Faces… If there is one thing upon which Gilgamesh would wager his life, is that life is all about faces…

His own face now burns with a permanent redness; whether of anger or something deeper, he does not know. But it burns… and gets hotter with every passing encounter with the faces that fight to decry and destroy what he has achieved as king… and before that, if they would gaze down from their indifferent heights and invest in understanding his noble life.

Once more, he clutches the jewel at his throat: the amulet taken from Enkidu’s dead body in the forest, the jewel bestowed on his lost brother by Ninsum, Gilgamesh’s half-god, half human mother.

He is becoming thin, he can feel it. There has been little sustenance of any nature in the past few days. Enkidu’s death has robbed him of all appetite. All he can do is…