Page 6 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

"Thank you, Thrag," she says softly, the sound of my name on her lips both foreign and oddly comforting.

I grunt in response, not trusting myself to speak. This human, Claire, is a puzzle I haven't yet figured out how to solve.She's unlike any creature I've encountered before—resilient, resourceful, and far too trusting for her own good.

As the night deepens, I find myself acutely aware of her presence. She moves to sit closer to the fire, the light playing across her features, highlighting the scars that mark her as a survivor, much like myself.

"You're welcome here for the night," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I'm not accustomed to playing host, especially not to someone who represents everything I've been taught to distrust.

"I appreciate that, Thrag," she replies softly.

We return to a comfortable silence for several moments. She sits close by the fire, her hands clasped together, her eyes alight with curiosity as she surveys my cave.

"Do all orcs live in caves?" she asks, her tone light. "Or is this just your thing?"

I grunt,the sound rumbling from deep within my chest. The truth is, I've never given much thought to where I lay my head at night. A cave, a clearing—it matters little when you're always on the move, always looking over your shoulder.

"No," I say finally, my voice a low growl. Her questions make me uneasy. I'm not used to sharing my space, let alone my thoughts. But there's something disarming about her chatter—it fills the silence that has haunted me for months.

"You… talk a lot," I say, my voice gruffer than intended.

Her face falls, a flicker of hurt passing over her features before she masks it with a shrug. "Sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you," she says quietly.

I shift uncomfortably, the weight of my axe a familiar presence at my side. "I'm just not used to company," I mutter, surprised by my own admission. This woman, with her endlessquestions and her relentless optimism, is slowly chipping away at the walls I've built around myself.

Her stomach growls, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the cave. Without a word, I rise and retrieve a handful of fresh fruit from my supplies—a rare find in this frozen wasteland. I extend the food to her, my movements grudging, as if I'm not entirely comfortable with this act of kindness.

"Eat. Then sleep," I command, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She smiles—a small, genuine smile that catches me off guard. "Thank you, Thrag. For everything," she says, her voice filled with gratitude.

I don't respond, but as she eats, I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her presence shouldn't be a comfort, yet I find myself strangely at ease.

The cave grows quiet, save for the occasional snap from the fire. Claire finishes her meal and curls up near the warmth, her eyes fluttering closed. I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and I can't help but feel a strange sense of protectiveness toward her.

7

CLAIRE

The cavern's ceiling looms above me, craggy and indifferent. Thrag is over against the nearby wall, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. The fire has dwindled to a soft murmur, its glow dancing across the planes of his face, softening the harshness of his scars.

I can't tear my eyes away from the jagged line that mars his throat—a brutal testament to a life steeped in violence. I wonder how many times he's stared death in the face and emerged unbroken. He's a walking contradiction, this orc, fierce and oddly gentle all at once.

"I've taken his bed," I whisper to myself, the guilt gnawing at me. It's a ridiculous thing to fret over, given the circumstances, but I can't shake the feeling that I've wronged him somehow.

I shift on the furs, the rustle of their movement breaking the stillness. Thrag doesn't stir. His features are relaxed in sleep, a stark difference from the perpetual scowl that seems etched upon his brow when awake.

"How do you do it?" I murmur into the quiet. "How do you carry on alone?"

The question hangs unanswered, lost in the shadows that play upon the cave walls. I know that orcs are social creatures, pack animals ruled by the strength of their clans. Thrag, though, is a lone wolf, severed somehow from the ties that bind his kind. The thought sends a pang of sympathy through me.

I draw my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly. The tunic he gave me is oversized, the fabric pooling around my body like a protective cocoon. It smells faintly of him—pine and earth. It's oddly comforting, in a way I never would have expected from an orc.

"I should be afraid," I tell myself. "He's a monster, isn't he? That's what they've always said."

But as I watch him sleep, the word 'monster' feels like a poor fit for him. He's saved me. He's shared his food and his fire, and offered me shelter in a world that's grown increasingly hostile.

My eyelids grow heavy once more, and I let them fall shut. As I drift off to sleep, I can't help but feel safer than I have in a long while.

In the haze of sleep, I dream of Thrag's scarred hands moving with a gentleness along my arm, of his voice—gruff and low—offering words of reassurance. I dream of the impossible—a future where fear and uncertainty aren't constants, where an orc and a human might find common ground.

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