Page 12 of The Orc’s Comfort

He goes quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that means something landed. “After the Emergence, my grandmother kept cooking. Some said it was frivolous, that we should ration and wait until we were settled. She said if we stopped making things beautiful, we’d already lost.”

“But you carried your grandmother’s recipes,” I observe. “Preserved beauty and nourishment despite the ultimate chaos.”

His gaze holds mine, something unspoken passing between us. “As you preserve your father’s music.”

The moment stretches, intimate in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Then my phone rings, shattering the connection.

Director Harrison’s name flashes on the screen. With an apologetic glance at Rhazgar, I answer.

“Julia! How’s the recovery?” Harrison’s booming voice fills the room even though he’s not on speaker phone.

“Improving steadily,” I reply, aware of Rhazgar turning his attention to the record collection by the window, studying the album covers with exaggerated focus.

“Listen, glad I caught you. We have a situation,” Harrison’s voice sounds tense. “The mayor’s office called this morning. Apparently, our exhibition has caught the attention of the regional cultural affairs committee. They’re sending a representative to our Cooking Between Cultures exhibition to see how we handle interspecies representation. The whole grant for next year’s programming might depend on how we handle this orc cuisine component.”

My stomach drops. “But I haven’t…”

“I know, I know, we still don’t have an orc presenter. Not ideal with your injuries, but this could be huge for the library’s funding. If we impress them with authentic cultural representation, we might qualify for the major integration grant.” He pauses. “Any progress on finding that orc presenter we discussed?”

I glance at Rhazgar, who doesn’t look at me, his attention focused on the records. With his enhanced hearing, he’s undoubtedly picking up both sides of the conversation. The pressure isn’t just on me now, it would be on him too if he agrees.

“I’m working on several promising leads,” I say. “But I’m still mostly bedbound.”

“The committee specifically mentioned wanting to see genuine cultural education, not just performances or displays. They’re looking for a meaningful exchange, Julia. Our entire cultural preservation budget for next year depends on making this work.”

“I’ll… redouble my efforts.”

“Wonderful! We need confirmation within the week. Oh, and can you dial in for the committee meeting tomorrow? Just for updates.”

After promising to attend virtually, I end the call with a sigh. The exhibition is important, my professional reputation rests partly on its success, but the pressure feels intrusive in the sanctuary Rhazgar and I have created with music and healing food.

“Work concerns?” Rhazgar asks, returning with two steaming cups of tea.

“The multicultural food exhibition I mentioned before,” I explain, accepting the tea gratefully. “They want me to continue coordinating from home during recovery.”

“This exhibition means much to you,” he observes, settling into the chair across from mine.

“It’s more than just a work project,” I admit. “It represents everything I believe about cultural preservation, that traditions are living things that need space to breathe and evolve, not just artifacts in display cases.”

I hesitate, gathering courage before continuing. “The exhibition features cuisine from diverse cultures: the stories food tells about people’s histories, values, and celebrations. We’ve secured representatives from several communities, but…” I take a deep breath. “We still need someone to present orc culinary traditions.”

His expression remains impassive, but I notice his posture straighten slightly.

“I understand if you’re not comfortable,” I add quickly. “Many traditions are sacred or private. But having experienced your approach to food preparation this past week, I can’t imagine anyone better qualified to share authentic orc cuisine with the community.”

“You wish me to cook for strangers?” he asks, his tone unreadable.

“It’s not so different from what you already do at the cultural center,” I say. “Just more public. You’d be sharing what you’ve been showing me all week. Why the broth matters, not just what’s in it.”

I stop, my stomach dropping. “Unless that was only ever meant for healing. And I’ve just asked you to hand over something private.”

He studies me for a long moment, his gaze intent. “Your interest extends beyond healing techniques.”

“Of course,” I say, surprised he would question this. “I’ve been fascinated by cultural preservation long before my accident. It’s literally my profession.” I hesitate, then add more softly, “But this week has shown me how much depth exists beyond what’s in books. Your approach to food preparation isn’t just about ingredients: it’s about intention, connection, continuation, and history.”

“Like your music,” he says unexpectedly. “Notes alone are not music. Intention creates meaning.”

“Exactly,” I agree, pleased by the parallel.