36. Claire

36

CLAIRE

T he cold night air cuts through my heavy coat as I stand in the middle of the forest. My heart aches at the sight of Thrag's motionless form against the snow. The men who had carried him here, with the intention of ending his suffering, now regard me with a mixture of pity and impatience. I refuse to let them extinguish the spark of hope that still flickers within me.

"No," I say again, the word a lifeline I cling to with desperate fingers. "There's always hope."

My mind races, searching for the right words, the right argument to make them see reason. But before I can speak, a new voice slices through the tension-laden air.

"Enough!" The command is sharp, authoritative. Elder Vincent emerges from the trees. Beside him walks the oldest member of our village, a man named Alfonso, whose presence commands much respect.

Alfonso's gaze sweeps over the assembled men and me before settling on Thrag. "This orc," he begins, his voice carrying the burden of many winters, "has done more for our settlement than some of our own kin. He has fought for us, bled for us. And if we must exhaust every last resource we have to save him, then that is what we shall do."

A murmur ripples through the men, a wave of surprise and uncertainty. They exchange glances, their resolve wavering under the weight of Alfonso's decree.

Vincent nods solemnly, his eyes meeting mine. "We owe him that much," he says, his voice firm. "Let's get him back to the clearing outside the cave."

The men, spurred into action by the elder's words, lift Thrag carefully and begin the trek back to the cave. I follow close behind, my eyes never leaving Thrag's ashen face.

As we reach the clearing, the other villagers break into applause, their cheers echoing through the night. Even those who had advocated for Thrag's swift end now nod in agreement.

I fall to my knees beside Thrag, my hands hovering over his wounds. "We're going to save you," I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion. "I promise."

Vincent and Alfonso join me, their expressions grave but resolute. "We'll need to work quickly," Alfonso says, his hands steady as he assesses Thrag's injuries.

I allow myself a brief moment of relief. Thrag is not out of danger yet, but for the first time since this ordeal began, I feel a glimmer of hope.

I turn to Vincent, my eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you," I say, my voice choked with gratitude. "For standing up for him. For giving him a chance."

Vincent places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It was the right thing to do," he says simply. "And besides, I've seen the way you look at him. The way he looks at you. Love like that... it's worth fighting for."

Then, Alfonso places his weathered hand on my other shoulder. "This is the spirit of Christmas, child," he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil surrounding us. "Thrag is our Santa, not just for the children but for all of us. Saving him is the greatest gift we could give him."

The villagers, once divided by fear and suspicion, now move with a singular purpose, their actions a testament to the unity Alfonso's wisdom inspires. Even Samuel, filled with deep remorse, helps in the quest to save Thrag. They carry Thrag's massive, unconscious form to Alfonso's hut nearby. I refuse to leave his side, my fingers brushing against Thrag's as I whisper, "Please, wake up. Please."

Inside the hut, the air is thick with the scent of herbs and the tension of our collective anxiety. Alfonso's hands move with practiced precision as he stitches wounds and applies salves, his concentration unbroken even as sweat beads on his furrowed brow.

I watch, helpless, as the old man works tirelessly to mend the damage wrought by the battle. My own hands clench and unclench in my lap, the urge to do something—anything—to alleviate Thrag's pain nearly overwhelming.

The night wears on, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across the hut's interior. Outside, the villagers keep watch, their vigilance a silent vow to protect Thrag.

Alfonso finally leans back, his work complete for the moment. He meets my gaze, his eyes reflecting a sorrow tempered by hope. "We've done all we can for now," he says softly. "The rest is up to him—and fate."

I swallow hard, my throat tight with unshed tears. "Thank you, Alfonso," I whisper, my voice barely louder than the whispering flames of the hearth. "For everything."

As the old man leaves the room to rest, I am left alone with Thrag, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of his labored breathing. I reach out, gently tracing the contours of his face.

"You can't leave me now, Thrag," I murmur, my words a silent prayer to whatever higher power might be listening. "Not when I've only just found you. Not when we have so much left to discover—about each other, about this world, about the future we could build together."

I think back to the first time I saw him, his imposing figure cutting through the snow-laden forest with a grace that belied his formidable size. I remember the fear that had coiled in my stomach, the assumption that he, like the other orcs I had encountered, was a threat to be avoided at all costs.

But Thrag had proven me wrong, his actions time and again revealing a depth of character and an inner strength that had nothing to do with brute force. He had become my protector, my confidant, my partner in navigating the tumultuous waters of our shared existence.

And now, as I sit vigil by his side, I realize with a clarity that pierces my very soul that I love him—fully, unconditionally, and with a passion that ignites a fire within me.

With renewed resolve, I vow to remain by his side, to be his anchor in the storm that rages around us. I will be there when he wakes, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead, together.

Because that is what love is—a promise, a commitment, a bond that transcends the boundaries of race, of caste, of the very world itself.