Author Note: Welcome to the sixth chapter of In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You! Thank you for reading.
Please note that Gilgamesh, the famed mythological figure, appears in this chapter. All you really need to know about him was that he was kind of a dick until he met his best friend, and then turned Inanna (a.k.a. Azelma) down and she had said best friend killed in convoluted retaliation. He then tried to become immortal and failed.
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
Chapter Six: He Who Learns the Truth
Time passes strangely in Erkalla.
Some regions seem to be in permanent winter, others perpetual spring; hours can pass like seconds in certain parts, and seconds can seem like years in others.
There are villages that consist of no one but children, souls who died far too soon and have yet to let themselves age. Other towns consist of those who like the sedateness of old age and do not mind wearing wrinkled skin. The inhabitants of Erkalla can apparently move between both with no problems at all, though most prefer the eternal youth granted to the dead.
Enjolras soon embeds himself in their daily life, working in the fields, helping to build fences and granaries, assisting in the mills and the craftshops—it's strange, but he feels the closest to human he's ever been, not a god at all, just another citizen of the Underworld.
Gradually, however, all this time spent in her realm, amongst the people she rules, has forced him to reconsider his opinion of Ereshkigal.
For one thing, all her subjects adore her, praise her fairness and care, and talk smugly of her beauty and power. They take pride in her fearsome reputation and seem to indulge her infamous temper, magnanimously accepting it as her due.
"There are worse flaws for a goddess to have," a matronly woman informs him. "She's a good queen, our Lady."
The woman shoots a pointed look in his direction, and he smiles ruefully. They didn't take it well when he first appeared; most of Erkalla's people took his defiance of their ruler as a personal offense, though now they seem to have written it off as an odd quirk, especially since Ereshkigal herself seems "so very fond of him."
(Apparently, they've heard of her attempts to seduce him and interpreted it as "favoritism.")
He's aware that the whole realm knows of their bargain, and the villagers take every opportunity to ply him with food and drink, urging him to accept their hospitality.
"This is the best realm," they tell him. "You'll be happy here."
He quietly but gently refuses.
No matter how right it feels, he knows he doesn't belong here.
"This realm…" Enjolras starts to say.
"Yes?" Neti asks.
"It's at least equal in size to the land of the living, isn't it?"
Neti nods. "Yes, it is."
Enjolras frowns. "But Ereshkigal is the only ruler? That seems like too much power for one person."
Neti gives him an indiscernible look. "It is," he agrees. "Too much responsibility, as well. She alone is ultimately in charge of the judgments, the running of the courts and councils, the governing of all of Erkalla that you haven't seen because you've spent your time amongst the people instead of in the palace.
"Thankfully, she has the aid of the demons and the minor gods of death. And she has us, of course."
Neti makes a move on the board and continues his explanation.
"Grantaire handles his job of managing the fates of mortals well, and he assists with the judgments—helping to decide who goes where, who's best suited to doing what.
"Gavroche didn't start out as a god of the Underworld—he simply moved here one day after deciding he disliked seeing his favorite cows die, and simply preferred to wait with them here—but as a god of spring he watches over the changing of the seasons and all the animals in the realm. He makes sure the humans properly bury the bones of the creatures they hunt or slay, so that they may come back to life the next day."
Enjolras raises his brows. "You mean Ereshkigal serves the same boar over and over at dinner?"
Neti smiles. "No, I understand the hunters she employs usually catch a different one and rotate."
Enjolras nods and considers his…well, his friend now, he supposes. "And what do you do?"
"I usher souls into the realm and ensure they don't escape. I watch over the transition of those whose time has come to be reborn back into the world of the living. I guard the gates of my Lady, and in all my years as her servant, never once has anyone entered or left before their time," he says.
Enjolras looks at the calm, implacable god, and believes him.
"Who else helps?" he asks.
Neti frowns. "Most of the gods of death—those in charge of famine, war, and sickness, like yourself—most of them used to live at least part of the year here in Erkalla. And when she visited the world above, my Lady would coordinate with them, make sure they were fulfilling their duties.
"Everything changed when Inanna tried to steal her throne. Many of the gods in her jurisdiction also held oaths to her sister, and most sided with Inanna. Those who stayed loyal to my Lady were often unable to come and live in Erkalla permanently, so they were subject to Inanna's cruelty.
"Unless she challenges her sister directly and brings her to the council of the gods, which she refuses to do, they are at a stalemate. My Lady has found that as long as the gods of war and sickness do their job ensuring death, she has enough power to hold everything together here below. It does make it more difficult to find time to visit the world above, of course," Neti says pointedly.
