The air in the healer's hut was thick with the scent of drying thyme, myrrh, and desperation. Ninsun crushed a paste of willow bark and honey in a clay mortar, her movements precise despite the exhaustion that clung to her like a shroud. Outside, the wind whipped dust against the mud-brick walls. The drought was in its second year, and sickness walked hand-in-hand with hunger.
Her husband, Dagan, stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the harsh light. He was not looking at her, but at the line of ailing villagers waiting in the sun-scorched square.
"The hunting party returns with nothing but stories of empty plains," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The river is a half-day's brutal march now. To descend into the wadi, fight for a turn at the muddy seep, and climb back with a full waterskin… it steals the entire sun from the sky. The chieftain has spoken. A group must go to the salt marshes, to trade for grain with the lagoon people. It is a moon's journey, through lands claimed by the desert clans."
Ninsun's hands stilled. The salt marshes. A journey of last resort. She looked at him, truly looked, and saw the grim resolve in his eyes. He was not asking for permission. He was saying goodbye.
She stood, wiping her hands on her dress, and went to him. She placed a small, clay amulet—a charm for safe passage—into his calloused palm. "The marsh fevers are treacherous. Boil all water. Use the wormwood I gave you."
He closed his fingers over the amulet, his hand enveloping hers. His gaze dropped to the swell of her belly. The fear in his eyes was a living thing. He was leaving his wife and unborn child in a dying village, a place where the single most important task of the day was a grueling pilgrimage for a few sips of water.
"They will protect you," he murmured, a statement of hope, not fact. "Your hands are worth more than any hunter's spear. They know this."
He leaned forward, his forehead touching hers in a gesture of profound intimacy and sorrow. "He will be strong," Dagan whispered, a prayer to the spirits of the earth and the child she carried. "A blessing in this hard time. We will call him Enki. For the sweet waters. For life."
Ninsun listened to the silence he left behind, broken only by the buzz of flies. She touched her stomach where his hand had been. "Enki," she repeated, a fragile plea to the empty air.