As a little Christmas treat to you, I’m offering a free Eirenic Verses story. This extremely sweet, perfectly low-stakes tale centers around Uileac trying to beat Cerie at questing, a traditional Snow Lights game!
Get ready for your teeth to rot right out of your head. Our noble protagonists deserve to have some fun!
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Uileac Korviridi didn’t want a lot for Snow Lights; there was just one thing he needed.
To beat his sister, a High Poet in training, at questing. Snow Lights’ Eve was looming, and he had no intention of being second best.
Breme’s most beloved winter celebration: wandering among snow-capped buildings with a guttering lantern, snappily reciting couplets of old. Homeowners who forgot the accompanying line to the quester’s words were obligated to invite guests in for a drink. If they won, defeated questers had to supply cookies from frost-rimed baskets.
While he’d be delighted to have Cerie home for Snow Lights, it would be on his terms. She could get smashed with someone else’s wine.
Year after year, he’d surrendered without a fight: let her consume her tomes and spit them all over him in an effervescent show of strength. No more. He was a warrior, slim but mighty, and he never let the world win.
Cerie’s books, pilfered from her empty bedroom, were scattered around their mutual living room. Each sprawled haphazardly open to random poems of the Five Bremish Saints: their country’s foremothers, whose lines were legendary.
Outside, Goldnin’s streets were muffled with snow laying thick and even. Their home’s ice-laced windows would light up in brilliant orange as a lantern ghosted past, then fade into darkness.
“’Frost heaves the shattered street’ ….” He paused, tucked a green lock of hair behind his ear, glanced over at the nearest book. “Right. Damnit. ‘Freezes fast the horse’s feet.’”
This was proving a much harder task than he expected. His schooling, which seemed a whole lifetime ago, was all about hitting targets or bashing people over the head. Experiential credentials—no memorization required. And here Cerie was, on the cusp of becoming a High Poet, deeply familiar with every line.
She was going to crush him the instant she opened her stupid donkey mouth. An insult to his good name.
Pacing and muttering to himself, Uileac almost slammed into his husband, Orrinir, stationed by the front window. A sudden visit by Cerie would unravel this whole thing; she’d scream at her brother for touching her books, then round on her brother-in-law for not intervening.
Neither would want such a verbal beating. Best to stay alert.
Though the contact was initially accidental, Uileac relished the feeling of Orrinir’s arms enfolding him. The human warmth eased his chilly bones—and certainly heated his heart.
“I don’t think Cece will be back this evening,” Uileac said in lieu of an apology. “We can put everything away tomorrow. Sit down, have a drink.”
“Here you are, lecturing me about relaxing while you run circles around our house.” Orrinir’s deep voice rumbled in his chest, where Uileac had temporarily lain his head. “Take your own advice.”
He smiled, looking up into the handsome face he so admired. Orrinir, well over a head taller than him, had a crazily felted nightcap settled over his shock of red hair; his ruddy coloring was blush from the cold.
Silver eyes sparkled when their gazes met. Some would think that gray melded poorly with brown hues, but they were merely uninformed. In Uileac’s opinion, Orrinir was dashing in his brown nightrobe, tan lounge pants, and fur-lined mules.
Years after settling into domesticity, Uileac still couldn’t imagine how he had netted such a perfect man. He felt more a corn-sheaf doll beside his tall, burly husband; his own green eyes were dull compared to Orrinir’s steely irises. And his leafy hair must look a fright at the moment, given that he’d been tearing at it all evening.
He could argue about stopping, he supposed: insist that Orrinir once again drill him on the couplets that his sister might use. Of course she’d taken the guidebook, Quests of the Snow Lights, with her to the High Poet Society, where she was helping younger students prepare for the traditional pageant.
But complaining sounded like too much work after a long day of mental exhaustion. Instead, Uileac allowed Orrinir to lead him over to their spacious couch, carved by a friend as a wedding gift. The fire crackled companionably before them, huddled behind its iron grate; occasionally, an ember crawled up the grille but surrendered within seconds.
Orrinir plopped down, then turned to Uileac, scanning his dark green nightrobe lazily tied at the waist. For a second, Uileac wondered if he’d shove the books off the nearby tables, untie the wool garment, and get at his whippet-thin body. Certainly he wouldn’t be opposed.
