The observation sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with cold air. He sees things I thought were lost forever, recognizes value in traditions I've guarded like precious secrets.
"Do orcs have winter celebrations?" Eira asks with the directness only children possess.
Nelrish considers the question seriously, as though her curiosity deserves thoughtful response rather than dismissive adult answers. The respect he shows her never fails to surpriseme—he speaks to her like she's worthy of real conversation, not just someone to be managed or entertained.
"Different ones," he says finally. "Simpler. We build great fires on the longest night to honor the Lunar Goddess, ask her blessing for safe passage through dark months ahead."
"The Lunar Goddess?" I prompt, genuinely curious about beliefs I've only heard referenced in angry human rhetoric about orc barbarism.
His expression shifts toward something approaching reverence. "She guides us through darkness, literal and otherwise. Lights paths when all other navigation fails." He pauses, studying flames that dance between us. "We offer her prayers and sometimes small gifts—weapons or crafted items, things that required skill to create."
"What kind of prayers?"
"Gratitude, mostly. For moonlight during raids, for protection during vulnerable moments, for wisdom when leadership requires difficult choices." His voice drops lower, carrying undertones of personal connection rather than rote recitation. "She's supposed to watch over warriors who fight far from home, keep them safe until they can return to their clans."
The explanation reveals layers I hadn't expected—faith that acknowledges uncertainty rather than demanding guarantees, traditions focused on humility rather than conquest. Nothing like the bloodthirsty savagery human propaganda claims drives orc spirituality.
"Could you... could you teach us about it?" The request escapes before I consider whether asking about orc religious practices crosses lines I should maintain. "If it's not forbidden to share with outsiders."
Something flickers across his features—surprise, perhaps, or pleasure at my interest. "Nothing forbidden about sharing knowledge that brings no harm."
He reaches into the fire with careful fingers, selecting a partially burned stick whose end glows ember-bright. Moving to clear ground beside our shelter, he begins drawing lines in the dirt with deliberate precision.
"Winter solstice circle," he explains as the pattern emerges. "We mark four directions, then add symbols for things we hope to preserve through dark months—family, shelter, health, enough food to last until spring returns."
The design takes shape under his patient guidance: cardinal points connected by flowing curves, with smaller symbols clustered around the perimeter like stars surrounding the moon. Each mark carries meaning he explains in a quiet voice that turns instruction into something approaching intimacy.
"North for endurance, because winter tests every strength we possess. South for warmth, both in hearth and heart. East for new beginnings that come with spring's return. West for wisdom learned through surviving hardship."
Eira crouches beside him with fascination written across her face, drinking in every detail like water after drought. "What are those little marks around the edges?"
"Hopes," he answers simply. "Specific things we want winter to protect or provide. Your mother's first snow rites and our solstice circles aren't so different—both ask for safe passage through dangerous seasons."
The parallel strikes me with unexpected force. Human and orc traditions born from the same fundamental needs: warmth, safety, hope that light returns after darkness passes. Different methods reaching toward identical goals, shaped by separate histories but serving similar purposes.
"I never thought..." I begin, then stop, unsure how to finish the observation without revealing assumptions I'm not proud of holding.
"Never thought orcs pray for safety instead of conquest?" The question carries no accusation, just understanding that cuts too close to truth for comfort.
"Something like that," I admit, heat creeping up my neck again.
"Most of what humans know about orc beliefs comes from our warriors, who speak primarily of war and victory because those are the contexts where our peoples meet." His tone remains carefully neutral, but I catch undertones of old frustration. "We have mothers who pray for children's health, farmers who ask for good harvests, artisans who seek inspiration. Same as any people."
The simple statement reframes everything I thought I understood about the clans. Propaganda and limited contact created images of one-dimensional monsters rather than complex societies with a full range of human... orc experiences. Hopes and fears and daily concerns that transcend territorial disputes.
"Show me more," I request, settling beside the circle he's drawn. "About the symbols. What would you mark for this winter?"
He glances toward me with an expression I can't quite read, as though weighing how much truth he's willing to share. The firelight catches the silver threads in his black hair, highlighting features that speak to strength held carefully in check.
"Shelter," he says finally, adding curved lines that suggest protective walls. "For three people rather than one clan."
The addition makes my breath catch in my throat. Three people. He's including us in his hopes for winter survival, marking protection for strangers who have no claim on his concern.
"Health," he continues, drawing interwoven spirals that seem to move in the dancing light. "Freedom from poison and sickness for all under this roof."
Another symbol joins the growing collection, this one resembling interlinked rings. "Unity. That cooperation serves us better than suspicion."
The last marking hits like an arrow finding its target, cutting through careful distance I've maintained since discovering his true nature. He's not just teaching us about orc traditions—he's sharing hopes that include us, expressing desires for connection that mirror my own growing feelings.