Enjolras frowns. "If Inanna is interfering with her duties, she should have her brought to judgment."
Neti raises his brows. "I understand you have a sister, Nergal—do you think you could bring yourself to ever throw her to the council's mercy, when she is as hated as Inanna is?"
Enjolras's frown deepens.
Neti makes a move. "I win," he announces.
"So you have," Enjolras says, still deep in thought.
Neti begins to put the pieces away, then pauses, staring at Enjolras. "I think we have known each other long enough by now." He extends his hand, palm up. "My name is Combeferre."
Enjolras starts in surprise before taking it. "And mine is Enjolras," he replies.
His friend smiles, white teeth gleaming against black skin. "Enjolras. It suits you."
That night, when Enjolras attends dinner, he gives Ereshkigal a small nod of acknowledgment before sitting.
He still does not agree with the way she does things—she should still have more care for her worshippers in the land of the living, and the whole situation with Inanna has been horribly handled—but he can admit he was wrong about some things.
She deserves at least a little of his respect. Certainly more than her sister does, at any rate.
The whole table stares at him in surprise, Gavroche nearly choking on his food.
"What in the three realms is going on?" he demands. "Nergal, have you gone crazy?"
"No," Enjolras replies stiffly. "And…" He takes a deep breath. "I think I would actually find it easier if you referred to me by my true name from now on. Please call me Enjolras."
Now it's Grantaire's turn to choke. "Alright, who are you and what have you done with the marble statue?" he says.
Enjolras frowns. "I am hardly a statue—"
"Oh, please, you are surely just as rock-headed as—"
"Enough," Ereshkigal says, eyeing Enjolras curiously for several long moments.
He crosses his arms and meets her gaze defiantly.
"Why the change of heart?" she asks eventually.
"I have been here four months. A whole season has passed. It seems ridiculous to keep standing on formality," he says.
"I'm not talking about your name. I'm asking why you nodded at me. I thought I wasn't good enough to respect," she retorts.
He bristles. "Well, as it turns out I was wrong about that. Slightly at least. You deserve some respect," he says grudgingly.
She smiles at him. "Ha! What changed your mind?"
He looks away. "Your people adore you. Combeferre—"
She starts at his use of her left-hand man's personal name, and shoots a look in the god of gates' direction.
"—defends you. And Gavroche seems quite happy as your lover, so there must be something to like about you," he finishes.
He does not expect the reaction he gets.
Ereshkigal's eyes widen and Gavroche's mouth drops open in shock. "Wait, what?" the latter says. "You think she—you think we—ewwwwww. Eww, no!"
Grantaire is hunched over his plate, laughing, while Neti looks mildly perplexed. "You think Gavroche and our Lady are…lovers?" he asks.
It's Enjolras's turn to look confused. "Aren't they?"
Gavroche gags. "I'm going to vomit. This is the grossest dinner ever. I'm going to my room." He stands up and pushes away from the table, walking over to Ereshkigal to give her a kiss on her cheek before turning around and sticking his tongue out at Enjolras. "You see this, moron? This is what we call a platonic kiss." With one last disgusted sniff, he exits the room.
Grantaire and Combeferre soon do the same, the former still snickering and the latter shaking his head, leaving Enjolras alone with Ereshkigal.
The goddess of death places her chin on one hand. "Gavroche is like a brother to me, little one—he is my favorite, yes, but I would no more take him to bed than I would a child."
"Is it because he is so much younger than you?" Enjolras queries in spite of himself. How she chooses her lovers ought not matter to him, but it does.
She smirks. "It's not a matter of age so much as maturity. You're half my age, and I'm still courting you, aren't I?"
He flushes and looks down at his empty plate. "Don't mock me. This isn't a courtship; it's a contest of wills."
She settles back in her seat, a small, mysterious smile on her face. "Oh, little one, all the best courtships are contests of wills."
Later, when she invites him to join her in her chambers, leaning seductively against the doorway to his rooms, he hesitates a few seconds longer than usual before saying no.
Her smile widens before leaving him.
After, for the first time since arriving at her kingdom, he gives in to temptation and touches himself until he comes, that knowing, confident smile imprinted on his closed eyelids and her husky voice lingering in his ears.
About five months into his captivity, Enjolras is helping mediate a conflict between two master craftsmen in one of the villages when the whole crowd suddenly falls to their knees.
