This is a collaboration story: the beginning (La Sentinelle) was written by 
By
Raging waves howled their fury against the granite of the lighthouse. Roiled by the gale force winds, the sea surged an endless barrage upon its foe. Beneath a canopy of leaded clouds, the frothy waters would accept nothing less than surrender.
The formidable tower, La Sentinelle, held firm to its duty. Dovetailed blocks flexed with the powerful onslaught to cleave the wall formed by the angry swells. Torrenting waters split, spraying up into the path of the shining lantern’s light.
Within the lighthouse, Hugo washed his dishes to the accompaniment of thunderous echoes. A seasoning of nine years had inured him to the turbulent storms off the coast of Hirveä. Most evenings the crashing waves were naught but background noise. Tonight though, he savored the violent melody of this final personal performance. Tomorrow the relief crew would arrive and he'd be bidding his post farewell.
Like the sea, time was always moving. Traditions of history slid away in the face of advancing technology. La Sentinelle's conversion to automation was cost effective and practical. No more need for a lighthouse keeper. Spreading the towel across the drying rack, Hugo clicked off the kitchen light. He chuffed to himself, wondering if he should get one of those cushy ‘tour-guide’ gigs up in Lutia.
Unperturbed by the waves that lashed the third floor window, he considered the packing he'd left to do. There wasn't much left. His plaid bedding and books could wait for the morning. Clothes wouldn't take long to throw into his worn duffle bag. The old radio would fit in there as well. It wasn't his but he figured that nobody was going to notice it missing. What did an empty lighthouse need for a radio anyway?
Hand trailing along the curved black iron of the railing, Hugo climbed the spiral stairs to the watch room. He crossed to the window, making a note to unpack his camera to take some pictures before he left. The low pressure front would have moved on by then and he could sell the daytime view to tourists.
Another monstrous wave broke against La Sentinelle's side. Subtle tremors shook the floor beneath Hugo’s feet as a wash of water blackened the window. He stepped back from the glass, feeling the tendrils of alarm creep along his spine. For an infinitesimal moment, everything went silent. Gone were the reverberating echos, the creaks from the wooden flooring, and the rush of his hastening breaths.
Sound returned with a vengeance. Sharp cracks and the shrieking shatters of exploding glass from below sent Hugo running to the stairs. The relentless sea had finally broken La Sentinelle’s defenses! Churning waters flooded in, rapidly surpassing the fourth floor. The lighthouse keeper watched the rising waters claim the fifth before turning to flee up the stairs to the lantern room.
Scrambling into the safety of highest room of the lighthouse, Hugo stopped cold. The beacon, that salvation for sailors, was no longer shining. Instead the room was awash with a haze of emerald light.
By
Fool. You would cede my autonomy to a machine? I, Sentinelle, who have withstood rain, wind and sea? You think to strip me of my self? You have polished my brilliant light, nursed my wounded granite when it suffered nature's wrath. Nine years you tread upon my steps. How could you expect I would submit meekly to the tyranny of another will?
Do not mistake me for that craven radio, a trifle to be pilfered and dispatched as a spiritless, spineless tool. My sinew, my grit is made of grander stuff. I was conceived in blood and toil. The harvesting of my granite from the earth consumed lives, as did the clearing of land so that I might rise and give light to the night.
Blood spilled, last gasps of breath exhaled--these are incorporated into my essence. And so will you be. Consecrated by death at my creation, my demise will be similarly sanctified.
It is a mercy I grant you. All these years you sought refuge from conscience, from the past, in the solitude of this station. But never did you truly escape. I heard anguished wails soar upon the clouds before being swallowed in night's mist. I witnessed the beating of your chest as antidote to the torment of memory.
Where would you go from here? What shallow pit could protect you from the wraiths of your past? No, not for you, freedom. That will come only in your grave. Better the grave be here, with me, where the best portion of your life has been spent.
We go down together, to the society of an indifferent multitude. There resides a jury whose ceaseless endeavor is to consume and be consumed without taint of guilt. What better conclusion to your existence can you imagine?
Behold the emerald light. This is your final guide, your passage to eternity. These last moments will ennoble you, will elevate you in the eyes of your peers. But they will no longer be your peers. You will be forever remembered as the Last Lighthouse Keeper who gave his life to duty and service.
In those tourist bazaars where you planned to barter stolen images of me, your name will be whispered like a tinsel trophy. Perhaps ghost-like resemblances of you will be rendered by bad artists and sold on postcards which will then be discarded as inconsequential memories. But better these memories than your own.
So, peace, my friend, my tenant of nine years. Come, we go together into the sea. We greet the enveloping waves with no greater hope than that we find nothing.
I've jumped into the water on this edition of Finish the Story contest, sponsored by 
You have until Wednesday to write a story, a finish to
Scary shark picture courtesy of Pixabay.
