26. Claire

26

CLAIRE

T he icy air nips at my cheeks, a reminder of the harsh world beyond the cave's mouth. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and watch the men work tirelessly under Thrag's attentive eye. The snowfall is gentle, a soft veil descending upon the landscape, muffling the sounds of their labor. Thrag's hulking form moves with a purpose, his every motion precise and commanding. He's a pillar of strength amidst the uncertainty, and I can't help but feel a surge of pride.

The men are setting up traps around the perimeter, following Thrag's lead. They're still wary of him, their eyes darting to his brooding form. They're unsure of what to make of this orc who has, for reasons beyond their understanding, chosen to stand with us rather than against us. Yet, there's a grudging respect slowly taking root. One of the men, a burly blacksmith named Harlan, actually offers Thrag a stiff nod of approval after he secures a trap with a final, decisive thud.

I step forward slightly, my boots crunching in the fresh snow. "You're doing a great job," I call out, my voice carrying on the wind. Thrag turns at the sound of my voice, his golden eyes meeting mine. A faint smile tugs at his lips, a rare sight that sends a flutter through my chest.

"Claire," he rumbles, his deep voice resonating through the earth. "Come see."

I approach hesitantly, my heart pounding a little faster with each step. The men part to let me through, their curious gazes following me. Thrag gestures to the trap, a complex contraption of sharpened stakes and hidden magic. "This will alert us if anyone unwanted tries to approach," he explains.

"It's impressive," I admit, my eyes tracing the lines of the trap before lifting to meet his gaze. "You've taught them well."

He grunts in reply, a flush of green darkening his cheeks. Thrag has always been a man of few words, but his actions speak volumes. He's earning their trust, one trap at a time.

Harlan clears his throat, breaking the moment. "We should get back to work. There's much to do before nightfall," he urges.

Thrag nods, turning back to the task at hand. I linger for a moment, watching as he guides Harlan's hands, correcting the angle of a trap. The scene is surreal—an orc and a human, working side by side, united by a common goal.

As I walk away, I can't help but feel a sense of hope. This Christmas will be unlike any other, but perhaps, in this cave, we can find a new kind of celebration. One born of necessity, survival, and the unlikely bonds formed in the face of adversity.

"Claire!" Sammy calls out. Her voice cuts through the murmur of the settlers, her call to action a familiar rallying cry. I make my way over. Our meager provisions simmer in the pot she carries.

"Time to feed the men," she says, passing me a tray laden with bowls.

The smell of the stew sets my stomach rumbling in protest of its emptiness. I take two bowls, the heat seeping through the worn wood and into my palms. "What about Thrag's?" I ask, glancing toward the orc who's become our unlikely savior.

Sammy hesitates, her forehead creasing with worry. "We don't have enough for... someone his size," she mutters. Her words hang heavy in the air, a stark reminder of our precarious situation.

A pang of guilt twists in my gut. "He's doing so much for us. It's not fair," I say. I can't bear the thought of him going without, especially after all he's done.

Sammy sighs, her gaze sweeping over the bustling camp. "I know, but... we're pooling everything together, Claire. We barely have enough as it is. If this keeps up…" Her voice trails off, the unspoken implications lingering between us.

I shake my head, determination setting in. "Give him my share," I insist.

Sammy's eyes widen in shock. "Claire, no! You'll starve," she says.

I offer her a reassuring smile, my mind set. "I'll be fine. I'll eat some dried fruit later. Thrag needs this more than I do," I say firmly.

With the bowls balanced precariously in my hands, I navigate the icy terrain. The men are huddled together, their breaths visible in the frigid air as they share quiet words.

"Thrag!" I call out, my voice carrying over the sound of tools clanging against stone and wood. He turns, his golden eyes locking onto mine.

I approach, extending a bowl toward him. "Here. Eat," I insist.

Thrag takes the bowl, his large hand dwarfing the simple wooden vessel. His gaze flickers to the tray in my other hand, noting its lack of contents. "Where's yours?" he asks, his deep voice rumbling with concern.

I wave off his question, a flush creeping up my cheeks. "I already ate," I lie, the betrayal of my own body impossible to ignore as my stomach growls audibly.

Thrag pauses, the bowl halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he sets it down on a nearby rock, his eyes never leaving mine. "Claire," he says, his tone firm yet gentle. "What's going on?"

I try to laugh it off, but the sound rings hollow in the crisp air. "I'm fine, really. Just... eat," I say.

He shakes his head. "I won't eat if you don't," he says firmly.

My heart skips a beat at his words, the depth of his concern both surprising and heartwarming. "Thrag, you need your strength. You can't protect us if you're weak from hunger," I persist.

His jaw sets in a stubborn line, a silent vow that he'll endure whatever hardships come our way—so long as I do the same. "Then we'll be weak together," he says, his gaze unwavering.

The absurdity of the situation hits me, and despite everything, I find myself smiling. Here I am, a human woman, trying to convince an orc warrior to take care of himself because he insists on sharing in our suffering.