"Oh, do get up," a familiar voice says. "I'm only visiting, after all."
The villagers get to their feet and instantly swarm their mistress, exclaiming over how well she looks, touching the hem of her robes reverently, asking after her every need.
Ereshkigal smiles and addresses each of them by name, gracefully bending to pick up a little girl and placing her on her hip as she talks to the child's mother.
She doesn't seem to notice Enjolras at all until he clears his throat, upon which her eyes flick to his before widening.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, running a hand over her hair, which is hanging over her shoulder in a simple braid. Actually, her whole outfit is surprisingly simple: thin sandals, a plain flaxen skirt and breast band, and woven cloth bracelets instead of her usual golden bangles and agate necklaces.
She's fidgeting with one of the bracelets and her gaze keeps darting from him to the villagers.
(If Enjolras didn't know better, he would have thought she was nervous.)
"He's here to mediate between the goldsmith and the jeweler," a woman informs her. "They're arguing about prices again, so he's thinking of inviting all the local craftsmen to simply set the prices throughout the whole region at the next council meeting."
Ereshkigal's brows raise in surprise. "Really? And they would agree to this?"
"Seems so, my Lady," the woman replies, shrugging.
"Hmm," Ereshkigal says, eyeing him speculatively. "Quite the negotiating skills you've got there."
Now it's his turn to fidget. Has he overstepped his boundaries? He was only trying to help.
She sets the little girl down and gestures at him. "Well, carry on. I give you full permission to mediate, so long as my denizens agree and no one comes to any harm."
"I wouldn't do anything if it wasn't in the best interests of the people," he replies.
She raises a brow at him. "Not quite the same as ensuring no one comes to any harm, though, is it?"
He frowns.
"We're well enough, my Lady," the woman interrupts, looking between the two of them anxiously. "We appreciate his help."
"I know, Isura," she says, placing a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. "And I am glad of it."
With one last enigmatic look at Enjolras, she strides through the crowd, apparently making her way to the next village, or so the inhabitants tell him.
Enjolras gazes after her, unsure of what to make of this new side of her.
He soon becomes the established mediator in Erkalla, given a place amongst the Lesser Councils that oversee the villages and towns, though they are still subject to the Great Council, consisting of Combeferre, Grantaire, and the other major gods of the Underworld, which is subject to the decisions of Ereshkigal herself.
Still, it is an unexpected position of power, and he is both grateful for it and wary of Ereshkigal's motives for bestowing it upon him.
Through his place on the Lesser Council, he meets Gilgamesh, He Who Sees the Deep, the legendary former king of Uruk, and the second best-player of the Royal Game in Erkalla.
Or, well, the third, after Enjolras bests him in most of their matches (Gavroche and Grantaire have similarly lost to him, though in fairness, he's lost a few games to them as well—the players of the Underworld are very good).
Gilgamesh throws back his head and laughs after losing the third straight game to him. "Well done, my friend—no wonder my Lady wishes to tumble you. She always did prefer her lovers to be clever, and you've even got that curly hair she likes. Easier to grab in bed," he says, grinning.
Enjolras glances sharply at the once-mortal man. Gilgamesh is blessed with god-like stature, being one-third divine himself, and possesses confidence, charm, and devastatingly good looks. He has warm, dark brown skin, eyes the color of cool, shaded earth, and a blinding white smile.
He also has black, lustrous, and very curly hair.
"You've lain with her?" Enjolras asks, more gruffly than he intended.
Gilgamesh's clever grin widens. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes. It's a little ironic, since I tried so hard to gain immortality and avoid ever meeting her, but…well, there's never been a woman to match Death herself, has there? Not for beauty, not for strength, and certainly not for cunning. Inanna could never hope to hold a candle to her."
"You rejected Inanna, didn't you?" Enjolras says.
"So did you, if the rumors are correct. You've got good taste, then."
Enjolras scoffs. "Hardly. Inanna does little to command respect."
"You won't find me arguing that point with you, as she was responsible for my best friend's death. Still, her sister is nothing like her," Gilgamesh says.
Enjolras narrows his eyes. "Really? They're both ridiculously persistent when it comes to pursuing lovers who aren't interested."
"Are they? Inanna thinks nothing of using force; Ereshkigal would slit her own throat before taking another person's choices away. She's had so little choice herself," Gilgamesh says, a touch wistfully.
"What do you mean?" Enjolras asks.
