25. Thrag

25

THRAG

T he morning air is sharp against my skin as I stand at the edge of the settlement. Chaos reigns around me, a symphony of fear and desperation as the villagers prepare to abandon their homes. But my gaze always finds its way back to Claire.

She moves with purpose among the crowd. Her voice is a steady beacon amidst the turmoil. As I watch her, a fierce protectiveness wells up within me. I've seen the scars she tries to hide, the strength that belies her slender frame. She's a survivor, like me.

"Thrag!" Claire calls out, her breath misting in the air. "Can you scout ahead? Make sure the path is clear?"

I nod, hefting my axe onto my shoulder. "I'll ensure the way is safe," I say. She smiles at me, a fleeting moment of gratitude that warms me more than any fire could.

As I trudge through the snow, my senses alert for any sign of danger, my thoughts are consumed by her. The memory of our night together is a brand on my soul, a sweet ache that refuses to fade. I've taken many lives, seen countless horrors, but nothing could have prepared me for the gentleness of Claire's touch, the softness of her lips against mine.

I return from my scouting to find the villagers forming into groups. Mothers clutch their children close. The elderly huddle together. Their eyes are wide with fear. I step forward, my presence commanding silence.

"Mothers and children first," I declare, my voice carrying over the crowd. "Elders next, then the men at the rear. Keep close, stay vigilant."

Vincent, their leader, nods in agreement. "We'll follow your lead, Thrag," he says compliantly.

Claire's eyes find mine across the crowd, and I feel the significance of her trust like a tangible thing. It's a burden I carry willingly.

The journey to the cave is grueling. The snow is a relentless foe beneath our feet. I stay at the front, my boots breaking trail, my eyes scanning the horizon for any hint of movement.

Every so often, I glance back at Claire. Her determination is a bright flame against the white canvas of the wilderness. She never complains and never falters. She's the heart of this group, their beacon of hope.

By afternoon, the cave looms ahead. It's a massive structure hidden within the cliffs, a formidable fortress. Its stone walls are a promise of safety. As the villagers file inside, their relief is palpable.

I watch over them closely. My chest soon swells with a strange sense of pride. I've done this. I've helped keep them alive.

I turn to the elders, outlining my plan for traps around the cave's perimeter. "We need a warning system," I explain, my voice firm. "Traps will alert us to any intruders."

Vincent claps a hand on my shoulder. "Your tactics will serve us well, Thrag. We're in your debt," he says, his voice tinged with gratitude.

I grunt in acknowledgment, dismissing the praise. It's not about debt or repayment. It's about survival, about protecting those who can't protect themselves.

Later that night, firelight dances across the faces of the villagers, casting flickering shadows on the cavernous walls of our refuge. The scent of stewed game and herbs fills the air, a comforting aroma that reminds me of the meals my clan once shared. I sit on the cold stone floor, my back to the cave wall, an unlikely figure of protection amidst the sea of humans.

A group of women approaches me. Their eyes shimmer with a mix of fear and gratitude. Each carries a bowl of steaming stew, their hands unsteady as they offer the meal. I accept with a curt nod. My chest feels uncharacteristically warm at their gesture. These people, who once recoiled at the sight of me, now look upon me with something akin to respect. It's a sensation I'm not accustomed to, but I find myself not entirely opposed to it.

"Thank you, Thrag," one of the women murmurs, her gaze quickly darting away from mine. I grunt in response and focus on the stew before me. The flavors are simple and hearty, a testament to Claire's teachings about seasoning. I swallow a mouthful, the warmth spreading through me, and for a moment, I allow myself to believe that perhaps, we can survive this winter.

Across the fire, Claire's gaze meets mine. Her smile is a beacon in the dim light of the cave, a silent thank you that resonates deep within me. She rises and navigates through the clusters of villagers. Her steps are sure and steady as she comes to sit beside me.

"You embody the spirit of Christmas," Claire teases, her eyes twinkling.

I frown, the concept of this 'Christmas' still foreign to me. "What does that even mean?" I ask.

She grins, her teeth a bright flash in the firelight. "It means helping others without expectation," she explains. Her voice drops to a whisper, and she adds, "We just need to exchange gifts now, and it will really feel like Christmas."

My frown deepens. "Gifts?" I question, the word unfamiliar on my tongue.

"Yes," Claire replies, her excitement palpable. "It's a tradition. You give something meaningful to someone else." She hesitates, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I have something for you. But it's a surprise."

I watch her, my mind racing. The idea of giving—and receiving—is not something orcs typically concern themselves with. We take what we need, defend what is ours. But this... this is different.

"What should I give?" I ask.

Claire's smile returns, soft and encouraging. "Anything. It's the thought that counts," she says softly.

I nod, determination settling within me. I will find something worthy of her, something that conveys the tumultuous feelings she's stirred within my calloused heart.

As the night wears on, the villagers begin to settle, their energy waning after the day's exertions. I keep my vigil by the fire, my thoughts consumed by the enigma that is Claire.