Hawk was only very dimly aware of being submerged in the cold seawater; he sank into dark weeds, and came to rest--

--not on the sea floor, but in high tufts of crabgrass, well-watered by the rain rushing swiftly down from above. He lay in the wreckage of his yard in Violetta, flat on his back, wings sprawled around him. It was past dawn, maybe, or late afternoon; the rain whispered, soothing him, gossiping about him, with his burn wounds and the blood clotting in his hair.

He was dying, or he had died already and his ghost was just reclining in its familiar seat. Out of the seething sky the barn owl from the fence came gliding on silent wings. Lightly, gently, it plopped down upon his chest.

He stirred. "Get off," he murmured, to the owl that now shuffled its wings haughtily, "...get off me."

The owl didn't, and quite suddenly he was filled with a blinding rage--it propelled him bolt upright, the pain forgotten.

"GET OFF ME," he bellowed, and the owl was winging its way back away from him--

"All right, all right!" said a voice then, sounding startled.

He blinked. The space around him fell to darkness and warm ocean night, lit by orange lamps. Framed in the light above him knelt a very broad-shouldered man with dripping curls and a very apprehensive smile. He was holding his hands up placatingly. "Just making sure you were still alive, mate!"