37. Thrag

37

THRAG

M y body feels like it's been hit by a boulder, each movement a harsh reminder of the battle I barely survived. Groaning, I try to push myself up, but a searing pain in my side forces me back down. The room spins, and for a moment, I wonder if I've been dragged into the afterlife. "Am I... dead?" I ask aloud. My voice is a raw croak, the words barely recognizable.

A sharp intake of breath cuts through the fog in my head, and I squint through the haze. Claire's face swims into view, her eyes filled with tears. Her hands are cold against my skin, but the warmth in her touch anchors me to the present. "You’re awake!" she breathes out.

Claire’s relief pours out in sobs as she leans over me, her forehead resting against mine. "You scared me," she whispers. "It’s been three days. I thought I’d lost you."

Still feeling confused, I look around the room out of the corner of my eyes. I'm lying in a strange bed, the walls of the hut lined with herbs and medical supplies. It's cramped and smells of the earth, but it's shelter—and it's where she's been. "Three days? Christmas... I ruined it?" I ask, my voice reflecting my confusion.

Claire lets out a watery chuckle, shaking her head. "No, you big idiot. I don’t care about Christmas. I care about you," she says softly.

My brow furrows, confusion still clouding my thoughts. Why does she care so much for someone like me—an orc, a former warrior, a wanderer with no home? "I... I didn't realize how deeply you felt," I manage to say, my voice but a whisper.

Claire pulls back slightly, her gaze locked onto mine. "I love you very much, Thrag," she says, her words steady and sure. "Unconditionally. Forever and always."

The intensity of her gaze, the raw honesty in her voice—it's too much, yet not enough. My heart thunders in my chest, responding to her declaration with an undeniable truth of my own. "I love you too, Claire," I say, the words feeling right, like the missing piece of a puzzle I never knew was incomplete.

I try to move to hold her, but my body protests in pain. But that pain is eclipsed by a warmth in my chest I've never felt before. Her words, that declaration of love, has seeped into my very soul.

"You've shown me more kindness and generosity than I thought possible in this harsh world. You make me want to be better, to heal, to protect," I say to her. "But I must ask you?—"

She silences me with a gentle fingertip to my lips. "You don't have to say it," she whispers, but I need her to know, to affirm it, to make the dream that's started to flourish within the barren wasteland of my heart a reality.

I cradle her hand, pressing her palm against my cheek—a silent oath to honor and protect her always. "Claire, will you be my mate?" I ask, my voice unusually soft. A tremor runs through her, a visible sign of the raw emotion that surges between us. And then she smiles, lighting up the dimly lit hut with her radiant joy.

"Yes," she answers without hesitation, "I will, Thrag."

Our lips meet in an affirmation of our souls' contract. It is tender yet fleeting—a mere brush of vulnerability, interrupted by a sharp cry from me. "Ow, careful!" I grumble, wincing from the shooting pain across my ribcage.

Claire pulls back slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching upward into an impish smirk that I find more endearing than I should. She playfully chides me, "Behave, or I'll make you wait another three days to kiss me again."

This small act of defiance is quintessentially Claire—a beacon of light in a never-ending night. I can't help but chuckle, the vibration of my chest causing me more discomfort, but still, I revel in this moment.

She suddenly unveils something from her pocket—a red scarf. She holds it out to me, and I see that the stitches are imperfect and uneven but crafted with an indisputable love and care. "I made this for you, Thrag. Merry Christmas," she says softly.

Her gesture reminds me of the gift I made for her, that I was supposed to give her on Christmas Eve. The memory of that wooden figurine feels like a boulder sitting heavily atop the wreckage that is my body. What was supposed to be the embodiment of my understanding of the human tradition and my appreciation for her resilient spirit now rests among the trampled snow, destroyed in that fateful battle. Shame coils in the pit of my stomach at the loss of her Christmas gift—a tangible representation of my affection towards her.

"It was a beautiful gift, Claire..." I say. I struggle to find the right words, my grasp of human customs still frustratingly inadequate.

She dismisses my concerns with an ease that astounds me, the depth of her empathy a constant mystery. Her fingers trace over the faded scars of my brow, her tender touch stirring something in me. "You have already given me the most precious Christmas gift, my love," she reassures me with a conviction I'm unaccustomed to. "With every heartbeat, Thrag, you remind us all what it means to fight, to survive. You saved us, brought us to safety, sheltered us with your valor. The best gift has been having you here beside me—alive. That is all I would ever want this Christmas."

In this moment with Claire, with her simple, unornamented love, and the imperfect red scarf I now hold like a precious relic of our past, I no longer see myself as that lost and wandering brute without purpose or heart. No, in this woman's eyes and in this simple gift's stitches, lies the irrefutable truth—I am the protector of her joy, and she is mine forever.