Page 9 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

"Do you ever season your food?" I ask, wrinkling my nose as I inspect the bland fare.

Thrag raises an eyebrow, his large hand reaching for a piece of the dried meat. "Food is food," he says, his voice carrying a note of confusion.

I chuckle, shaking my head as I pluck a few sprigs of thyme. "Here, let me show you something," I say, crushing the herbs between my fingers, releasing their fragrant aroma. "Trust me, you'll thank me later."

With a bit of water from our flasks, I mix the herbs into the meat. Thrag watches me with a curious expression.

"Try it now," I urge, handing him a piece of the seasoned meat.

He takes a tentative bite, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. "It's... better," he admits, a hint of astonishment in his voice.

I laugh, the sound echoing through the forest. "I told you so," I tease, unable to hide my glee at his reaction. It's a small victory,but an important one—a shared moment that seems to bridge the gap between our worlds.

We soon continue our trek, but night is approaching quickly. Thrag suggests we stop for the night and make camp. The wind howls as Thrag and I soon huddle under the sparse shelter of a cluster of trees. The fire crackles softly, a small beacon of warmth in the encroaching chill of the night. My body shivers despite the heavy layers of clothing and the heat radiating from the flames.

"Are you cold?" Thrag asks.

"A little," I admit, hugging my knees tighter to my chest. "Could we… cuddle?"

The question hangsin the air, as fragile as the ice crystals forming on the edges of my scarf. Thrag's brow furrows, his expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. "What is this... cuddle?" he asks.

I chuckle. "It's when two people hold each other for warmth," I explain, my gaze dropping to the patchwork of scars on his hands. "It's a human thing, I guess."

He's silent for a moment, his massive form tense. "You want to do this... with me?" he asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"I trust you," I say, my words carrying the heaviness of all we've been through. "And I don't want to freeze to death before we even reach my people."

Thrag hesitates, his eyes searching mine, and after a moment, he nods. "Fine," he grunts, lying down on the frozen ground. "But only to keep you from freezing."

I crawl over to him, my heart pounding in my chest. The idea of pressing myself against an orc would have seemed ludicrous days ago, yet here I am, lowering myself onto the makeshift bed of furs beside him.

His body is rigid as I curl against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat comforting against my ear. "Relax," I whisper. "It's just for warmth."

Slowly, his muscles uncoil, and he wraps one arm around me, pulling me closer. "This is... strange," he admits, his voice a low murmur that vibrates through me.

I laugh softly, the tension easing from my body as I settle into the curve of his arm. My eyelids soon grow heavy.

I drift off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic sound of Thrag's breathing. In my dreams, I see my father, his beard white as snow, donning a red coat and a wide, jolly smile. He's Santa, the embodiment of hope and joy during the darkest of winters.

I wake before dawn,the first rays of sunlight filtering through the bare branches of the trees. Thrag is still asleep, his features softened in the gentle light. For a moment, I allow myself to simply watch him, this orc who has become my unlikely protector.

Could it be that Thrag is a gift, a precious treasure sent to me by the universe? The thought is both absurd and oddly comforting. I reach out tentatively. His heart beats steadily beneath my touch.

I can’t help but feel that Thrag's presence in my life is more than just a twist of fate. It's as if the spirit of Christmas itself has wrapped its arms around me, offering a glimmer of hope in a world cloaked in darkness.

10

THRAG

The first rays of dawn paint the sky in hues of orange and pink as I rise. The cold ground beneath me does little to dampen the ache in my bones. Claire is already up, her small frame hunched over the dying embers of our fire, a stick in hand as she prods at the ashes. She looks up as I stretch, her lips curling into a grin that seems to light up the dreary morning.

"Good morning, grumpy," she chirps, and I can't help but grunt in response. Her cheerfulness is like a splash of color in a world that has been nothing but gray since my clan fell.

I grab my axe, the weight of it familiar and comforting in my hand. "Let's move," I say, my voice gruffer than intended.

As we journey onward, Claire chatters incessantly.

"Why do you keep your hair so long?" she asks, her gaze lingering on the wild mane that cascades down my back.

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