"You let me die once," Enkidu continued, his voice now soft and intimate and more terrible than any roar. "You let the gods take me while you stood helpless, watching like a child who had lost his favorite toy. And now you think pretty words and tears can undo what your weakness caused?"
The pressure increased until Gilgamesh felt something crack in his chest—not ribs this time, but something deeper, something that had to do with the will to continue fighting. His vision began to gray at the edges as his lungs fought for air that wouldn't come.
But in that moment of ultimate darkness, when defeat seemed not just possible but inevitable, Gilgamesh's hand found the grip of his axe where it had fallen beside him. The familiar weight of it reminded him of something more important than victory or defeat.
This was not about winning a battle. This was about saving a soul.
