10. Thrag

10

THRAG

T he first rays of dawn paint the sky in hues of orange and pink as I rise. The cold ground beneath me does little to dampen the ache in my bones. Claire is already up, her small frame hunched over the dying embers of our fire, a stick in hand as she prods at the ashes. She looks up as I stretch, her lips curling into a grin that seems to light up the dreary morning.

"Good morning, grumpy," she chirps, and I can't help but grunt in response. Her cheerfulness is like a splash of color in a world that has been nothing but gray since my clan fell.

I grab my axe, the weight of it familiar and comforting in my hand. "Let's move," I say, my voice gruffer than intended.

As we journey onward, Claire chatters incessantly.

"Why do you keep your hair so long?" she asks, her gaze lingering on the wild mane that cascades down my back.

I shrug, my breath forming little clouds in the frigid air. "No reason," I reply, though in truth, it's a reminder of who I am—or who I was. A warrior of the Goretusk clan.

"Can I braid it?" she asks, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I give her a look, but the word 'no' somehow doesn't make it past my lips. Instead, I find myself slowing down, allowing her to catch up with me. Her fingers are deft and sure as she begins to work on my hair, her touch surprisingly gentle.

I can't help but watch her from the corner of my eye, her focus solely on the task at hand. Her trust in me is baffling. She's too naive, too kind—traits that would get her killed if she were alone in this harsh world. The thought of her out here, defenseless against the elements or worse, other orcs, sends a surge of protectiveness through me.

I clench my fists, a silent vow forming in my mind. I will bring her home, no matter what. She doesn't belong in this world of bloodshed and brutality. She's like a delicate bloom in a field of weeds, and it's up to me to ensure she gets back to her people unscathed.

As we continue our journey, I find myself drawn to her warmth, her laughter—a stark contrast to the cold silence that has been my constant companion.

The frigid air nips at my skin as I lead the way through the frost-kissed wilderness, the snow crunching under our boots. Claire trails behind me. Her voice dances around me, a constant babble about plants and the upcoming winter.

Suddenly, her chatter is cut short by a sharp, excited scream. My heart leaps into my throat, my axe instinctively raised as I spin around, ready to face whatever threat has caught her attention. But instead of an enemy, I find Claire crouched on the ground, her hands cupped around something.

"Look!" she exclaims, her eyes shining. She opens her hands to reveal a handful of acorns. "We can use these to make decorations for the Christmas tree!"

I frown, my axe slowly lowering. "Christmas tree?" I repeat, my confusion evident. "I've never heard of that species."

Claire laughs, the sound as warm as a crackling fire. "Not a species, Thrag. It's a tradition. We decorate an evergreen tree to celebrate Christmas," she replies.

She then begins to explain 'Christmas'—a time of love, giving, and hope. Her words paint a vivid picture of a world I've never known, one where acts of kindness are given freely without expectation.

I shake my head, my disbelief plain. "No one gives without expecting something in return," I argue. It's a truth I've learned the hard way, in a life marked by loss and betrayal.

Claire's face softens, and she reaches out to touch my arm gently. "That's what makes Christmas special, Thrag. It's about believing in the goodness of others, even when it's hard," she says.

Her words hang in the air between us, a challenge to my long-held beliefs. I grunt, turning away to hide the turmoil I'm sure is visible on my face. I've seen too much of this world's cruelty to believe in such... naivety.

Yet, as we continue our journey, her words remain lodged in my mind, gnawing away at the walls I've built around my heart. I can't shake the feeling that there's something different about Claire, something that makes me want to believe in her impossible ideals.

We trudge onward, the landscape around us a blanket of white. Claire's enthusiasm is infectious, and despite my best efforts, I find myself drawn into her world—a world where hope is more than just a fleeting dream.

The day grows late, and the setting sun casts long shadows across the snow. I lead us to a secluded spot, where the trees provide some shelter from the biting wind. As I gather wood for a fire, Claire sets about collecting more acorns, her laughter echoing through the stillness.

That night, as the fire crackles and pops, Claire uses a small knife to carve the acorns into intricate shapes. She offers to show me how, and with a shrug, I accept. Her fingers deftly guide mine, her touch sending jolts of warmth through me.

"See?" she says, her voice soft. "It's not so difficult."

I grunt in response, focusing on the task at hand. But my thoughts are elsewhere, caught up in the enigma that is Claire. She's chipped away at my defenses, revealing a vulnerability I never knew existed.

As the moon rises high above us, casting a silver glow over the landscape, I find myself wondering if perhaps there's a place for hope in this harsh world after all. And maybe, just maybe, it's been right in front of me this whole time.

I glance over at Claire, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. She catches me looking and smiles, a smile that seems to hold the promise of something more—something I never thought I'd find.