The hawk is dead.

It sits on the stone. Its wings are broken. The feathers are wet. They smell of rain and old blood. You look at it. You do not blink. The eye is open. It is white. It is clouded. You remember when it was sharp. You remember when it cut the wind. Now it is just meat. Now it is just weight.

You are far from home. The road is hard. The mud is deep. Your boots are soaked. You feel the cold in your bones. It is a good cold. It is a clean cold. It numbs the pain in your hand. Your hand is stiff. Your fingers are curled. You cannot open them fully. You try. They lock. You stop trying.

There is a camp ahead. You see the smoke. You see the tents. They are gray. They are dirty. They are home. You walk toward them. You do not run. You are tired. You are old. You are not young anymore. You are not strong anymore. You are just here.

The camp is loud. Men shout. Men laugh. Men drink. The fire burns bright. The heat hits your face. It is warm. It is false. You walk through the crowd. Men look at you. They do not know you. Or they do not care. You are a ghost. You are a shadow. You are no one.

You find your tent. It is small. It is dark. You sit on the ground. You take off your cloak. You look at the hawk again. It is still there. It is in your bag. You take it out. You place it on your knee. It is heavy. It is cold. You touch its beak. It is hard. It is sharp. It is dead.

A man walks in. It is Thomas. He is loud. He is drunk. He smells of wine and sweat. He sees you. He sees the hawk. He smiles. It is a bad smile. It is a cruel smile.

"Is that your bird?" he asks.

You do not answer. You look at the floor.

"I thought you loved it," Thomas says. He steps closer. His boots are muddy. He looks at the hawk. He laughs. It is a short laugh. It is a sharp laugh. "You are a fool, James. A great fool. You loved a dead thing. You loved a lie."

You feel a pain in your chest. It is sharp. It is bright. You do not show it. You do not move. You are still. You are stone.

"What did you do?" you ask. Your voice is low. It is quiet. It is hard.

Thomas shrugs. He takes a sip from his bottle. He spits. He looks at the hawk. He looks at you.

"I gave it away," he says. "I gave it to the captain. For a favor. For a pardon. You were in the way, James. You were always in the way. You were a stain. I cleaned it up. I did you a kindness."

The air leaves your lungs. You cannot breathe. You try. You fail. The room spins. The tent is dark. The hawk is on your knee. It is heavy. It is real. Thomas is lying. Or he is not. It does not matter. It never mattered.

"You are a coward," you say.

Thomas laughs. He walks out. The flap closes. The cold returns. You are alone. You are with the bird. You are with the lie.

You look at your hand. You open your fingers. They are white. They are stiff. You close them. You open them. You do it again. You do it again. You are testing the limits. You are testing the end.

You remember the day you caught the hawk. It was winter. The snow was deep. You were young. You were fast. You were sure. You saw it on the branch. It was black. It was sleek. It was perfect. You threw the net. You caught it. You held it. It fought. It screamed. It bled. You held it tighter. You did not let go. You said, "You are mine now."

It was a lie. It was never yours. It was free. You took it. You broke it. You kept it. You loved it. Or you thought you did. You loved the idea of it. You loved the power of it. You loved the fact that it was yours.

Now it is dead. Now it is nothing. Now it is gone.

You stand up. Your legs shake. You grab your sword. It is heavy. It is old. It is sharp. You walk out of the tent. The fire is still burning. The men are still drinking. The night is deep. The stars are bright. You walk to the edge of the camp. You walk to the woods. The trees are dark. The wind is cold. You walk into the trees. You do not stop. You do not look back.

You walk for hours. The moon is full. It is bright. It is cold. You see the camp in the distance. It is small. It is far. You are far from it. You are far from Thomas. You are far from the hawk. You are far from the lie.

You stop. You sit on a rock. The stone is cold. It bites through your pants. You do not care. You look at your hand. You open your fingers. They are red. They are raw. You close them. You open them. You are not a man anymore. You are a thing. You are a tool. You are a weapon.

You think of the hawk. You think of its eye. It was white. It was clouded. It was blind. It could not see the end. It could not see the trap. It could not see the hand that held it.

You think of Thomas. You think of his smile. It was cruel. It was true. He did not kill the hawk. He sold it. He used it. He used you. You were the hawk. You were the bird. You were the thing that was caught. You were the thing that was sold. You were the thing that was broken.

You laugh. It is a dry laugh. It is a hollow laugh. It is a sound of pain. You laugh until you cry. You cry until you cannot breathe. You stop. You are silent. You are still.

You pick up a stone. It is small. It is gray. It is smooth. You hold it in your hand. You feel its weight. You feel its cold. You throw it. It flies. It hits a tree. It bounces. It rolls. It stops.

You do it again. You throw the stone. It flies. It hits the tree. It bounces. It rolls. It stops.

You do it again.

You do it again.

You throw the stone until your arm hurts. You throw the stone until your shoulder aches. You throw the stone until you cannot lift it. You throw the stone until you are empty.

You are empty. You are hollow. You are nothing.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not care. You walk into the dark. You walk into the cold. You walk into the wind.

The wind is loud. It howls. It screams. It sings. You listen. You hear the trees. You hear the leaves. You hear the branches. You hear the ground. You hear your breath. You hear your heart.

It beats. It is slow. It is steady. It is alive.

You are alive.

You are still here.

You are not the hawk. You are not the bird. You are not the thing that was sold. You are the man who threw the stone. You are the man who walked away. You are the man who chose.

You chose to be here. You chose to be alive. You chose to be free.

It is a small choice. It is a quiet choice. It is a real choice.

You walk on. The road is long. The night is deep. The stars are bright. You are small. You are alone. You are free.

The hawk is gone. The lie is gone. The pain is gone.

You are here.

You are here.

You are here.