"Greeting to the morning" by Sebastian A. Meusel

Night.
A deserted, rocky shore.
In the east the mountains reach up right to the grey heavy, rainladden clouds. Like the bony backcrest of a giant prehistoric beast they break from the earth, just to vanish into the heavy fog, wich slowly and gently, its movement visible, glides down to the sea.
On a boulder, somewhere in the plain of short windbeaten almost sadly green grass, there sits a figure.
Bend over she sits, wrapped in a heavy, wet cloak wichs color is almost indistinquishable from the grey rock, as if to protect something from the heavy raindrops wich pour from the dark sky and the spray thrown up high from the waves crashing against the shore below. A watersoaked hood hides her face. Motionless she sits there, seemingly one with that harsh land, listening to the whispers of the mists, wich slowy and silently roll down from the mountainside, almost as if not to disturbe the contemplations of the lone figure.

Hour after hour she sits at her place. Unmoving, like the mountains behind her and the rocks below.

Then, as if a secret signal only understood by the gray figure was given, she moves. Something glides from beneath the folds of her cloak, out into the slowly pvanishing rain. A long, lean rod, worked trough and topped with ivory and silver. Gentle hands caress the wood and the gleaming markings, like the hands of a lover touching the skin of a love long missed.

The first clear notes fly over the land. Giving a gentle greeting to that wich is about to happen.

It beginns out on the sea. Clouds do part and the horizon opens. The gates of Hades seem to have lost their substance for short fleeting moments, such a dark red glow is filling the heavens. The dark clouds are pushed back to reveal the eternal, starfilled blanket of night. Like a silken cloth, interwoven with silver pearls it seems. Almost like a gift to a young woman, to wrap around her delicat neck. The red of the horizons softens, to become a bright shining orange, like a gown, worn by that same woman and caressing her lovely body.

The melodie tenderly touches the waves, seeming to calm their fury, gliding on them into the new day.

The great disk of the sun is slowly climbing up from the cold, dark sea. Back from her nightlong battle against the dakness. Victorious again, but ever hunted by it. Pushing it back once more, from where it had lain waiting.Banishing it once again. But without a chance of ever winning this eternal struggle. For wherever the light shines, the darkness is there. Waiting.

Mournfully the tune caresses the rocks on the shore.

A golden pathway is build on the sea. - Made of sunlight it leads to the court of light. Guiding the souls of the dead and those who have given up hope. Leading them to a land where all their dreams will come true and all their hopes will be fullfilled. Where they find peace. A path on wich the mornig comes to the shore. To give back warmth and light to the land. Fighting back the mists, like lost, damned ghosts.
Only acompanied by the tune.

Majestic Prince Helios rises from the waves. His servants roaming the land and filling it with warmth. The last shadows hide in cracks and beneath the rocks, where the cruel, bright Lances of light can not reach them.
The figure looks up and the golden Fingers gently caress her face. She stands. Her silhouette outlined against the great wheel of flames rising in the sky. She lets the cloak slip down to the ground but does not stop her playing and takes a bow before the beauty of the world.

The last painfull tunes from the small bagpipe echo across the land.

Like in every year on this day the person now turns and slowly walks away. Leaving behind the memorys. Turning from the place where her love was once lost to the morning and the sea. And as in every year his last words are:

"Rest in peace"