Do I make my peace an' ascend to heaven, or what?

Hawk saw Emry as he'd left him: standing in front of the crooked little house with the overgrown grass, under a heavy grey sky. The unbidden memory caused the feathers on Hawk's next to bristle, and he grimaced, keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

"Knock it off," he muttered, and breathed out long and slow, focusing instead on his changed arm. In its place he traced out the way it was supposed to look--the brown skin, the tense of his muscles, the shape of his fingers.