Only the elders remember it now. It started as a nice and quiet night, with a beautiful full moon high up in the sky. But when morning was supposed to arrive, the moon was still at its peak. No matter how many more minutes and hours passed, the moon did not move, and the sun did not come. The moon that seemed so peaceful during the night now loomed over the villages during the day, like an evil tyrant, seeing everything and all. The people fell into despair and retreated into their houses in fear of the cold light that had replaced the warm rays of the sun.

That day the elders remember as Moon’s Day, for it was the day the moon ruled over all.

On the second day, a man from one of the villages set out to the east to find the sun. When the others cowered in fear, he never gave up hope. If he succeeded in bringing back the sun, all would be well again. He would become a hero for those that could not muster the strength. He asked the villagers for any help they could give, but he received none. The villagers were too afraid of that cursed moon. So he set out with nothing. No food, no water, no weapons. Just the clothes he wore and the determination of a mountain in the face of his perilous journey. The man soon grew thirsty. He found a discarded waterskin and filled it with the dew he gathered from the grass fields he travelled through.

That day the elders remember as Dew’s Day, for it was the day that the hero only needed the dew and nothing else.

On the third day, the man arrived at the foot of the mountains. No one knew what lay behind them, for all those that travelled towards those peaks, have never been seen again. There were but a few paths leading through the mountains and none were called safe. Even more paths lead to nothing at all. The man set out on what seemed to be the least travelled one, thinking if no one had ever returned, they all made the wrong choice. Soon, the man was beset upon by the strongest winds he had ever known. The man, bent over into the tempest, put one foot firmly in front of the other, slowly, but steady, never losing his balance for it would spell his doom. After a long while, just when the man was almost defeated by the onslaught of the violent gale, the wind quieted down and the man was on the other side of the mountain range.

That day the elders remember as Wind’s Day, for it was the day that the winds tried the hero.

On the fourth day, the man descended from the mountains into the valley below. But his arduous journey was far from an end. The valley was a heavily wooded area where none of the faint, cold light of the moon would ever reach. But the man continued nonetheless. The trees were old and tall, but the undergrowth was filled with brambles and thorns. The bushes cut deep into flesh of the man. The man, bleeding, never stopped walking. It took all his willpower, but he never faltered and left the forest behind soon enough.

That day the elders remember as Thorn’s Day, for it was the day that the thorns tried to stop the hero.

On the fifth day, the man grew weary and almost fell, exhausted from his trials. But just when even he almost lost hope, he saw a light in the distance. Gathering the last of his strength, he slumped towards what was revealed to be a small cottage in a field of poppies. When he knocked at the door, an old woman opened, and invited him in. She took care of the man, nursing his many wounds and giving him food and drink. He stayed for the rest of the day and well into the night, hearing the woman’s stories of bygone ages. Her name was Frigg and once was a goddess. But none remember her name and none remember her stories. The man thanked the woman, realizing he would not have survived if not for her help. In return, he promised the woman no one would ever forget her again.

That day the elders remember as Frigg’s Day, for it was the day the hero made his promise.

On the sixth day, the man found the sun. It was being held captive by satyrs. The worshippers of the moon had kept the sun from rising so they could continue chasing and dancing with the nymphs under their pale-faced symbol. The man knew that satyrs were very keen on poetry and told them the story of his journey, but lamented, ‘if only I could have brought back the sun, the tale might have an end’. And so the man tricked the satyrs into releasing the sun, so they would hear the end of the hero’s story.

That day the elders remember as Satyr’s Day, for it was the day the satyrs were deceived.

The villages were quiet, none having left their houses in the past few days, not wanting to see more of that dreaded, unnatural darkness, filled only with silver streams of light. On the seventh day, a child peeked through a crack in the door and saw the golden light return, slowly rising from the east. The child threw open the door, letting in the free-again light of the sun for all to see. All the villagers went out and about again, bathing in the warm rays and celebrating the return of the true day. The hero did not return, but his story, spread by the satyrs themselves , soon reached to all the corners of the land.

That day the elders remember as Sun’s Day, for it was the day the sun sat on its throne again.

No one is sure of what happened to the hero. It is said that when it was freed, the sun in its gratitude, took up the hero with it and made him immortal among the stars, watching over us when the moon is out, giving hope to all who see him, even if another eternal night would fall.

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