Chapter Eight – Echoes of the Past
The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against the ancient ruins of Uruk. Night had settled over the land, the sky stretching vast and endless above them, a sea of stars untouched by time.
Fern sat cross-legged, carefully stirring a pot of stew over the fire, while Stark sharpened his sword a few feet away. Frieren sat quietly, eyes half-lidded, appearing lost in thought.
Gilgamesh, however, stood apart from them.
His golden eyes roamed the ruins, tracing the crumbling pillars and shattered pathways with a gaze that was neither sorrowful nor nostalgic—merely observant. Time had done what it always did, eroding even the mightiest of civilizations into dust and memory.
But something stirred here still.
A presence.
Not hostile, nor living.
Simply… watching.
Frieren opened one eye. "You sense it too."
Gilgamesh glanced at her. "Yes."
Fern and Stark tensed. "Sense what?" Stark asked, already gripping his sword.
Gilgamesh turned toward a partially collapsed archway. "An old will lingers here."
Fern narrowed her eyes. "A ghost?"
"No," Frieren murmured. "Something deeper than that."
Without hesitation, Gilgamesh stepped forward. The air grew thick with an unseen pressure, the weight of history pressing down upon them. With a flick of his wrist, golden light pulsed from his fingers, illuminating the ruins.
And then—
A whisper.
Faint, fragmented, carried by the wind.
"Is it you… my king?"
Stark shuddered. "Okay, I don't like that."
Gilgamesh exhaled slowly. "A remnant."
The golden light expanded, weaving through the cracks of the stone, until it took shape—a vague silhouette of an elf, its form shifting like mist, barely holding onto the shape it once had.
Frieren studied it carefully. "A memory given form."
The specter knelt before Gilgamesh.
"You have returned… after so long…"
Gilgamesh regarded it with an unreadable expression. "You remember me."
"The world may forget… but we do not."
Fern watched, fascinated. "Who is 'we'?"
The specter's form wavered.
"The last embers… of a vanished kingdom."
Gilgamesh remained silent. This was not sorrow, nor regret—it was merely an echo of a life that had long since passed.
He finally spoke, his voice quiet yet resolute.
"Rest. The age of Uruk is no more. There is no need to linger."
The specter hesitated, then slowly—gently—faded into nothingness, as if relieved of its burden. The pressure in the air lifted, and the ruins fell silent once more.
Stark exhaled. "Well… that was unsettling."
Frieren turned to Gilgamesh. "Does it bother you? That your people still exist in fragments like this?"
Gilgamesh gave a small, knowing smile.
"The past does not shackle me, Frieren. I simply acknowledge it."
And with that, he walked back toward the fire, as if nothing had happened.
Frieren watched him for a long moment before looking back at the ruins.
The world forgets.
But perhaps… some things remain.