Page 20 of The Orc’s Comfort

The knocking intensifies.

“Julia Ellen Whitaker! I know you’re in there!” My mother’s voice carries clearly through the door. “If you don’t open up in ten seconds, I’m getting the building manager!”

“Coming, Mom!” I call, rising to maneuver with my crutch.

Before I can take two steps, Rhazgar gently stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Allow me.”

He moves to the door, opening it to reveal my mother mid-knock, her fist frozen in the air. At sixty-two, Evelyn Whitaker remains a formidable presence despite barely reaching five feet tall: wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, silver-streaked brown hair cut in a practical bob, and an expression that could intimidate seasoned principals during her forty years of teaching.

That expression now morphs from determination to shock as she tilts her head back, and back, to take in all seven feet of Rhazgar.

“You’re not Julia,” she states unnecessarily, recovering quickly.

“Your observation is accurate,” Rhazgar responds with formal politeness. “I am Rhazgar of WarmHearth clan. Your daughter is resting, as recommended by medical professionals.”

My mother’s eyes narrow slightly. “And you are in my daughter’s condo because…?”

“I’ve been assisting with her recovery,” Rhazgar explains, stepping aside to let her through. “Providing nutritional support and necessary accommodations.”

My mother stands frozen for a moment longer before bustling past him, her compact frame making Rhazgar seem even more massive by comparison. She’s rolling a large suitcase with one hand and a cooler in the other. It’s undoubtedly filled with her infamous chicken soup that tastes strongly of good intentions and excessive garlic.

“Julia!” she exclaims upon seeing me, dropping her bags and rushing over. “Oh, honey! You look terrible!”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say dryly as she examines me with critical eyes. “Always good for my self-esteem.”

“I mean, you’re clearly in pain. Why didn’t you call me immediately?” She turns accusingly toward Rhazgar, who has closed the door and now stands perfectly still, watching our interaction with near-anthropological interest. “And how long has… he… been helping you?”

The slight hesitation before “he” doesn’t escape my notice, or Rhazgar’s, judging by the subtle stiffening of his shoulders.

“Rhazgar is my neighbor,” I explain, gesturing to the wall we share. “He heard the bookcase fall and came to help. He lifted it off me and called the paramedics.”

“Lifted it? That massive oak thing?” My mother looks skeptical, glancing between me and the now-secured bookcase. “By himself?”

“Orc physiology allows for approximately triple human strength capacity,” Rhazgar states matter-of-factly.

My mother’s eyes widen slightly. “I… see.”

“And he’s been bringing me healing foods prepared according to traditional WarmHearth clan recipes,” I continue, unable to hide the enthusiasm in my voice. “Mom, they’re incredible. I’ve been documenting everything for the cultural preservation archives.”

“You’ve been… feeding my daughter?” My mother’s tone suggests she’s not sure whether to be grateful or alarmed.

“Providing nutritional support with medicinal properties,” Rhazgar corrects. “The preparations follow traditional protocols. Your daughter’s recovery has been the priority.”

“Well, that’s…” my mother begins, clearly searching for an appropriate response, “…very neighborly.”

An awkward silence falls, during which Rhazgar remains perfectly still while my mother shifts uncomfortably, her gaze darting between us. I can practically see her maternal alarm system activating, processing the unexpected presence of a seven-foot orc in her injured daughter’s condo.

“Perhaps you’d like to rest after your journey,” Rhazgar suggests with impeccable politeness. “The healing broth should be consumed while warm.”

“Oh, I’m not tired at all,” my mother counters. “In fact, I brought my chicken soup.” She gestures to the cooler. “Family recipe. Always helped Julia recover from illnesses when she was little. Should I put it on the stove?”

“Thanks, Mom. That’s thoughtful,” I say, catching Rhazgar’s eye over her head, trying to convey an apology for the subtle territorial marking happening in my living room.

“Allow me,” Rhazgar says, already moving toward the cooler. Before my mother can protest, he’s lifted the container and is heading to the kitchen.

“I can manage my own soup,” my mother says, following him with visible suspicion.

“I’m certain you can,” Rhazgar agrees, locating my largest pot. “WarmHearth tradition holds that healing foods from all cultures deserve respect. Your chicken soup and my healing broth can coexist.”