Page 11 of The Orc's Protection
When she leaves I sit with that for a moment. I said more than I meant to, and I’m not sure I mind.
The end-of-lunch bell breaks my reverie. I gather my things and head back to retrieve my students from the cafeteria. By the time we return to the classroom, Vraag still hasn’t returned from the playground incident.
We’re midway through our afternoon science activity when he finally reappears at the classroom door. His uniform is damp, and there’s a smudge of mud on one sleeve, but otherwise he looks as composed as ever.
“Crisis resolved?” I ask quietly as the children work on their leaf rubbings.
“Affirmative. The child was successfully retrieved with no injuries.”
“Did you have to climb up after him?”
A slight pause. “Elevated retrieval tactics were necessary.”
The mental image of Vraag scaling the equipment shed on slick, rain-wet equipment to rescue a stubborn fifth-grader makes me smile. “Our hero.”
I mean it teasingly, but something flashes in his eyes that makes my breath catch. For a heartbeat, we simply look at each other, and I’m struck by how intriguing his eyes are—not just amber, but with flecks of gold near the pupil.
“Ms. Walker!” A child’s voice breaks the moment. “Jackson’s rubbing too hard, and he ripped his paper!”
I turn away, summoning my teacher focus once more. “Let’s get you a new sheet, Jackson. Remember, gentle pressure works best.”
The rest of the afternoon passes without incident. As the final bell approaches, dark clouds thicken outside our windows. The children, packing up their belongings, cast worried glances at the threatening sky.
“Don’t worry, friends,” I assure them. “We’ll make sure everyone stays dry during dismissal.”
“I don’t have an umbrella,” Theo says anxiously, his voice barely audible.
Before I can respond, Vraag speaks from his position by the door. “Standard protection protocols include adverse weathercontingencies. All students will be escorted to transportation with appropriate shelter.”
Theo looks up at him with wide eyes. “You promise?”
“Affirmative,” Vraag replies solemnly. “Protection is sacred.”
The simple phrase seems to reassure Theo, who nods and continues to put things into his backpack.
As the dismissal bell rings, the sky opens up once more. Rain pours down in sheets, drumming against the windows. I coordinate with other teachers to create a covered walkway of umbrellas for the bus riders, while car pickup shifts to the covered area near the front entrance.
In the bustle of organizing rain-safe dismissal, I lose track of Vraag until I notice him standing beside Theo, who waits for his mother’s pickup. Without drawing attention to himself, Vraag has positioned his massive body to block the wind that occasionally gusts rain under the overhang.
I’m shuttling between bus duty and car pickup, getting progressively more soaked despite my umbrella, when Theo’s mother arrives. As the boy darts toward her car, Vraag unfastens his uniform jacket and lifts it over Theo like a canopy, shielding him from the worst of the downpour during the short dash to the vehicle.
The gesture is so instinctive, so quietly protective, that something tightens in my throat. He doesn’t do it for show—if anything, he looks faintly uncomfortable when Theo’s mother waves a grateful thank-you.
As the last students depart and the teachers scatter to their cars, I linger, watching Vraag scan the parking lot with focused attention.
I approach him, struggling to keep my umbrella steady in the gusting wind. “That was kind of you,” I say. “Helping Theo in the rain.”
He glances down at me, raindrops clinging to his lashes and the ridges of his brow. “Weather mitigation,” he says. “The child’s size made him more vulnerable.”
“Still,” I say, softer now, “you didn’t hesitate.”
“Orc physiology tolerates temperature variation more efficiently than humans,” he states matter-of-factly.
The rain intensifies, and a strong gust nearly turns my umbrella inside out. Vraag’s hand shoots out, steadying it with effortless strength.
“Your protection implement is inadequate for current conditions,” he observes, keeping his hand on the umbrella stem to hold it stable. “Do you have rain gear in your vehicle?”
“I’ll just dash for it,” I admit, eyeing the sheets of water between us and the parking lot.
