2. Chapter 2

Clint blinked up at the blue, blue sky above him. He was nestled in a downy bed that smelled like feathers and snakes, something Clint kind of considered familiar from his circus days, but given the situation was hardly comforting. "This is a suck-ass dream." He rolled over to his side, his body feeling languid and sated, hoping to find Phil, a bottle of maple syrup and a stack of pancakes. He was not ashamed.

Instead he scrambled backwards until something like tree branches poked his back, stopping him. "Niiiiice birdy. Chirp? Chirp?"

The three young hawks peered at him. At least Clint thought they were young; it was hard to tell past the fact that each one of them was as big as he was. They just had that downy look to them.

"Chirp?" He tried again. Maybe if they thought he was one of them, they wouldn't eat him. He did not want to end a bad dream being eaten by his namesake, that would just be humiliating.

The hawks fussed at each other for a moment then returned to staring at him. Clint tried to lean casual and look unappetizing.

"You are the King?"

"He is small for a king."

"How does he fly?"

"We could throw him out of the nest and find out!"

"No throwing me out of the nest! I just got here!" Clint stopped. "Oh hey, you talk."

"So do you."

"Shouldn't we?"

"He is the King! We should be quiet."

Clint broke in before the comedy routine picked up steam. "Can you tell me if I'm dreaming? Because this kind of looks like a dream."

One of the hawks glanced around, taking in everything for a quiet moment, then turned its gaze back on Clint. "Do you feel like you are dreaming?"

Clint shifted on his feet, feeling good but not weightless. "Uh, no. I don't."

"Then you are awake."

The other two nodded solemnly.

"So, not dreaming?"

All three shook their heads.

"But I am naked, right?" Clint refused to look down and check, but he was pretty sure.

One of the hawklets nodded. "You have no feathers."

"You can wear some of ours!" One flapped its wings.

"We were molting." The third said, looking somewhat sadly forlorn about it.

One of them peered at Clint. "Are you molting?"

They all crowded in and bobbed up and down, checking him out. Clint absolutely refused to cover his junk with his hands like a newbie. Not that his junk was all that visible, given that it was in full retreat from the threat of three hungry looking human-sized hawks getting a little too up close and personal.

Clint stood up straight. "I'm not molting!"

"Oh." They chorused, surprised and confused about it.

"Of course not. You can't molt if you are dead."

"Yes, but perhaps he molted before he died."

"We did!"

Clint slashed his hands through the air. "I'm not dead."

They stared at him.

"Not. Dead."

More staring.

"Me? Alive. See?" He spread his arms out.

"We are taking you to Vedrfolnir. Through the spirit world." One of them said, motioning at the blue, blue sky outside of the humongous nest.

"Fine. Great. That's just great, but okay? I'm not dead."

"Why not? We're dead. You must be dead too."

Clint blinked back at them. "I'm naked in a giant hawk's nest. This is not the afterlife."

They nodded in eerie synchronicity.

"No, it's not." Clint was pretty firm on that point, but the hawklets just kept nodding.

"Guys, we're not dead. Look around."

One of them shrugged, which was odd when done with predator wings. "We're your escort, King Hawkeye of the Migardian Hawks. We are all dead. Such is the way of it."

The smallest one—Clint was starting to be able to tell them apart—bounced on its talons. "We were chosen! Mother would take you but she died fighting a dreki, in order to protect us. But she lost and we were eaten and she went to Valhalla so we are taking you!"

"It was most wretched to be eaten. I want to see Vedrfolnir and complain." The darkest one, whose feathers were nearly tinged black, bristled.

The other two gasped, which sounded more like squawking to Clint. "Nooooo! No!" They ganged up on him and started beating their wings at each other, which kind of reminded Clint of the childish disagreements he used to have with Barney, back before things turned sour between them. Except that Clint would be collateral damage if he got hit, because the wing span on even the smallest hawklet was eight feet if it was an inch. He crouched down to think about what was going on.

What stuck out in his mind was that they had called him King Hawkeye of the Midgardian Hawks. There was only one person who could have come up with that title.

Clint was going to kill Thor, if he ever got back to Avengers Tower alive.