Page 37 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

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 remindsme 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 traceover 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.

38

CLAIRE

The morning of our mating ceremony dawns bright and crisp, the sky a clear canvas of pale blue overhead. Our settlement, once a place of ruin and despair, now thrives with life and hope, its transformation as remarkable as the journey Thrag and I have embarked upon together.

I stand before a polished piece of metal that serves as a makeshift mirror, my hands smoothing the fabric of my dress, a patchwork of garments stitched together by the women of our village. The red and gold threads catch the light, making the material shimmer. My hair, usually a wild tangle of auburn waves, is tamed into a braid, adorned with sprigs of wintergreen and tiny white flowers that managed to defy the harsh winter.

Thrag waits for me at the heart of the settlement, his towering figure draped in a new cloak, the colors of which match my dress. His golden eyes meet mine, and even from a distance, I can see the warmth and pride reflected in them. It's a stark contrast to the savage warrior I first encountered in the wilderness, his transformation no less profound than our surroundings.

Alfonso stands between us, his voice steady and resonant as he officiates the ceremony. The words he speaks weave a tapestry of commitment and unity, each vow a thread binding Thrag and me together.

"Do you, Claire, take Thrag as your mate, to face battles and joys alike?" Alfonso asks, his gaze unwavering.

A smile tugs at my lips, my heart thrumming with an irrepressible joy. "I do," I reply.

Alfonso turns to Thrag, who stands with a quiet strength beside me. "And do you, Thrag, take Claire, to protect and cherish until your last breath?" he asks.

Thrag's deep voice rumbles through the air, each word a solemn vow. "I do." he says.

A cheer erupts from the villagers surrounding us, their voices a symphony of celebration. Thrag's hand envelops mine, his touch a comforting presence. Our lips meet in a kiss that seals our union, the world around us fading into a blur of warmth and color.

As the ceremony concludes, the villagers crowd around us, their faces alight with smiles and tears. Thrag's hand is firm and reassuring in mine as we weave through the crowd of revelers. His wounds have healed remarkably well under Alfonso's attentive care, and the strength with which he moves is a testament to his orcish resilience.

"You look like you've just been handed the keys to the kingdom," I tease, my eyes sparkling.

He grins down at me, his golden eyes alight with a joy that is both infectious and humbling. "With you by my side, I already hold the greatest treasure," he replies, his voice a deep rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

The rhythmic pounding of the drums soon reverberates through the earth. Banners of red and gold flutter in the wind,casting a vibrant glow over the settlement. The scent of roasted meat and spiced cider fills the air.

The villagers have embraced the orcish tradition of dance with a fervor that speaks volumes of their newfound acceptance. The ground trembles beneath the weight of their stomping feet as they move in a rhythm that is as ancient as the mountains that cradle our valley.

Thrag leads me into the throng, his hand guiding me with a gentle firmness. We spin and twist, our bodies moving in harmony with the music. Laughter bubbles up from my chest, pure and uninhibited, as he lifts me effortlessly, his strength undiminished by the injuries he so recently sustained.

"Again!" someone shouts from the crowd, and a chorus of cheers follows. Thrag's eyes meet mine, a playful challenge gleaming within their depths.

"As you wish," he says, and with a swift motion, he spins me around, my laughter mingling with the music and the shouts of joy from our people.

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