The moon hung low over the sprawling city of Ur, its pale light shimmering across the Euphrates River as reeds swayed gently in the cool breeze. In the heart of the city, amidst labyrinthine alleys carved from mud-brick buildings, a man named Ishkandar strode purposefully. Ishkandar was tall, his shoulders broad from years of carrying grain to the temple granaries. His sun-kissed skin bore the marks of a laborer, his hands calloused, his arms roped with hard-earned muscle. His dark eyes burned with quiet intensity, framed by thick brows that furrowed when deep in thought. Around his neck, he wore a simple cord holding a clay amulet, engraved with a protective symbol of the goddess Inanna. Tonight, however, his devotion to the gods would be tested unlike ever before.
The Call to Action
Word had spread through Ur of a mysterious illness descending upon the city like a shadow from the underworld. Merchants stumbled through the market square, muttering of fever dreams and visions of Ereshkigal, the goddess of death, beckoning them into the netherworld. Even the priests of Enki, known for their wisdom, were at a loss. With each passing day, the number of the afflicted grew, and panic rippled through the populace.
Ishkandar's wife, Niram-Sin, was among the first to fall ill. A potter of extraordinary skill, she was the light of his life, her laughter as melodious as flutes during the festivals of Ishtar. But now, she lay cold and pale, her breaths shallow, her once nimble fingers unable to shape the clay she so loved. When the high priest of Eanna proclaimed that no mortal could halt Ereshkigal's wrath, Ishkandar refused to accept it. Love and desperation conspired within him, compelling him to embark on a journey to the Great Ziggurat to seek guidance from the gods themselves.
The Descent
Enveloped in prayer and incense smoke, Ishkandar ascended the many levels of the ziggurat, each step bringing him closer to the celestial realm—or so he hoped. At its summit, beneath a canopy of stars, an ancient priestess awaited him, her silver hair braided and adorned with amulets of lapis lazuli. "Why do you climb so high, mortal?" she asked, her voice ancient as drifting sand.
“To save my wife,” Ishkandar replied, his fists clenched. “Tell me how I may plead with the gods to spare her.”
She studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward a clay tablet bearing inscriptions of arcane script. "The gods will not intervene. Yet there is one way—a perilous descent into the underworld to face Ereshkigal herself. Few return, and none unscarred."
Before fear could root him, Ishkandar nodded. The priestess guided him through the rites, her chants calling upon Inanna, the goddess who once descended to that dark realm and returned. By morning, Ishkandar stood before the gaping maw of the underworld’s entrance, a cavern that exhaled wisps of sulphurous vapors. With naught but a clay lantern in hand, he stepped inside.
The Trials of the Underworld
The underworld was not a place of fire and brimstone, as the tellers of epics sometimes claimed, but a cold, lightless expanse. Ishkandar navigated through bone-chilling mist and rivers that whispered the names of the dead. At every threshold, gatekeepers barred his path, demanding tributes. His bronze dagger, the amulet his mother had given him as a boy, the very sandals on his feet—all were surrendered to pass deeper into the abyss.
At last, Ishkandar found himself in the shadow of Ereshkigal’s palace, its black walls studded with obsidian and etched with runes of dominion. The goddess of death was seated upon her throne, a towering figure with skin like alabaster and eyes like bottomless voids. Her hair flowed like an ink spill, and her lips were as red as blood spilled upon sand.
“Who dares disturb my domain?” she intoned, her voice resonating as if from the depths of a great chasm.
Kneeling, Ishkandar spoke clearly. “I am Ishkandar of Ur. My wife has succumbed to the illness you’ve unleashed. I beg you, grant her life and take me in her stead.”
The Bargain
Ereshkigal’s laughter echoed cruelly through the chamber. “You would bargain your soul for hers? Do you know what you ask?”
“I know only that I cannot live without her,” he replied, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.
The goddess leaned forward, her presence as oppressive as a collapsing star. “Very well. I shall grant her life. But in return, you must complete a task—the greatest test of mortal resolve. Take this urn—” she gestured, and a black clay vessel appeared at his feet, “—fill it with the light of the living sun, and return it to me. Should you fail, both your souls shall remain mine for eternity.”
With no other choice, Ishkandar took the urn and began his trek back through the underworld, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the impossible task.
The Return
Re-emerging into the mortal realm, Ishkandar found the city of Ur shrouded in despair. The streets were empty save for the wails of the dying. Holding the urn close, he climbed the watchtower of the city’s walls and waited for dawn. As the first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon, he held the urn aloft, and something extraordinary happened. The vessel began to glow, its surface shimmering as it absorbed the sunlight. But the task was not yet complete. The urn grew heavier with each passing moment, its glow pulsating as if alive, and Ishkandar struggled to keep his footing.
With the urn now as weighty as a cart of grain, he raced back to the underworld, sweat dripping from his brow, his arms trembling under the burden. He passed the thresholds once again, leaving behind all but his determination.
The Final Judgment
At last, he stood before Ereshkigal, presenting the urn filled with the stolen sunlight. The goddess regarded it silently before nodding, a faint smile curling her lips. “You have done what even the strongest of men could not. Your wife shall live, and you, Ishkandar, may depart.”
But as he turned to leave, Ereshkigal’s voice stopped him. “Know this: life and death are bound together like threads in a tapestry. By saving her, you have altered the pattern. Be wary, mortal, of what the fates might now weave.”
The Return to Ur
Ishkandar emerged from the underworld to find Ur awash in golden light. The mysterious illness was gone, the markets bustling once more. In their small home near the potter’s kiln, Niram-Sin awaited him, her cheeks flush with health and her hands already shaping clay once more. She embraced him with tears in her eyes, unaware of the price he had paid.
But as Ishkandar held her, he felt the faintest shadow pass over his heart, a chill that whispered of debts yet unpaid. He dismissed it—for now, he had his wife, and that was enough. Yet deep down, he knew Ereshkigal’s warning would linger like the scent of incense long after the flame had gone out.
And so, the man who defied death returned home, forever changed but forever bound by love.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Scientists Reveal the TRUE Historical Face of Santa Claus for the First Time in Almost 1,700 Years
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