Gilgamesh found himself lying in the midst of tall grass.
There were dark shadows encircling his eyes that seemed to linger on his face like a bad omen, and the air around him was feeble, as though it lost all its enthusiasm when it got too close to him.
His eyes widened for the split second that it took him to wake up, then they narrowed as all of his memories resurged.
Gilgamesh remembered everything; even the memories inserted into him by his insertion onto The Scripture, upon his arrival in the Library.
He knew the things he should know- perhaps as decreed by God- and everything else from his previous lives.
Despair filled him as he saw the sky through the slowly bobbing blades of grass, and he knew that he had taken yet another step in a direction he did not wish to go.
Clutching Excaliburs hilt, which was in horrible shape much like the rest of the sword, Gilgamesh dragged it across his neck as if to complete the action he had attempted before God sent him away.
As he did so, he recalled her parting words to him. Even as his neck opened and revealed the bloody layers beneath it, he heard her voice echoing in his mind, grating away his calm.
'You... will never die!"
It was like she was still speaking in his head; he could not stop hearing her voice.
Her amused, cold voice. Paired with the image of her body that he could see- a blank canvas- he felt more and more that she was entirely empty. Incapable of feeling anything for anyone that she created.
She was a horrible God.
As he realized he was becoming lost in thought, he remembered that he had split open his throat.
There was no bleeding, despite the fact that blood clearly still ran through his body judging by the sight of exposed blood vessels and blood-soaked tissue.
There was no pain either, though he still possessed the ability to feel sensations.
It did not take him long to figure out that he was prevented from feeling any harm he inflicted upon himself.
He could feel the sharpness of the grass, and the softness of the cool air. However, even as little as a forceful pinch of his skin went by unfelt, as thought it had never happened.
Gilgamesh laughed wryly and sourly.
He was prohibited from feeling the one kind of pain that he desired to feel the most.
The pain he could make himself feel.
He wanted to make himself pay. To exact a cruel vengeance on his own body and soul. He felt it was his only hope for solace and peace-- his only chance to forgive himself for what he had caused.
Instead, through yet another act of vicious spite, God had cut off this avenue for him. There was no chance.
Gilgamesh's absent mind was yet unable to accept this.
Taking the broken Excalibur, he repeatedly stabbed into and tore his flesh, severing the skin of his arms and chest, cutting wide gashes in his neck and face, and even going so far as to stab himself repeatedly in the eyes.
No matter how much damage he did, there was none of the sweet pain he craved. He did not know how long it took, but his body was restored from every wound.
He lay in the grass with an unbloodied sword and ripped clothes, staring into the sky of the Beginngless Library.
For a time, he himself did not know what he was thinking about. Eventually, his mind was able to catch up to his spirit.
His acceptance came swiftly, and with it came the understanding of his situation.
It did not take long for the tears to come.
And they came unendingly, accompanied by pathetic sobs and sniffling, painful breaths and a ferocity of anger that caused him to claw at his face.
"...ahhhh...."
He pulled at his flesh.
"...you fucking idiot... uwaa...."
He pulled so hard that it ripped, and the very muscles of his face were exposed.
"How could you be so... so stupid!?"
"How could you have lost sight... of the big picture!?"
"You really thought you were powerful! Where's that power now!?"
"Where is it!?"
Gilgamesh's face was restored, and he lost the drive to continue trying to tear it off. Subconsciously, he desired less and less to be the same person.
All this did was drive a deepee wedge between who he was and whatever his new identity was meant to be. If nothing else, it would be impossible for him to fall back into his old ways.
His hands fell soullessly at his sides, crushing some tufts of grass. He could feel the slight itch of the grass, and wondered if it would worsen as long as he didn't move.
The more he dwelled on that pain, he slowly realized that he was feeling it less and less.
Even his perception of pain could change what he felt.
Just what kind of lengths had God gone to to punish him?
Gilgamesh covered his eyes and further tears came. Though he wanted to, deep down he could not even muster up the idiotic courage to hate God for what she did.
His past self could have done this easily, and not cared about how weak he was in comparison.
But now?
Now he understood one crucial fact. A fact that he accepted so deeply that he even spoke it to himself.
"....aren't you just nothing...?"
"Am I not just... nothing?"
Gilgamesh lay in the grass with no aim or goal but to cry until he was able to move.
Even as hours passed and hunger came to him, eating away at his body, he found himself focused too much on the sensation.
Eventually, he did not feel the discomfort of either hunger or thirst. His body still suffered their effects, and as more time passed its condition only worsened.
He lay there in the grass, not caring or thinking about anything, through sunshine and rain.
He rapidly lost weight due to him beginning to digest himself. After two months, he could no longer produce tears or speak, nor could he move. He was emaciated and thin, without even the proper muscles to contort his face.
He had felt the pain of a full bladder up until the point that it vanished, and he pissed himself, simply laying there in it. There was no trace of acknowledement on his face.
Just the yearning for death.
As his body came closer and closer to the brink of death, he began to feel a new sensation.
It came to him like any sensation would, and felt closer to pain than emotion, yet it was not physical at all.
He recognized this feeling, and hope slowly began to fill his bloody eyes.
This was the sensation... of dying...
His body was finally dying.
Gilgamesh did his best to close his eyes and await release from his suffering, the very last of his hope taking him a state of calm and euphoria.
But, like the shock of a bullet, a voice pried into his mind once again.
'I said... you will never die!'
In that instant, all sensation vanished. His body returned to a perfecr state, as though he had been nursed back to peak health, only to continue the cycle once again.
His stench vanished as some mystical force cleaned every inch of him. It was as if he had never been sullied-- like he just came out of the bath after a lengthy period of thorough scrubbing and washing.
Still in the grass, Gilgamesh's final vestige of hope became the only thing that died.
He was truly hopeless now.
His mind emptied itself of everything. Time passed.
Gilgamesh wept soundlessly, starved and dehydrated, reached the brink of death, then was restored.
This continued for half a year before he felt himself become numb. At this point, grass had begun covering his body, and insects crawled about him as though he were a part of the earth.
Little had happened in this area of tall grass, aside from the rapid movement of a scurrying animal, but Gilgamesh did not even care.
He did not fear for his life and so, subconsciously, his senses dulled. He could easily be snuck up on, or not even notice an animal within a hundred paces of him in the open.
Gilgamesh thought of a time where he would have craved such an immortality as he had now received, and suddenly felt himself wanting to laugh.
"When I need it, I cannot have it..."
"When I do not want it, nor need it, I receive it in abundance..."
"So this is my life?"
"Heh... what an unfunny joke."
The irony of it all was like a slap to the face.
Gilgamesh's emotions faded away, leaving him with blankness of mind and soul-- blankness of character.
After half a year of laying in the grass, he finally found the strength to move.
He expected his joints to pop continuously, but it was as though they had been in constant motion the whole time.
As he stood, he parted ways in the grass, emerging from underneath it like he was rising from underground.
Like he was rising from death.
For the first time, he saw the world around him.
He saw the lush mountainous landscape, the clear water of a creek rushing by, and distant signs of civilization. There was a road not too far from where he had been laying, but it was almost overgrown.
Apparently, hardly anyone used it.
Gilgamesh decided at random, and started walking. He did not know what he wanted, only that he would not find it if he kept laying in the grass.