Hawkmoon

What is this feeling?

I did not ask for it. I do not understand it. I do not want it.

The Crow is so carefree in his ignorance. The bonfire's glow lights up his pale features and I am drawn to the hope in his gold eyes. Where is the despairing child I anticipated?

He drinks from an open bottle of wine against the recommendation of his Ghost. The Guardian encourages him and they are laughing. This celebration is maddening; neither have reason to be so jubilant. Their world is ending and they thrash like dying creatures in the final light of collapsing stars. They do not seem to acknowledge the futility of their existence, the impermanence of it in the face of cosmic annihilation.

Now the Guardian is drinking, standing close to the fire. Their Ghost, too, encourages them not to partake. They poison themselves for the enjoyment of it.

I am reminded of my sisters. Of moments spent by lapping shores, gazing up at infinite stars full of possibilities and wonder. I am left yearning.

What is this feeling?

I do not understand it. I do not want it.

They are celebrating their victory over the Taken. The Crow is making a gun shape with his hand, swinging the nearly empty bottle of wine around in the other like a Sword. The Guardian looks pensive, sitting on a rock by the fire, contemplating the secret they are keeping. The Crow notices, but tries not to show it. He wants the Guardian's spirits to be lifted. He wants to be supportive, so that they may share in their triumphs together.

As equals.

I am reminded of my home. I am reminded of the warmth of the sun and the embrace of my family. I am reminded of my father's face. I am reminded of everyone I betrayed. All the blood spilled in the name of immortality. The warmth of the sun burns me with its memory.

What is this feeling?

I do not want it.

The fire has nearly died. The Crow fell over and cannot stand, though he insists he is fine. The Guardian is turning the embers with the tip of their Sword. The Ghosts are talking to one another in quiet conspiracy. The celebration has ended, but I can sense their emotions are mixed: complex and myriad things, when a simple, singular focus would suffice.

There is a growing kinship here. Against better judgment.

What is this feeling?