The Sun

Thin rays of sunlight found their way through the smattering of iron gray clouds.

The Sun wasn't often visible as the shortest day of the year approached and the rain

relentlessly pounded downward.

Even when the orange orb might peek through the clouds, there was little illumination to

be had.

The Sun barely seemed to rise above the horizon as it woke, just lifting its head before

returning to slumber once again.

The darkness didn't stop the activity though.

Hundreds of voices laughing, singing, shouting, and simply talking came together in a low

roar, drowning out the squealing pigs, shattering pottery, and a multitude of other sounds that

marked the largest gathering of the year.

The people had come to this place from all over Britain, trekking along frozen ridges

and taking small boats along the icy rivers, suffering the pelting rain amid the perpetual

semi-darkness that came just before the winter solstice.

But this was a time of celebration, of feasting, when relatives and friends renewed relationships

that might otherwise slip away with dozens or hundreds of miles of distance in between.

This collection of small rectangular houses was only fully occupied on these rare occasions,

when the smell of roasting pig hung in the air outside the half-circle meeting hall

and the massive circle of timber posts stuck in the ground.

This was the land of the living, but soon, as sunset on the shortest day of the year

approached, the assembled people would make the solemn journey to the land of the dead.

...