The goddess known as Aruru stared, utterly stunned by the unfolding scene. As the divine artisan entrusted by the pantheon to sculpt Enkidu's final form, she was a Mother Goddess of Mesopotamia, a being whose very domain was creation, life, and the granting of suitable forms to that life.
For days, she had poured her divine will into the primordial clay, attempting to coax it into a perfect vessel. Yet, no matter what technique or inspiration she applied, the divine mud, while possessing a nascent life consciousness, remained stubbornly unresponsive. It was this very creative block that had plagued her, leading to the indirect suffering at Uruk's borders.
But now, something inexplicable had happened. What she, a goddess of creation, could not achieve, a mere, inexplicably appearing mortal had accomplished with a single, crude gesture. The previously inert mud had surged to life, not only blocking her path but also moving with an almost familial affinity to land directly before Rowe.
After the initial shock subsided, Aruru's divine perception focused on Rowe, and she instantly understood the reason.
"The Key of the Heavens...?" she murmured, her emerald eyes widening in realization.
Hearing her words, the pieces clicked into place for Rowe as well. Gilgamesh was the 'Wedge of Heaven,' the anchor of the connection between gods and men. Enkidu, created to restrain and guide the King, was the 'Chains of Heaven.' These two were intrinsically linked. And coincidentally—or perhaps by divine design—Rowe had been given the 'Key of the Heavens' by the temple priests before his departure.
A lock and its key share an inseparable, fundamental bond. The still-forming Enkidu, lacking higher wisdom but brimming with primal instinct, was naturally and powerfully drawn to this resonant connection.
Understanding the cause, Rowe brought a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples in profound exasperation. He had a sinking feeling... that he had messed things up yet again.
Holding onto one last, desperate sliver of hope, he looked toward the Mother Goddess, who remained rooted to the spot. What he received in return was not anger, but an enigmatic, knowing smile.
In that moment, a series of divine deductions unfolded within Aruru's mind. She was a goddess; of course she knew the significance of the Key of the Heavens. It was a divine instrument, recognized and bestowed by the heavenly pantheon itself. How could a mortal recognized in such a way genuinely show disrespect to a god?
Therefore, his previous provocative action could not have been aimed at her. It was a feint! His true target was the divine clay all along! He had feigned disdain to deliberately provoke a reaction from the nascent life.
And his plan had worked flawlessly. The divine clay, bound by its nature to its 'key,' was bound to react. Being disliked by a being it felt intrinsically close to was something the innocent, nascent 'Chains of Heaven' would never allow.
To prevent this rejection, to earn approval, it would instinctively begin to adapt its form, to 'become human'—and not just any human, but one perfectly aligned with the essence of the person it felt connected to, a form perfectly capable of bearing its immense power.
"A person recognized and instrumental to the gods..." Aruru mused aloud, her expression shifting to one of profound relief and approval.
"It seems I have misunderstood your intentions. Your methods are unorthodox, but your dedication is worthy of praise..."
"???"
Rowe stared blankly. He understood every word individually, but when strung together in that sentence, they made no sense to him. What was she talking about?
"Then, from this moment forward, I entrust that child to your care!" Aruru declared. With a graceful flick of her long, dark hair, she smiled, her crimson lips curving upwards.
She stretched her full and shapely form under the warm sunlight, and in a shimmering cascade of milky white light, she transformed into a brilliant streak ascending into the heavens, vanishing from the mortal plane.
Rowe had no time to stop her, to correct her catastrophic misunderstanding. He could only watch, dumbfounded, as the divine figure disappeared from the clearing, leaving behind only the scorched earth as a testament to her presence, the surrounding greenery standing in stark contrast. The deity had departed, but her lingering divine power kept the demonic beasts prostrate and silent.
Rowe let out a long, weary sigh. He knew with absolute certainty that the goddess had completely misinterpreted everything. She had taken his genuine, death-seeking sarcasm and twisted it into a narrative of benevolent, selfless sacrifice. And now, as a result, she had dumped her unfinished divine weapon squarely into his lap.
Why does it always end up like this? he thought, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
Just then, a clear, chiming sound, like a bell formed from the essence of life itself, pulled Rowe from his spiraling thoughts. His attention snapped forward.
The dark, god-made clay that had settled before him was undergoing a profound metamorphosis.
