The planet Virellon, shrouded in oceans of vapor and skyborne cities, had observed Earth for over three centuries—quietly, cautiously. Its people, the Yxari, were a race of sentient energy, their consciousness tethered to crystalline bodies that pulsed with shifting hues. They were ancient, patient, and deeply curious about the emotional volatility of carbon-based lifeforms.

When Earth’s electromagnetic noise began to dwindle—less television, fewer radio signals, quieter data streams—the Yxari Council deemed it safe to engage. Their first goal: translate human writing.

A probe, sleek as moonlight and humming with sentience, descended into the upper stratosphere and extended a single digit of projected light. It scanned what it detected as “the oldest surviving structured text with widespread human cultural impact.”

The result?

The Epic of Gilgamesh.

---

The translated words lit up in the central atrium of Luminaris, the Yxari’s Thought Archive. The council gathered in silence as the probe relayed the tale of gods and mortals, grief and immortality.

It was not what they expected.

Councilor Syrin, whose body flickered a pale contemplative blue, spoke first.

> “This… Gilgamesh. He fears death and defies the gods. Is this common?”

The probe, responding with algorithms that approximated tone, replied:

> “A foundational narrative. Its themes persist across millennia of human storytelling.”

Another councilor, Threx, pulsed orange with indignation.

> “He slaughters the guardian of the cedar forest. For glory. For *fame*? That is violence as virtue.”

> “And yet,” Syrin murmured, “he weeps for Enkidu. The loss shatters him. His quest for immortality is born not from conquest, but from love... and fear.”

The room pulsed in conflicting hues.

Councilor Veyra, the eldest, turned a deep violet.

> “Then this is the truth of humanity? A species desperate to conquer death, to make meaning of short lives through stories of struggle, love, and gods who answer with silence?”

The Yxari had long transcended death. Their essences passed cleanly into the Crystal Web when their physical forms dissolved. The idea of fearing death—raging against it—was alien.

Yet now they saw something in Gilgamesh’s grief. In his longing.

The final lines of the epic appeared in glowing script before them:

> “Let your everyday be full of joy,

> Let music and dancing fill your home...

> This is the fate of mankind.”

A silence fell over the council. Not the kind born of emptiness—but of *reverence*.

---

Syrin floated forward, luminous.

> “We came seeking data. We have found soul.”

The probe spoke once more.

> “There are billions more such writings. Do I retrieve the next?”

But Veyra lifted a hand.

> “No. Not yet. Let us sit with *this* one first. Let us mourn with them. Let us understand.”

And so, across the floating libraries of Virellon, the Yxari broadcast the story of Gilgamesh—not as curiosity, but as scripture.

The first impression of humanity was not their technology, nor their wars.

It was a king weeping by a river, asking the stars why we must die.

And for the first time in a thousand years, the Yxari did not feel infinite.

They felt human.