The original ‘little sister not related by blood’.
Her name is mentioned only twice in that ever popular Golden King’s tale, and her existence as a Heroic Spirit is closer to that of a certain bird-slashing swordsman. Regardless, the fact remains that she is recorded in the Throne of Heroes, even if her name has been dismissed by humanity, forever occluded in the shadow of far greater heroes from ancient Mesopotamia.
From the very beginning, the girl Peshtur was blessed with good fortune. She was born a commoner, but she carried an immense potential for magic. So much so, in fact, that her normal speech already so carried so much latent power that it affected the world around her outside of her will. What should have been ordinary words already carried the weight of the divine, for she was loved by the gods and blessed by them since the very moment she came to exist. She was blessed with power, wit and unparalleled beauty. In return, her life would belong to the same gods who blessed her existence. She was separated from her birth parents at the tender age of six. It was the Holy Cow, goddess Ninsun herself, who took the young girl and raised her as a daughter of her own, educating her in the words of the gods and the priestly ways. Allowed to reside in the King’s palace until her adoptive mother deemed her ready to assume the role of priestess, Peshtur’s childhood would be filled with sights of wondrous treasures, countless faces and ceaseless revelry. Some of her fondest memories are of playing commoners’ games with the King’s concubines and that most mysterious, delightful and amazing man—the only one the King acknowledged as his friend.
The beautiful girl became a beautiful woman. Ninsun taught her how to temper her power and how to open her mouth without transmuting the world around her. She was a grateful young woman, aware of her blessings and of whom she had to thank for them. She was a devout servant of the deities, most unlike her brother by adoption, who turned his back to them.
It would be a lie to say they were close, Peshtur and Gilgamesh. The Golden King was blind to anything but his own greatness. Deep in her heart, she believed Gilgamesh did not even remember the faces of those he interacted with, except for Enkidu. While she strived to be somebody who could proudly announce herself as the great Gilgamesh’s little sister, the King himself never really recognized her as such or treated her as family. But Peshtur, like everybody in his kingdom, never questioned the King. If he would not acknowledge her, it only meant she was not worth his attention. But unlike the common citizen who simply accepted his due place in the grand scheme of things, the little priestess ached for recognition. Despite all her talent and power, her ‘brother’s’ dismissal was enough to erode her confidence all the way to the bottom, but she made up for it with boundless dedication.
It was surprising when Ninsun, instead of sending her to the larger, more important Temple of Inanna in Uruk, appointed her to the smaller Temple of An. Regardless, young Peshtur, after offering her maidenhood to the gods in the holiest ritual of sacred intercourse, ensured that her Temple of An would never be found lacking. That would have been the end of her tale; one of a certainly talented young priestess who dedicated her life to the gods, but of little importance in the grand scheme of things nonetheless.
But then the Bull of Heaven fell upon the lands with righteous fury.
Its power was immeasurable. Every single of its steps unleashed tremendous earthquakes, and its roar turned forests into desert. The Walls of Uruk were like sand before his wrath. Only the great temples, under the aegis of the priests favored by the gods, did not crumble and collapse under his might. Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought and proved themselves even mightier. However, Gugalanna was not a spirit that could simply be killed. Protected by the blessing of his bride, mighty and most arcane Ereshkigal, Gugalanna would rise unblemished no matter how many times Gilgamesh’s weapons struck him down. It seemed a hopeless battle, for it appeared no worldly power could destroy the Bull of Heaven for good.
Peshtur, meanwhile, prayed alone in her temple. She had been told to do almost mockingly by her brother, who thought her not worthy of standing in battle by his side. But she still wished for his safety, and Enkidu’s, and that of the realm they called home. So she prayed, hoping for an answer from the very same gods who had sent that calamity to their lands. And an answer came indeed, from the God of Heaven and Consort of Spirits. Not waiting for permission or even bothering to announce her intent, Peshtur departed from the city with utmost haste, as fast as her spells allowed. It was a short trip, but nonetheless dangerous—Gugalanna’s descent had weakened the barrier separating the material realm from Ereshkigal’s underworld, and all sorts of foul spirits had been roused by the disturbance.
No tablet depicts the battles Peshtur fought. No epic narrates the scope of her efforts: of the trials set upon her by An and Erehskigal; of the temptation of the dark, yet beautiful maid, Ki-sikil-lil-la-ke; of her successfully fending off Namtar, who struck her with insults and five dozen poxes; of the terrible, hellish subterranean realm where the supreme tool forged at the eve of Creation resided, and the Beast of Gaia which rested by its side. But the gods watched and remembered, and through them, the universe itself.
When she returned, she presented her King with a weapon like no other; a weapon only the greatest among the great could wield. It looked like a sword, but it could not be one, for it was an object from a time before time; before even the very concept of ‘sword’ was conceived. If a power from this world could not destroy Gugalanna, perhaps an otherworldly weapon could do what the King’s countless treasures could not.
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That was the tale of Peshtur,
išib-Priestess of An, and the Sword of Rupture which eventually carried the name of An’s son.