"...Wow," Hawk said after a moment, jerking Numair out of the stormy landscape and back onto the beach. There was a strange look on Hawk's face, but it was partly obscured by the wind blowing his hair into his eyes. "You really are an idealist, huh? 'Compassionate rage?' What's that even mean?"
Numair raised his eyebrows. "Hmm?" he asked, stepping towards Hawk to look him in the face. "Well, you've felt it!"
"Whaddya mean??" Hawk said, surprised.
"You didn't know me, but you were so angry for me, being chased by slavers, and you did something about it, no less. Why?"
Hawk remembered the fury then--and it had been fury, a white-hot rage that glinted in the sodium lamps reflecting off his eyes. He drew himself up, somewhat offended by the question.
"Why??" he repeated. "Because it waren't right! An' I'm big an' I coulda done somethin', so I did!"
Numair pointed a finger at him. "Exactly."
He withdrew a bit then, his expression becoming almost rueful. "...Perhaps I am an idealist," he admitted. "Is that so bad, though?"
The corners of Hawk's mouth twitched, and he smiled crookedly. "Nah," he relented, "I guess it ain't."