No, his husband merely adjusted the belt holding it closed, then pulled him nearer. “I’m sure we’ll lose every round and have to surrender all our wine. Too many High Poets in this damn town, and they all know the couplets by heart.”
“So little faith in my abilities,” Uileac tsked. “You could give it a try too.”
Wrinkling his nose, Orrinir instead dandled the arm of Uileac’s robe. “You’re lucky I’m even agreeing to put up with it. Old Glarus is throwing a Snow Lights party at the Swordsman Society. The winner of the sparring contest gets 150 quillim.”
Uileac pretended offense, but he knew Orrinir would play the dutiful husband and stay anyway. Leave the singletons, like their friend Sagremor, to fight over coins.
They could heckle one another all night, or they could relish the ambiance of peaceful firelight glow. Then, perhaps, Orrinir would help turn his mind off so he could tabulate everything before Snow Light Eve breezed into town.
A heartbroken whinny outside: Orrinir’s horse, Bannain, reminding them that he was the center of the world. Orrinir sighed and made to rise, but Uileac pulled him closer for a kiss.
“The neighbors will start to worry,” Orrinir said as their lips parted.
“So? What’s your hurry?” Uileac’s words were almost drowned out by a whoosh of wind that electrified the fire, then another squall from his husband’s bratty horse.
“Bannain will be kicking down the door,” Orrinir countered, but relented for a half-second. Mostly because he was held captive by Uileac’s grasping hands.
Gods, were those lips delicious.
Now his own horse joined the bedlam: Erix, a sweet-tempered palomino mare. How late was it, if even Erix had grown impatient? Time had melted somewhere after the thousandth round of practice, and the delicious ale he’d guzzled earlier had not helped one bit.
The least he could do was suffer along with his husband, so Uileac pushed himself to his feet and padded toward the back door, where their heavy parkas hung waiting.
Dressing for Bremish winter was a laborious endeavor, especially when he was tipsy and content. First he strapped on his hide boots, their soles studded with tiny antler spikes to keep him from slipping on ice. Long leather wrappings crisscrossed his shins in complicated knots before terminating around the knees.
Next, the fur parka, its sumptuous rabbit pelt that fluttered with each breath. His hands were swamped by fleece-lined mittens in bright reds and oranges: a perfect match to Orrinir’s, given that Cerie had purchased both pairs.
The final touch, a thick knitted gaiter made of thick brown wool, and he was covered but for his eyes. He wished he could cover them too, knowing how Breme’s weather was at this time of year.
Holding the requisite lantern was a pain, but at least the mittens insulated his fingers from the hot tin handle. Tiny stars flashed against the smooth stucco walls of their home, intermingling with those from Orrinir’s.
Swaying the lantern, he made the patterns twine together, then looked slyly at Orrinir to see if he had noticed. No: his husband was too busy fumbling with the door’s lock before giving up and taking his mitten off. With the cloth clutched in his teeth, he finally worked the cold metal free, and both braced themselves for impact.
A blast of wintry air almost knocked Uileac over the instant Orrinir opened the door; he reeled against his husband, who chuckled.
“We’ll have to strap you down like a hay bale,” Orrinir said with a smile in his voice. Thankfully, Uileac’s scowl was hidden by his gaiter, his accusatory thumb stuffed in a mitten.
As they dragged themselves through the knee-deep snow, Uileac’s mind revolved around the dozens of couplets he’d forced himself to absorb. How the hell was he supposed to beat his sister when he couldn’t remember but a handful?
Together with the soughing wind, they turned into a half-formed poem that swirled around his brain, strangely beautiful yet totally incomplete.
Rattling husks of memory, these hulled hopes;
Trees weep for reaping, drop their precious beads.
Winter comes, the tired nursemaid, in its robe of blue;
Swaddles us like newborns in our wooden womb.
Opening the stable, both held their lanterns high to reveal two impatient faces: Erix, her cream fur dusty from spending most of her days inside; and Bannain, whose dun coloring conveniently hid any dirt. Both neighed in unison while Bannain flung his head back and forth.
“Yes, you infidels, we’re coming,” Uileac groaned as he set his lantern down. “People will think we starve you, with how you carry on.”
In the dark stable, the comforting horse perfume seemed stronger; Uileac breathed in the melody of manure, grain, and hay. Between the stalls sat a slim compartment, accented with a giant oak barrel. This receptacle was packed full of snow, which the equines’ body heat had melted for ready-made water. Certainly beat smashing ice from their well.
