gods that you tamed Gilgamesh, and they made you blind to my love. They made you love him, that glorious and arrogant king,so that through the long nights your two stormy hearts lay close and pounded as one. So that when he wept you consoled him, so that when you faltered he pulled you on. The two of you went places I could not follow.
Enkidu, you speak now of a house of dust and death. You speak of fear and you weep bitter tears. But that is the lot you have left me, Enkidu, abandoning me to loneliness and meaninglessness. Without you, Uruk is my house of dust. To die will be like wetting my lips after a long drought. You say that in the world of the dead they eat dust and clay, but in life, I eat bitterness.
And your lips, cracked and dry with sickness, pile curses upon me. How can these curses affect me? I spoke my own curse long ago, when my lips uttered those three syllables: his name. When I urged you to go to him, Enkidu, and you went. You stood in the doorway and you fought him and then you embraced him, that glorious Gilgamesh. That was the beginning of my curse.
Your words mean nothing to me.
And now you call me back, and your eyes are blind with tears, you heart so easily shifted by the words of Shamash. And now your lips speak blessings, and gifts. But how can these blessings affect me? I know for whom you truly speak them: for Gilgamesh. You bless me for being the tool through whom you met this great king… but you do not love me.
How can I be happy? You give me a husband who will pile gifts and treasures upon me, adore me and give me the trinkets my heart desires. I will be a queen among women, beautiful and beloved. But when I sit in his house, the exquisite foods will turn to dust in my mouth, the beautiful garments will chafe my skin like the coarsest of fabrics.
Your words mean nothing to me.
I will weep for you, Enkidu, one last time. I will weep because Gilgamesh weeps, and because all the kingdom weeps. The shepherds in their tents will cry bitter tears, and the wild gazelles whom you long ago forgot, they will run wild with grief. The rivers and the mountains whisper regret at your passing, and the warriors of Uruk, who marveled at your glory, will lament your death. I too will weep, friend of my heart, but these tears are not for you. I will cry for Gilgamesh, who is learning pain and suffering, and for the men and women of Uruk, who are losing a hero glorious at arms. But not for you, child of the plains. No: you were lost to me long ago.
Once upon a time, Enkidu, you were mine.
Haha. New level of nerdiness, much? Anyway, I know this isn't entirely true to the Epic; I really took Shamhat's characterization into my own hands here. In any case, reviews would be greatly appreciated and I'll do my best to return them!