I busy myself with the small pot I salvaged from our flight, checking the root vegetables I managed to forage yesterday while he lay unconscious. Turnips and wild onions, nothing fancy, but they'll make decent broth with the rabbit I caught this morning. My hands move through familiar motions while my mind wrestles with contradictions I can't reconcile.
Maybe it's the injury. Pain and weakness could make anyone more agreeable, more dependent on kindness from strangers. But he's been awake for an hour now, alert enough for conversation, and still he watches Eira's decorating project with what looks suspiciously like genuine interest.
"The pattern you're making," he tells her, gesturing toward the careful arrangement of berries and twigs, "it reminds me of star charts my people use for navigation."
"Really?" Eira's eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for new discoveries. "Do the stars tell you where to go?"
"Sometimes." His smile transforms his entire face, softening features that should intimidate into something almost... warm. "Though they're better at telling you where you've been."
The observation carries unexpected depth, the kind of philosophical bent I wouldn't have credited to any orc, let alone one who claims to be a simple scout. I steal another glance at him while stirring the broth, noting details that escaped me during yesterday's crisis.
He's handsome. The admission comes unbidden and unwelcome, but I can't deny what my eyes insist on seeing. Sharp cheekbones offset by the civilized length of his tusks, storm-colored eyes that actually listen when people speak, dark hair shot through with premature silver that speaks to responsibility shouldered young. Even weakened by poison, he carries himself with unconscious authority that makes the cramped shelter feel smaller.
When did I start noticing such things? When did survival allow space for thoughts beyond the next meal, the next safe place to sleep?
"Mama makes the best soup in the whole world," Eira announces with fierce loyalty, apparently deciding our guest needs to know this crucial information.
"I'm sure she does." Nelrish's attention shifts to me with uncomfortable directness. "The smell alone suggests considerable skill."
Heat climbs my neck at the simple compliment. In the bunkers, only specialized workers were allowed near the food. Our leaders did not trust easy, not willing to give anyopportunity to be poisoned. Learning to work with actual ingredients came later, born from necessity when foraged meals became our only option. But pride in small accomplishments feels dangerous when shared with someone whose intentions I can't read.
"It's just broth," I deflect, ladling the steaming liquid into three metal cups scavenged from abandoned settlements. "Nothing special."
"Everything's special when you're hungry enough." He accepts the offered cup with careful hands, still steadier than they should be given yesterday's condition. "Thank you."
The gratitude sounds genuine, but then orcs are skilled at deception when it serves their purposes. I settle cross-legged at what I judge to be a safe distance—close enough to provide assistance if needed, far enough to run if this civility proves false.
Eira abandons her decorating to claim her own cup, settling between us with the unconscious trust of childhood. The arrangement forms an awkward triangle around our small fire, intimate in ways that make my pulse quicken for reasons I refuse to examine.
"Look, it's snowing harder!" Eira points toward the shelter entrance, where fat flakes drift past our improvised doorway. "Perfect for the rites!"
She sets down her barely-touched broth and scrambles outside, apparently immune to cold that makes me pull my coat tighter. Within moments, I hear her voice raised in delight as she discovers some new wonder winter has provided.
"She's remarkable." Nelrish sips his broth with careful appreciation, watching through the gap where Eira disappeared. "Most children her age would be frightened by everything you've both endured."
"She's stronger than she looks." The words come sharp with protective instinct. "She's had to be."
Something shifts in his expression at my tone—understanding, perhaps, or recognition of familiar pain. "Children shouldn't need such strength."
"No." I test my own broth, using the ritual to avoid meeting his eyes. "But the world doesn't care what children should or shouldn't need."
"True enough." His voice carries agreement edged with old grief, making me wonder what losses shaped his perspective. "Still, she maintains joy despite everything. That's rarer than strength."
The observation hits closer to truth than comfortable. Eira does find wonder in small things—snowflakes and berry patterns and conversations with strange orcs who should terrify her. Sometimes I envy that resilience, the way she adapts to circumstances that would break most adults.
"My grandmother used to say joy was the most rebellious act possible," I find myself admitting. "Refusing to let hardship steal what makes you human."
"Wise woman." Nelrish's smile returns, smaller this time but somehow more genuine. "Is that where the winter rites come from? Her teachings?"
The question shouldn't surprise me—Eira mentioned grandmother's poems while he listened—but something in his tone suggests more than casual curiosity. Like the traditions themselves matter to him beyond simple politeness.
"She remembered things from before," I explain carefully. "Stories her own grandmother told about how people used to celebrate. Most of it's probably wrong now, but Eira loves the rituals."
"Before the crossing?" The phrase emerges loaded with significance I can't quite place. "Before my people arrived in our world?"
Our world. The possessive pronoun carries implications that make my stomach tighten. How long until Earth becomes exclusively theirs, until humans exist only in whatever spaces orcs allow us to occupy?
"Yes." I keep my voice level despite the direction of my thoughts. "When humans lived above ground and winters meant festivals instead of survival."