Just as the departing Goddess Aruru had predicted, Rowe's momentary flash of genuine disdain had provoked an intense, primal need for approval within the nascent being. In its simple, instinct-driven consciousness, it reached out, sensing the one it was bound to. It sought a template, a form that would please its 'key,' and in doing so, it brushed against the periphery of Rowe's own mind, latching onto a specific, deeply ingrained image.
The dark clay began to solidify in an instant, its murky, formless color shedding away like a discarded cocoon. Bathed in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy, its surface took on a smooth, almost luminous ivory texture. It was a breathtaking process, as if an invisible, divine sculptor was carving a masterpiece directly from the air. First, the elegant lines of slender arms and legs emerged, then the graceful shape of a head, features resolving from the smooth surface with impossible precision.
Rowe's eyes widened, a mixture of awe and sheer disbelief holding him captive. He was a firsthand witness to the birth of a legend.
"Hmm…" A final, soft sigh escaped from newly formed lips, full and crimson with vibrant life.
The 'human' formed from clay opened its eyes.
Just like the 'Enkidu' from Rowe's memories, it possessed a stunning, ethereal beauty. Its hair was a lush, vibrant emerald green, as deep and alive as the forest surrounding them. The face, partially veiled by these flowing strands, was delicately beautiful, with features of exquisite, sculpted elegance. Its eyes, the same vibrant green, were pools of pure, untainted life and curiosity. A fair, slender neck led to a torso with soft, graceful contours, where a slight, gentle undulation was visible at its chest.
Enkidu's arms were spread slightly, its limbs appearing slender yet hinting at latent strength. Its form tapered to a narrow waist before curving out again at the hips and thighs, which held a distinct, feminine fullness. Its posture was naturally graceful, almost demure.
Everything was exactly as Rowe had always pictured the legendary weapon.
The only difference… was perhaps that these feminine characteristics were even more pronounced than in his mental image?
Rowe fell into deep thought, a dawning realization creeping over him. He had to admit that in his mind, shaped by the lore of his original world, the Enkidu of the Type-Moon universe had always occupied a distinctly androgynous, leaning-feminine space.
Even though a god-made weapon, by its very nature, was an existence without true gender, and Enkidu, with its shapeshifting abilities, could assume any appearance it wished, it seemed his subconscious bias had provided the blueprint. It was not so strange, then, that Enkidu's initial, most fundamental form had crystallized into the distinctly feminine appearance now standing before him.
"Ya ya ya?"
A soft, babbling sound, innocent and questioning, escaped from those moist, crimson lips. Enkidu slightly spread its arms, its body swaying gently as it found its balance on a branch perilously close to Rowe's. Its delicate face was turned towards him, its emerald eyes wide and shining with a pure, unadulterated longing for closeness. It was a desire for intimacy, for connection with the one it sensed as its other half.
It was in that moment that a chilling, historical parallel clicked into place within Rowe's mind, and he finally realized the source of the deeply strange feeling coiling in his gut.
He remembered the epic. The ancient texts recording the deeds of the Hero King Gilgamesh spoke of Enkidu's transformation. It was born in a secluded, ancient forest, initially in an ignorant, undefined state—a wild thing.
Until one day, a harlot—a sacred temple prostitute, a woman dedicated to the service of the goddess Ishtar—was guided into the forest by a hunter. Enkidu, in its purity, was drawn to her. They spent seven days and seven nights together, and through that intimate, physical union, Enkidu gained wisdom, understanding, and a sense of self. From that moment on, it walked upon the earth in a beautiful, human form, said to be modeled after that very woman.
But now, the variables had changed. Enkidu had transformed, but there was no harlot in this forest. The only being present with a direct, tangible connection to the gods, recognized by the Key of the Heavens… was Rowe himself.
The horrifying implication settled over him like a shroud.
In other words—
"I became the harlot… No, given the circumstances, it should be 'Sacred Man'?"
The title felt absurd and terrifying on his tongue. He pondered the ramifications, but his mind, for once, offered no clear answer, only a swirling vortex of shock and disbelief.
He stood utterly stunned, completely and profoundly gobsmacked by the bizarre turn his quest for death had taken.
He had not only midwifed a legend but had seemingly been written into its foundational myth in the most unexpected of roles.