The years passed like drifting clouds, each one carrying whispers of a past the child could not remember. In the bustling city of Uruk, a boy grew in the alleys and market stalls, unnamed by the world but marked by the heavens.
They called him Bilgames — a hidden name given in secret by a mother long gone and spoken only by the loyal Azi, who raised him as her own. Azi, the poor washerwoman, raised him as her own. She was a stern yet kind woman with rough hands and a heavy heart. Her home was modest, perched at the edge of the river where fishermen's boats clattered against the docks. To the world, Bilgames was just another orphan, no different from the beggars who lined the market streets. But within him, the blood of gods and kings stirred.
By day, Gilga worked as a stable boy, tending to the animals of the temple and carrying water for the priests. By night, he slept beneath the tattered cloth of Azi's roof, the stars peering down at him like silent witnesses.
He was taller than the other boys, with shoulders broader than his years should have allowed and a voice deep and heavy, even as a child. Yet instead of admiration, it earned him scorn.
"Beast-boy," they called him.
"Giant's mistake!"
The boys of Uruk mocked his oversized frame, his unkempt clothes, and his poor guardian. His school years were marked by loneliness and bruises. The sons of merchants and soldiers, even the temple acolytes, took pleasure in humiliating him. Every jeer cut deeper than the last, carving cracks into his spirit.
At night, Bilgames would sit by the river, his reflection rippling in the water. "Why was I made this way?" he asked the stars. "Why do they hate me?"
He never knew his mother's face, only a woman from his earliest memories — a veiled figure who would come in the dead of night, leaving offerings of fruit and polished stones. A beggar woman, the others said. Harmless. No one knew it was Ninsun, who, under the cover of darkness, watched over her child from afar, though she dared not speak his name.
And in the shadows, Shamash too seldom kept vigil, often taking the form of a wandering merchant or weary traveler, watching the boy's every step. The child bore signs of his bloodline even then — his strength uncanny, his temper fierce, his eyes gleaming with a light that spoke of forgotten stars. But yet on this night, the boy looked troubled, and for the first time since, Shamash would make an appearance.
On this evening, when the sky burned with a crimson sunset, an old man approached. His robes were plain, but his eyes gleamed with the light of distant suns.
"Boy, why do you weep?" the old man asked.
Bilgames wiped his face. "They mock me. They say I am a beast. I wish I were dead."
The man knelt beside him. "Never wish for death, child of gods. The world fears what it does not understand. But you were born to command it."
Bilgames frowned. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "A friend, that is aware of the constant bullying. I could teach you to fight like a god."
Bilgames' eyes widened. "A god?"
"Indeed. And I have watched you long enough, you have what it takes. Come with me."
And so began years of secret tutelage. By daylight, Bilgames fetched water and scrubbed floors. By night, Shamash taught him the art of swordplay, wrestling, and archery. He taught him the secrets of war — how to read an enemy's stance, how to strike with precision, how to master his fear.
"Strength is not in muscle alone," Shamash told him. "It lies in will. In knowing when to wield your power, and when to hold it back."
Under the god's guidance, Bilgames transformed. The clumsy, awkward boy became a fighter.
When he was sixteen, the bullies struck again — six of them, now hardened and cruel, sons of nobles and soldiers. Led by Tammuz, cousin to the Prince of Ur, they ambushed Bilgames near the temple grounds.
But this time, Bilgames did not cower.
One by one, he felled them. A cracked jaw. A broken rib. A dislocated arm. Six young men lay groaning in the dust while Bilgames stood above them, chest heaving.
Tammuz, seeing the scene, couldn't believe his eyes, just a few months ago- they had beaten this boy to a bloody pulp, today he could taken them on all on his own. If he didn't see it with his own eyes, he couldn't believe.
"Are you going to make your move?" Bilgames asked, turning his attention to the last man standing against him.
"Mhm, don't be so cocky, I'll teach you a lesson."
Tammyz clenched his fists and rushed towards Bilgames with quickened steps, throwing a roundhouse punch.
Bilgames stepped to his right, grabbing his arm, throwing his weight above his shoulder. Tammuz body crashed to the ground with a thud.
As soon as Tammuz rose, he felt a knee struck his groin, an uppercut lifted him clean off his feet before he was grabbed in mid-air and slammed to the ground with enormous force.
"What?" Bilgames was stunned by his own moves, his speed and strength.
"Whats going on?" he wondered before he turned and ran home.
Tammuz, bloodied and humiliated, fled to the Prince.
As the sun bled into the horizon and the streets emptied, Gilga sat at the edge of the river, tossing stones into the water.
Azi approached, her hands calloused from labor.
"You're troubled, boy." She said, sitting beside him.
He stared at the water's dark surface. "I… feel it, Mother. There's a weight in my chest. Like… like something's pulling me. And when I dream… it's of walls too high to climb, of lions, and of a voice calling my name though I never remember it when I wake."
Azi sighed. "Some spirits are born marked by the gods, child. Perhaps you are one."
He turned to her, frustration tightening his jaw. "Something happened today, mother?"
"Is that the reason you didn't come home this evening?" Azi asked.
"I had a confrontation with the bullies today, mother. For some reason, I was filled with so much anger and power that I fought back and I was able to beat them all."
"What?" Azi was stunned, "didn't I tell you not to fight and cause trouble in this city? If these people find out who you are?"
"Who I am? What do you mean, Mother?" Bilgames was surprised.
Before she could answer, a figure emerged from the gloom — an old man, his robes travel-worn, eyes gleaming with hidden wisdom.
"Because, boy," the man said, voice like gravel smoothed by water, "you are not like them. You are forged of storm and flame. A king's seed and a goddess's blood."
Azi stiffened. "You shouldn't be here, Shamash."
The old man smiled faintly. "You cannot hide him forever."
Bilgames rose to his feet. "Mother, you know him?"
Azi sighed.
The man's gaze softened. "I'm a friend. Once to your father… now to you."
Gilga frowned. "I have no father."
Azi touched his arm. "Enough. Go home, Bil."
But the boy would not move.
"Who is he, how do you know each other?" Gilga asked.
"Bilgames, your real name is Gilgamesh. You're the son of the King Banda and the only surviving heir. Your father was a great King."
The old man's expression turned somber. "A king… slain by gods. And your mother… a goddess who sacrificed her crown to save you. Now, Gilgamesh, you must face Dumuzid, the King of Uruk and avenge your father. Not only shall you take the throne, but from Dumuzid, you must find out the name of the god that murdered your father."
Gilga's heart pounded in his ears. "Why? Why me?"
"Because there is a prophecy, boy. A fate that belongs to you alone. One day you will stand against gods and kings alike. You will hold the four corners of the earth in your grasp."
Gilga staggered back before walking away. "You're mad."
"It's your destiny kid, and it starts now!"