Not all hawks had beaks. They painted their chestnut brown feathers, promising power and blood-lust, to cloud white, trying to blend in with the doves. Nothing could pass their razor-sharp graze, honed by experience and distrust. They morphed their embedded bitterness into consideration, for those forged by fire could never really let go of the warmth it brought. They give others the kindness they've always desired. But prays for those who dare defy them or hurt their loved ones.
Mercy and love are two separate entities they knew far too well. They wielded the blade of retribution all for the sake of those they have lost and those they fear to lose. Those sharp, sharp blades, their crimson-painted talons, gloved by love and unsheathed by those who dare, were the talons of saints.
No-one would preach their acts, fearing their wrath. Yet Respect would burn in their chests at their love.