’Twas the Eve Before Yule on the Edge of the Sea

Posted on Thu Dec 25th, 2025 @ 10:53pm by Lieutenant Leo Da'Cinci
Edited on on Thu Dec 25th, 2025 @ 11:18pm

753 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Character Development
Location: Holodeck

Let’s sing a carol that knows salt and smoke, argument and mercy, iron tools and holy light.

’Twas the Eve Before Yule on the Edge of the Sea

’Twas the eve before Yule, on a wind-scoured green shore,
Where the Atlantic muttered old truths evermore.
The hills held their breath under frost-bitten skies,
And stars leaned in close with a conspirator’s eyes.

A candle burned steady in a whitewashed square frame,
Its flame not for warmth, nor for vanity’s claim,
But to say to the world, to stranger and kin:
You are welcome. The door is unlatched. Enter in.

Inside stood old stones, damp with centuries’ prayer,
And Leo stood listening, tusks tipped with care.
A Tellarite frame in a woollen great coat,
Salt stiff in his beard, brine dark at his throat.

His hands bore the marks of both blessing and fight,
Callused by tools and by words sharpened right.
A craftsman of engines, of arguments too,
He believed in what worked, and in what rang true.

The hearth crackled low with peat-scented flame,
And the kettle sang hymns it never could name.
Outside, the wind worried the holly and yew,
While Yule crept in softly, ancient and new.

The candle in window, an Irish decree,
Said kings and fools stand equal to me.
Tellarite or human, saint, sinner, or guest,
You enter my home, you enter at rest.

Leo grunted approval, a ritual nod,
For hospitality mattered, to him and his god.
Not a god of soft silence or polished decree,
But one forged in labor and blunt honesty.

Midnight drew near as the bells found their voice,
Each toll not a command, but a communal choice.
The chapel down road filled with boots, cloaks, and steam,
With farmers and dreamers and those in-between.

Leo went too, not kneeling, not meek, not subdued...
But present, which counted, if truth be reviewed.
The Mass rang with old words worn smooth by belief,
Like tools passed through hands that knew joy and grief.

Latin drifted like snow through the rafters above,
While candles leaned closer, conspiring with love.
Leo listened, not for absolution or grace...
But for something resilient enough to hold place.

When the priest spoke of birth in a borrowed-out stall,
Leo snorted once, then forgave it all.
For any god born without comfort or crown
Had earned a Tellarite’s grudging bow down.

Outside again, stars flared bright, sharp, and cold,
The sea clapped slow rhythms older than old.
Some ran laughing toward surf’s silver bite,
The mad, the brave, greeting dawn in the night.

Leo watched from the stones as bodies plunged in,
Steam rising like ghosts shedding sins off their skin.
He didn’t join... Tellarites chose heat wisely,
But he saluted the fools, respectfully, slyly.

Christmas morning came blunt, with frost in its teeth,
No sugar, no softness, just truth underneath.
Bread cracked on the table, butter thick and real,
And laughter came easy once bellies could feel.

Tools rested quiet, an honored reprieve,
For even machines must be taught how to breathe.
Leo poured tea, strong enough to argue back,
And toasted the past with a pragmatic clack.

St. Stephen’s Day followed with feathers and din,
As Wren Boys came dancing, all rattle and grin.
Masks fierce and absurd, patched coats full of sound,
They sang for their supper, shook coins from the ground.

Leo eyed them with relish, approving the noise,
Tradition that mocked both tyrants and poise.
One lad bowed too deep, another sang wrong,
And Leo laughed hard, loud, tusked, and strong.

He tossed them some credits, local enough,
And barked, “Your rhythm’s terrible, but your spirit’s not rough.”
The boys cheered approval, took insult as praise,
For Ireland and Tellar both honor that way.

That night, when the fire burned low and sincere,
Leo set down his tools for the closing of year.
He laid iron offerings, not prayers, not pleas...
But promises made in cold honesty.

To build what endured.
To argue what lied.
To welcome the stranger and test them inside.
To hold warmth against winter, truth against fear,
And keep the door open, another full year.

So if ever you pass by a coast sharp with rain,
And see candlelight steady through windowpane,
Know a Tellarite stands where the hearth embers glow,
Grumbling welcome, but meaning it so.

And you’re welcome to argue, to laugh, to belong,
Just mind the tools,
And don’t get the song wrong.

END

 

RSS Feed