The Genesis of Eridu, Canto II: The Roles of The Gods.

In the quiet dawn of the First Day,
When the waters had parted and the clay of the world lay wet,
The Anunnaki stood, shimmering in the new light,
Their forms immense, their power a hum without a purpose.
The cosmos was a loom, yet no thread had been thrown;
A tablet of clay, yet no stylus had made its mark.

Then An, the Sky Father, from his celestial throne,
Whose thought was the boundary of the heavens, spoke.
His voice was not a sound, but the setting of a great weight,
The giving of law to that which had no law.

"Let there be order," An ordained, and his gaze fell first
Upon Enlil, the Lord of the Open, the violent breath.
"To you, my son, I bestow the space between the sky and the earth.
Yours is the Wind, the Word, the command that rushes forth.
Upon your chest I place the Tablet of Destinies,
So that what you speak may become the fate of all.
You shall be the Will of the Pantheon, the enforcer of the Decree.
Rule the air, the storm, the breath of life and the cry of despair."
And the crown was placed upon Enlil's brow, a gift of power,
A sovereignty granted, not yet earned.

An’s gaze then turned, and softened as it fell
Upon Enki, the clever-handed, the Lord of the Sweet Waters.
"To you, my son, I decree the domain of the Abzu,
The deep waters of wisdom from which all life is drawn.
Yours is the foundation of the land, the cunning of the mind.
You shall hold the measure and the craft, the pattern in the clay.
Let others command the storm; you shall devise the canal.
Let others pronounce the doom; you shall unravel the riddle.
Yours is the sacred task of Creation, of shaping what is to be."
And Enki bowed, his mind already turning,
Fathoming the depths he now was tasked to rule.

Then An looked upon a daughter, grave and solemn, Ereshkigal.
And in his voice was a tremor of necessity, and of sorrow.
"To you I give the kingdom that none shall seek, but all must find.
Yours is the Kur, the Great Below, the Land of No Return.
You shall be the keeper of the silent, the sovereign of the dust.
You shall hold the memory of all that lives and is consumed by time.
Let your judgment be absolute, your gates unyielding,
For yours is the final law, the darkness that balances the light."
And Ereshkigal turned her face from the light of the new day,
And went down to her kingdom, to rule in solemn majesty.

Then An’s voice carved the duties for the children of the sky:
To Nanna, the crescent-horned, he gave the silver light of the moon,
To be the Shepherd of the Stars, the measure of the months and the tides.
To Utu, his brother, he gave the golden disk of the sun,
To be the Judge of the World, to part the veil of night with truth,
And to see all that was done in the light of his brilliant gaze.

And so the lots were cast, the great roles given, the cosmos set in frame.
But one stood watching, the youngest of the great,
Inanna, her eyes holding a star’s new fire.
To her no kingdom was yet given, no cosmic task assigned.
She was not the earth, nor the sky, nor the deep.
She held no tablet, no scepter, no key to the world below.
She was a will not yet inscribed, an ambition without a throne.
And she watched the order of An take hold,
And in the silence of her unassigned heart, a great purpose began to grow.

The gods went to their new domains, their great work begun.
Enlil’s voice was heard in the roar of the first storm.
Ereshkigal’s silence deepened the roots of the mountains.
But Inanna stood upon the banks of the new world, a harp unstrung.
Her hands were empty. Her feet stood on soil that was not her own.
Her gaze fell upon the sky, the domain of An, her great-father.
It was not hers.
Her gaze fell upon the earth, the charge of Enlil, her father.
It was not hers.
She looked to the sun and moon, to the brothers Utu and Nanna.
Their paths were set, their light a constant duty.
A cold clarity bloomed in her breast, sharp as obsidian.
She, the daughter of the moon, the first light of the evening, was a void.

With a will that bent the reeds before her, she turned.
Her path was not to the heavens, nor across the wide earth,
But down, down to the place of beginnings, to the Abzu’s quiet door.
She went to the court of Enki, the wise and knowing one,
And found him contemplating the flow of the waters,
Reading the future in the swirl of the silt and the stone.

He saw her fire before she spoke, her anger a heat in his cool domain.
"Grandfather," her voice was a string pulled taut, "You who shaped the world,
You who stood beside An as the lots were cast. Have you forgotten me?
To Enlil, the winds and the fates. To Ereshkigal, the final dust.
To the brothers, the lights of the sky. To you, the wisdom of the deep.
Am I to be nothing? Was I fashioned only to be a witness
To the great works of others? Was no purpose carved for me?"

Enki looked up, and in his ancient eyes was not pity, but a profound respect.
A knowing smile touched his lips. "Brave child, you see truly.
But you see the shape of the vessel, and not the wine it is meant to hold.
Listen. The others have been given domains. And a domain is a boundary.
Enlil cannot leave his storms. Ereshkigal cannot rise from her dark throne.
Their power is a great, heavy rock, fixed in the cosmos. It is static.
You, child, were given no domain because a cage would not hold you.
You were given no fixed purpose because your purpose is to become."

He rose and walked the watery floors of his court, his voice a low hum.
"The others cannot have what you possess in your very core.
Enlil was handed a crown; he did not forge it. Ereshkigal was given a kingdom; she did not conquer it.
You have been given the two things that shape reality,
The two powers that the fixed gods can no longer wield:
Ambition and Agency.
Theirs is the power of Being. Yours is the power of Doing.
Theirs is the mountain. You are the river that carves the canyon.
Theirs is the law. You are the will that challenges it.
You are creation and destruction in one, the potential for anything you have the strength to seize.
That is your nature. That is your divine decree."

Inanna stood in silence, the fire in her heart finding its true fuel.
Her anger was not gone, but it was transformed, from a burning rage
Into the focused heat of a smith’s forge.

"Then I am to take what is mine?" she asked, her voice low.
"You are to make it yours," Enki corrected gently. "And every true queen needs a key before she can conquer a kingdom."

He went to a great chest of cedar, and from it he drew not a weapon,
Nor a crown, nor a tablet of great law.
He drew forth a single, small clay cylinder, cool to the touch.
It was inscribed with a single wedge, the mark of a beginning.
"The other gods hold the Mes, the hundred decrees of the world.
But I grant you the one that precedes them all. The Me of the Great Storehouse.
It is the concept of the container. The knowledge of the unopened door.
The others hold their treasures. This is the key to the lock.
With this, you will understand how to claim the rest.
The path is yours to walk, Inanna. Let us see what you will build."

And he placed the Me in her hand. It was not heavy, but in it she felt the weight of all possibility.