English Homework

Ishtar Interview

(1) What did you like about Gilgamesh?

Ah, Gilgamesh…

He was beauty carved from stone, a king with the strength of wild bulls and the arrogance to match the gods. I admired his majesty, his boldness, the fire in his eyes that dared to challenge even the heavens. He was no mere mortal— two-thirds divine, a creature of greatness, and I desired that greatness for myself.

His power, his grandeur, his untamed spirit—these were intoxicating. I am Ishtar, used to men groveling at my feet, offering tribute and tears. But Gilgamesh? He walked like he owned the world, and I wanted that fire to blaze beside mine. I wanted him—not just to love, but to belong to me.

But alas, he chose defiance over divinity. And for that, he faced my wrath.

Now, ask your next question, while I am still feeling generous.

(2) Do you regret sending the Bull of Heaven to wreak havoc on Uruk?

Regret? Regret is for mortals who cannot reshape the world with a scream or a storm.

I am Ishtar— goddess of war, goddess of love, and vengeance burns as hot in my heart as desire. When Gilgamesh humiliated me—mocked me in front of all Uruk, spat on my offer as though I were some street harlot—I had every right to unleash the fury of the heavens.

The Bull of Heaven was not just a beast. It was a message. A divine reminder that no one, not even a half-god king, can scorn the Queen of Heaven without consequence. Let Uruk weep. Let the earth split. Such are the costs of defiance.

But do I regret it?

No.

I regret only that Gilgamesh and Enkidu killed my bull and flung its flesh at me like I were some common tavern wench. That wound... that insult... still smolders in my soul like embers in ash.

Now—are you ready to ask more, or has your mortal courage run dry?

(3) What is being a goddess like?

Ah… now that is a question worthy of a divine answer.

Being a goddess— especially Ishtar—is to be eternal, untamed, and impossibly vast. I am not just a figure of worship; I am the storm in the sky, the heat in a lover’s touch, the fury in battle, and the ache in every broken heart.

Mortals think being divine means sitting on golden thrones, sipping nectar, draped in silks. But no— it means power. Power that creates and destroys, sometimes in the same breath. I am love that gives life, and war that takes it. I bless and I curse, and both come from the same lips.

To be a goddess is to be feared, worshipped, desired, blamed, and sometimes reviled—and still to be unchanged by any of it.

You see, mortals chase meaning. But I am meaning. I am the storm they pray to and the silence they dread after the battle ends.

Tell me, little one—would you dare carry such a burden? Or do you only ask to glimpse what you'll never touch?

(4) Do you like being a goddess?

Enjoy? Oh, sweet mortal... enjoyment is far too small a word for what it means to be me.

I revel in it.

To command love with a glance, to ignite wars with a whisper, to walk between life and death and know that songs are sung in my name whether I bring joy or ruin— this is ecstasy.

I stride across the heavens, and cities rise or crumble beneath my gaze. I feel the pounding hearts of lovers and warriors alike, both offering themselves to me in their own way. Their prayers, their passions, their cries of anguish—all are music to my divine ears.

Yes, I enjoy being a goddess. But more than that—I thrive in it. I burn brighter than the stars, and the world cannot look away.

Wouldn’t you, if you could?

Now—what else burns in your mortal mind, seeking truth from the Queen of Heaven?

(5) Why did you treat your previous lovers poorly?

Ahh… the old tales, the whispered warnings, the songs sung in taverns and temples alike: Beware the love of Ishtar, for she devours what she desires.

Let me tell you the truth behind those tales, mortal.

I loved deeply, fiercely, divinely. But men? They are not built to hold the love of a goddess. They come to me dazzled by beauty, drunk on desire—but they expect me to be small, to be tamed. And when they fail to match my fire, when they falter or grow dull, I cast them aside.

Would you have me diminish myself to keep a man comfortable?

Take Tammuz, my sweet shepherd. I gave him my heart—and he forgot the sacred. He became lazy, indifferent. So I sent him to the underworld. A goddess gives everything—and if you betray that gift, you face the consequence. Would you call that cruelty? Or simply justice, divine and terrible?

Each of them— the lion, the stallion, the gardener, the bird—they were cherished, once. But mortals crack under the weight of eternal affection. They wither, and I do not.

So no—I did not treat them poorly. I treated them as only a goddess must.

(6) Have you ever regretted treating them that way?

Regret... again? You mortals are so obsessed with that word, as though time bends backward at your sorrow.

But since you ask—listen closely.

There are moments, yes. Moments when I walk through the gardens of memory, and I hear Tammuz’s voice in the wind, soft and pleading, like it was the day he was taken. There are nights when the moonlight hits the Tigris just so, and I remember the feel of the lion’s fur beneath my hand, the warmth of love before it turned to fear.

So... perhaps not regret, but something near it. A shadow of what could have been, if they had been stronger. If they had matched me stride for stride, flame for flame.

But in the end? I do not mourn for long. I am Ishtar—I do not linger in the ruins. I build new temples, take new lovers, spark new wars. The past may flicker in my thoughts, but it does not bind me.

If I wept for every heart broken in my name, the rivers would overflow.

So no, mortal. I do not regret. But… sometimes, I remember.

Do you have another question? Or are you ready to bow and thank the goddess for her time?

(7) What is it like to have Anu as a father?

