Friendship. Honor. Humanity.

They’d seemed like such obsolete words in the moment- severed like the limbs of those he had once called his friends.

Well, maybe “friend” was a strong word. In truth they’d started out more like tools than anything else, but Hawk had grown close to a few of them. They’d gotten along so well, and everyone understood each other’s intentions.

At least, that’s what he’d thought. With the hatred in their eyes, the blood on their blades, the limbs strewn about by hands so unfazed by the thought of cutting off others, he found it hard to believe he had ever worked alongside them, ever smiled in their directions.

The dripping sickle clattered to the ground. It hadn’t been his to begin with. He had pried it from the hand of one of his former subordinates, and it had only grown heavier the more he’d used it, as if fighting against his guidance in a desperate attempt at mercy towards those he’d cut with it. Even after the last swing, it still felt foreign in his grasp, and at last he had no choice but to let it fall next to its true owner.

Everything felt numb. His vision was cloudy. He looked down slowly, silently wishing that taking long enough would will away the deep red stains on his hands. He hardly even noticed the clear droplets falling from his eyes into his palms as if to wash away the evidence.

How had it come to this?

The snow crunched under his worn boots, a trail of glistening crimson in his wake. Half of it was his. Half of it wasn't. It didn't matter.

What did matter was that he was seeing two of everything, spots of black in his vision. Reality felt disconnected, distant... and everything was so loud.

He couldn't turn back. They'd probably found his trail by now. He wobbled unsteadily as he trudged along, each step amplifying the disorientation that made it impossible to choose any direction except forward, go straight. You can rest later.

Rest. That was what he needed. Ironic. He'd always been a workaholic, pushing himself to do the absolute most in every situation. Now, at the one time he needed to keep moving, his body decided it was time to shut down.

He barely registered the world tilting... or was it him... before his chest collided with the snow-covered ground. On instinct, his arms flew out to catch him, but they only managed to cushion his head from what would have been a painfully hard landing.

He didn't try to stand. Maybe he should have. He was just so tired...

Distantly, he heard footsteps approaching. His mind raced, screaming at him to move, get up, do something.

Still, it didn't listen. At some vague point in time, his mind started to waver, probably from the excessive blood loss. As the world faded into darkness, he faintly realized that he didn't know where he was going to die.

A pair of boots stopped in front of him, but he didn't have the strength to care.

How had he gotten here, anyway...?

Someone must have yelled, for his ears rang with incoherent noise. If he hadn't lost all feeling to the cold, he might have felt himself being moved.

...He didn't even remember who he was.