In Uruk’s mud-brick sprawl, Thoth found Gilgamesh, his frame a mountain of muscle, his eyes weary from endless quests. Enkidu, wild and loyal, sat beside him, their table strewn with clay cups and spilled beer.

“What’s that green stone?” Gilgamesh asked, his voice rough with curiosity.

“Immortality,” Thoth said, meeting his gaze. “A gift for the worthy.”
Gilgamesh stood, towering. “Prove it.”
They wrestled, a clash of titans—sweat and grunts under a blazing sun. Enkidu joined, and the struggle shifted, softening into a night of shared heat and murmured secrets, the tablet a silent witness. Thoth spoke of eternity, of stars beyond the Euphrates. But Enlil, wrathful and unseen, unleashed the flood—waters roaring, swallowing Uruk. Thoth grabbed the tablet and leapt to higher ground, Gilgamesh’s anguished cry lost in the deluge.

“You promised!” Gilgamesh shouted, clinging to a palm.

“I never lie,” Thoth called back, vanishing into the storm. “But I don’t control the gods.”