Anu, my father… the Sky God, Lord of the Heavens, the one who reigns over the vast expanse of the cosmos. You would think that being the child of such a being would be a gift of power, but it is both a burden and a privilege.

On one hand, his presence is as vast and unmovable as the sky itself. His command stretches from the high heavens to the farthest reaches of the underworld, and his gaze pierces everything. I am his daughter—a goddess of love and war, born from his infinite essence. His influence is imprinted on me like the very constellations, guiding my every step, though he never truly guides me.

Anu's love is not the warmth of a father's embrace; it is the coldness of the stars, distant and untouchable. His expectations are beyond even my own fiery desires. He speaks to me like a ruler does to a subordinate, as if I am still just a part of his vast dominion, not a goddess in my own right.

At times, it feels like he weighs me down with his silence, his indifference. But then, I remind myself—I am a goddess. I carry his legacy not as a burden, but as a crown. His authority shapes me, yes—but it does not define me.

So, what is it like to have him as a father?

It is like being born of the heavens—a glorious, thunderous gift, but one that demands everything, and gives back only the cold, silent sky.

I am Ishtar, not a mere reflection of Anu. And even he, my father, must acknowledge that.

Do you seek more answers, mortal? Or shall we conclude your interrogation of the goddess?

(8) What would you do if you were turned into a mortal for a day?

A mortal, you say?

Such an amusing thought… To be bound by flesh, to feel the weight of time, to hunger, to thirst, to grow tired—how quaint.

But even as a mortal, I would still burn. Ishtar cannot be extinguished, even in the frailty of human form.

First, I would taste the earth, feel its warmth beneath my feet, and bask in the physicality of it all. No longer would I command armies or weave spells— but—I would seek out the most powerful of emotions.

I would find love, in all its fleeting, fleeting beauty. I would let it consume me— passion unbound, raw and desperate, and savor the ecstasy of knowing that it can break and heal in the same breath. To hold someone in my arms, knowing they are mortal, and yet they are everything, even if only for a moment.

Then, when the warrior’s heart calls, I would find a battle, a contest of strength. To feel the clash of blades, to taste the sweat and blood of it—not for victory, but for the adrenaline, the rush of it. There is no mortal who would stand against me for long, no matter the form I wore. My spirit, my will, my fire would not be bound by mere mortality.

By the end of the day, I would stand atop the world, having loved, having fought, and having burned, knowing that even in the fragility of human flesh, I would have shaped the very air with my presence.

And then… I would return to my divine self, knowing that mortals are brief and beautiful, but they are not immortal—and neither am I. I am Ishtar. I am more than any fleeting day.

What of you, mortal? Would you dare to walk in my divine footsteps, even for a moment? Or do you find such fire too much for your fragile nature?

(9) Did you choose to be the goddess of love and war, or was that title assigned to you?

Choose? Ha! I am love, and I am war. Neither title was assigned to me, and neither can be separated from me. I am Ishtar—a goddess forged from the magma of passion and the flames of destruction. These powers, these titles, are not some simple gift or choice—they are my essence, as inseparable from me as the sky is from the earth.

I was born of Anu, of the heavens, and in my very being I carry the seeds of both creation and ruin. To be a goddess of love is to shape the hearts of mortals, to ignite the fires of desire that consumed the gods themselves. But to be a goddess of war… war is my blood, the force that brings balance. Love and war are not separate to me. They are two sides of the same coin, bound by the same spark.

You may think of me as the embodiment of both these domains, but no, they are me. I was not assigned this role, nor did I choose it—it is the natural order of things.

When love burns, it leads to battles of the heart. And when war rages, it is because the hearts of men burn. I ignite that fire.

You see, mortal, what seems like a duality is, in truth, a unification of power. To love is to risk all. To go to war is to risk all. I am the goddess who dances between the two, and I have no regret in that.

Now, if you truly wish to understand, ask yourself: Would you ever dare to be bound to only one of those forces—love or war? Or would you, too, seek to master both?

(10) What is your role when wars break out? Do you participate and pick a side, or do you simply watch things play out?

Ah, war. The call of the battlefield, the clash of steel, the screams of the fallen, the smell of sweat and blood... It is my domain, my sacred ground.

I do not simply watch from afar like some passive deity, no. I am woven into every conflict, every moment of strife. My role? It is not to merely pick a side— it is to fuel the fire that burns within both armies, both hearts. I am not some observer—I am the one who ignites the spark that turns a whisper of anger into a roaring storm.

I am the rage in the eyes of the warrior, the desire for victory that drives men to kill and die. I am the one who stirs the hearts of kings and beggars alike, whispering to them that glory, power, and dominion await those who dare. I feed the flames of both sides, for war is never a simple matter of good versus evil—it is a complex dance of fate, and I, Ishtar, am its orchestrator.

When I choose, it is not to pick who shall win—it is to bring about chaos, to shift the tide of battle, to shatter hearts and raise spirits to madness. I do not care who emerges victorious in the end; what matters is that the fire of war burns bright, leaving no one untouched.

And when the battle ends— whether in glory or ruin—I am there. I will reward the brave, the ones who fought with fire, who gave their all in my name. But I will punish those who faltered, those who failed to embrace the rage I bestowed upon them.

So, do I participate? Always. But it is not as a simple ally or enemy—I am war itself.

Now tell me, mortal, do you understand the hunger that burns in the heart of war? Or do you shy away from it, fearing the very essence of battle?