Gilgamesh sighs. "Do you think she chose to rule the realm of the dead? It was a gift, yes, and one she was honored to accept, but nevertheless it was a gift she couldn't refuse—it would have fallen to her sister otherwise. Even in the days before time, anyone could see that Inanna was a goddess of life, ill-suited to Erkalla.
"And if my Lady has a grievous flaw, it's that she loves her sister too much to ever let her be unhappy. So she took on the mantle, and continues to wear it well. Still, heavy is the head which wears the crown, and She Who Rules Alone knows that better than most."
Gilgamesh nods towards Enjolras's full glass, the wine within untouched. "Do you think she was exempt from the old laws? Do you think she could rule death without knowing what it was like? When you took your mantle, you learned to master plague by undergoing it yourself, did you not?"
Enjolras nods slowly. "Yes. And I walked beside a hundred humans who suffered it, and suffered with them."
Gilgamesh grins again, the expression both sharp and sad. "Ereshkigal suffered every death known to mortals for seven years and seven days. She did not eat, she did not drink, she survived your test for seven times the length you must endure it, and she did it while also learning what it felt like to be beaten, burned, drowned, hung, stoned—every death, my friend.
"Of all the gods, she is the closest to mortals; she understands their agony best, and so too does she understand their joy. She knows each and every soul in her realm by name; she greets them herself when first they enter her kingdom.
"You will never meet another worthier of respect, my friend."
He claps Enjolras on the shoulder before leaving the silent god to his thoughts.
"Did you…?"
Éponine looks up at her guest; it's rare for them to talk when no one else is present. "Yes?"
Enjolras glances at her, then looks away, discomfited. "Did you endure the same test as I when you first became queen?"
Éponine raises her brows in faint surprise. That had been centuries ago, and she can think of no one who would bring it up to Enj—wait. Combeferre had mentioned that he had befriended Gilgamesh. Had her old lover told him of her past?
"Yes," she eventually answers. "I wanted to be able to leave my own realm, and to gain mastery over it I had to prove myself worthy."
She doesn't mention that she'd suffered the tests for seven years, and was tortured daily besides. He had no need to know—
"For seven years?" he persists.
She frowns. "And seven days. Did Gilgamesh tell you this? There's really no call for talking of such things. Every god underwent tests at their coming of age. I was no different."
"But—you suffered death?"
His eyes are looking at her with a strange expression, one that almost looks like pity—
She stands, snarling. "What of it? It doesn't matter now; I endured it. Don't youdare pity me, you arrogant, foolish—"
"Anyone who's suffered so terribly certainly deserves pity," he replies heatedly. "Ereshkigal—"
"Don't call me that! Save your pity for yourself! Those seven years of mortality were nothing to me!"
He frowns. "No wonder the other gods fear you, then, if not even mortality moves you."
She takes her goblet and splashes her wine in his face, then throws it at the wall before striding from the room.
His solemn, compassion-filled blue eyes haunt her even as she leaves.
She avoids him for weeks, unwilling to subject herself to his damned pity.
"What's wrong?" Combeferre asks, a worried frown upon his face.
"Nothing," she growls.
They both know she's lying.
The next time she sees him is six months into his captivity, right when summer ends and autumn begins.
Right when Dumuzi, green-eyed god of spring, consort of Azelma, the shepherd-king called Montparnasse, enters her realm.
And, like always, she greets him in blood-red robes, whip in hand, and summons her whole kingdom to watch how she rewards traitors.
(A betrayal of her sister still counts as a betrayal of herself, in Éponine's heart of hearts.
Not even Azelma's hatred will change that.)
After she's finished with Montparnasse's yearly sentence—and sent him off to be bandaged and then chained in the deepest pits of punishment in Azelma's place for the next six months, and good riddance to the fool—
After that, she meets Enjolras's gaze.
There's no pity in it—not even horror like she was expecting.
Instead, for the first time, there's respect.
(It isn't even grudging.)
"You keep order even though it costs you your sister's hatred," he says, staring at her blood-stained fingers, still wrapped tight around the whip. "Even though you could leave his punishment to others and claim false mercy for yourself, you deal out his sentence with your own two hands."
"Who else would I leave it to?" she asks wearily. This day always leaves her tired.
"Exactly," Enjolras says. He gives her another nod of respect before walking away.
She doesn't know what to make of him, this godling who gazes at her with understanding and acceptance instead of fear, even after seeing her at her worst—this boy who stirs something in her heart that she cannot name each and every time he looks at her with his serious eyes.
She fears few things, but she's beginning to fear his effect on her.
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