Opposite this was a wide storage space, filled with the accouterments their mounts needed: neatly flaked hay, once piled to the ceiling but now half-empty; large bins for shavings; medicaments and tack.
Uileac’s heart calmed at the sight. Order and simplicity. No soldier could want more.
The two men worked in relaxing quiet, domestic sounds he had heard so many times. Clattering grain dumped into the buckets, then the sploosh of water that had mercifully not frozen. Bannain squealing with delight when a hay flake went flying over his head; Erix’s more sedate grunt of approval at her favorite second cut.
As the horses ate, both men picked their respective steed’s hooves. Mostly clean, though each had been penned in for most of the day. At this time of year, even the hardiest horses could only handle a few hours in the bitter cold, smothered in their blankets and shielded from the wind.
But the creatures were content enough, Uileac decided as Erix played with his hair. In the stall over, Orrinir swore quietly each time Bannain intentionally bumped him or refused to pick up his foot.
“My husband’s the best horse trainer in this whole city, and you’re still such a shit,” Orrinir complained, which Bannain ignored.
Uileac snorted before exiting Erix’s stall with a final pat to his horse’s nose. To add extra warmth, he closed and latched the half-panel grille at the top, just in case the wind snuck through the cracks and blew it open again.
Dark, quiet, cozy, and safe: what his horse preferred on nights like this, when every noise outside was heightened by the cold. Soon enough, he’d be in his own burrow, though kept comfortable by another body stretched beside his.
This task completed, he leaned against Bannain’s stall door, waiting in case Orrinir needed him to intervene, and simply admired the view. Finally, the dun gelding surrendered his final foot, though with several frustrated huffs. Orrinir shot his horse a nasty glance, slammed the half-panel shut, and rejoined his husband.
“You know you love him,” Uileac said while sliding his arm through Orrinir’s; his smile turned mischievous, though he ensured his eyes shone with innocence. “You always adore the difficult animals. It’s in your nature, I suppose.”
At last Orrinir laughed, his breath spiraling in plumes. “Don’t know how I managed that—and not sure whether it was a good idea. You’ll be the death of me one day.”
The living room fire was mumbling quietly to itself as they reentered. After another strenuous disrobing, the two padded side-by-side to their bedroom, lit by vague shadows from beyond the window’s shutters.
Tiny bells resounded through the slats; Uileac said a quiet blessing that he’d never become a Bremish Council guard. Though the position was well-paid and prestigious, so many of them got the worst assignments, like patrolling in the dead of winter when everyone else was asleep.
Freezing as it was, neither man approached the extinguished fireplace, instead sliding right into bed. With several heavy blankets thrown atop them, the cocoon was soon ablaze with body heat. The two entwined their limbs, mouths meeting one another before parting again.
A comfortable lull for several moments, both slowly relaxing. Only once they’d slotted themselves in their typical position—Orrinir curling around his smaller husband, a hand on Uileac’s hip—did either speak.
“I don’t get why you’re so desperate to beat Cerie in the questing,” Orrinir said, his breath warming Uileac’s ear. “You know there’s little chance of success, so why bother?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Uileac countered. “If I don’t, she’ll get all self-important and think herself better than me. Cece must know her place.”
“You’re plenty good at many things she isn’t.” Shifting closer, Orrinir rubbed Uileac’s side. “Have you seen the girl try archery? She misses every time.”
True—and very irritating when she tried to dry-fire his bow. The thing cost a fortune: custom-designed for him, with a herd of horses stampeding across its sides.
And, after all, Orrinir had made a great sacrifice to get it for his future husband. He dated a girl for access to her craftsman father, likely cringing the whole time.
Uileac grinned to himself in the darkness, considered reminding Orrinir of that embarrassing endeavor, then decided he was too comfortable to fight.
“Then I suppose I’ll annoy her enough that she gets frustrated. A different battle of wits.”
“Very much like you,” Orrinir sighed, his voice slowing. “Can’t leave well enough alone.”
As he lay there with his husband, whose hand grew heavy as he sank into sleep, Uileac silently composed the most obnoxious lines he could imagine. Served Cerie right.
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I hope you enjoyed Part 1 of my sweet little story! Part 2 will be released on December 24, so keep an eye out for it 🙂