The beast reeks of feces and swarms with flies. It lies half-curled around itself, its chest ris­ing and falling in ragged breaths. Its gigan­tic feath­ered wings, brown and yel­low with grime and pus, stretch to the walls of the ante­room, folded awk­wardly to fit.

Gil reluc­tantly fol­lows Kiddu as she approaches the lamashu. As he does, he almost starts cry­ing.

Years ago, he had come to the Cir­cus with the other kids at the Tem­ple orphan­age. He remem­bers watching—from the safe dis­tance of the encir­cling stone benches—as the great lamashu soared above the arena, glid­ing into mid-air loops, the power of its fierce wing­beats puls­ing against his chest. Even though the beast was chained to the grooved track along the ground and choked back down if it flew too high or too close to the crowds—it was nev­er­the­less majes­tic, awe-inspiring.

He learned later how the lamashu was treated in cap­tiv­ity. But even so, the jux­ta­po­si­tion of his grand mem­o­ries with the pathetic crea­ture in front of him is shock­ing. Only a few feet away now, he sees that one of the beast’s horns is bro­ken off, expos­ing a rough sur­face of red mar­row. Its sleep­ing face is locked in what looks like a snarl, yel­low teeth bared to the night air.

She takes out a small flask from her robe and hands it to him. He holds it in his hands for a few moments, turn­ing it around and around.