Page 3 of The Orc’s Comfort

“Excuse me, Mr.—” I stop, realizing I’ve never heard anyone use his surname. Another gap in my cultural knowledge that makes me feel woefully unprepared for this conversation.

“Good evening, Rhazgar. I’m Julia Whitaker, your neighbor? I’m a librarian specializing in cultural preservation and…” No, too formal, too rehearsed.

A groan slips out as I flop onto my overstuffed reading chair. Six months of living next door to him, and I still haven’t managed more than a quick nod in the hallway or a murmured greeting in the elevator. It’s not that I’m afraid of orcs; I work with several at the library, including our wonderful custodian, Hammon, who brings donuts every Friday.

But Rhazgar is different. He’s so… intense. Seven feet of silent, watchful presence. Those deep amber eyes that seem to miss nothing. The economy in every movement, as if constantly calculating the necessary force needed in a world built for smaller beings. When he looks at me, I feel entirely seen. It’s thrilling, and it’s uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with either.

I’ve observed him at condo association meetings, how he sits perfectly still while others fidget, how he considers each point before offering his thoughts in that deep, rumbling voice that seems to vibrate through my chest, and lower. His contributions are always thoughtful, measured, and surprisingly insightful about human concerns.

Last month, when Mrs. Craft’s grandson was being bullied by other children in the community garden for befriending a young orc, I watched Rhazgar approach the situation. I expected intimidation. His size alone would terrify most adults, let alone children. Instead, he knelt down to their level and spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear his words, but the effect was immediate. Those children have been inseparable ever since, and Mrs. Craft now bakes cookies specially for Rhazgar every Sunday.

That’s when my fascination truly began, seeing the gentleness beneath the intimidating exterior.

My phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts. It’s Eliza, my assistant at the library.

“I hate to bother you on your day off, but any news since we talked last week about the orc cultural center?” Eliza asks. “The director mentioned the exhibition three times this morning alone. I think he’s stressing.”

“They finally got back to me,” I admit, wincing. “Short-staffed, and apparently most of what they do is private: clan ceremonies, not public events. They offered to send materials, but nobody who’d actually stand up and present. So I’m back to square one.”

“What about your neighbor? The one you keep mentioning?”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I don’t keep mentioning him.”

“Five times in the last staff meeting alone,” Eliza counters dryly. “The scary-looking chef with the food that smells amazing?”

“He’s not scary-looking,” I protest automatically. “Just… intense.”

“Whatever you say, boss. But seriously, why not just ask him? Worst he can do is say no.”

“It’s complicated,” I sigh, unable to articulate how the thought of approaching Rhazgar directly makes my pulse race in a manner completely unrelated to fear. “I don’t want to make things awkward in our building.”

“More awkward than you hiding in the stairwell when you hear him coming?” Eliza asks with alarming accuracy.

“That was one time, and there was a legitimate maintenance issue I was checking on,” I lie badly.

“Mmhmm. Well, the exhibition’s three weeks away, and we promised authentic cultural representation. So unless you want to explain to Director Harrison why we’ve got human interpretations of orc cuisine…”

“I’ll figure something out,” I promise before ending the call.

I glance at the stack of cultural cuisine books I’ve been collecting, knowing they’re poor substitutes for actual lived experience. My professional reputation is built on authentic cultural preservation, on creating space for communities to represent themselves rather than having others speak for them. And yet here I am, going directly against my own principles.

The spicy aroma intensifies, and I find myself drawn to the shared wall again. I press my hand against it, a now-familiar ritual, as if I could somehow absorb Rhazgar’s cultural knowledge through the drywall. The warmth I feel is probably just from his oven, but I let myself imagine it’s something more, a connection forming despite the barrier between us.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, pushing away from the wall. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”

Talking to someone I actually want to impress apparently requires practice I never got, growing up with a father who understood me without explanation and a mother who never left room for a response.

Determined to distract myself, I eye the highest shelf of my newest bookcase, an eight-foot monstrosity I assembled last weekend. The top shelf holds my most precious volumes: rare first editions and hard-to-find texts on endangered cultural practices. I desperately need a particular cookbook that documents traditional healing foods from various cultures, including what little is publicly known about orc culinary medicine.

My stepladder wobbles ominously as I climb and stretch to reach the spine of Healing Through Heritage: Traditional Restorative Cuisines. My fingers brush against it, pushing it just beyond my grasp.

“Come on,” I mutter, rising onto my tiptoes on the top step, which is clearly labeled ‘NOT A STEP’ in red lettering.

I grasp the book triumphantly, but triumph turns out to be premature. The ladder shifts beneath me and suddenly I’m clawing at empty air. I slam into the bookcase, my weight sending it toppling over. Some of the shelves are packed so tightly the books stay jammed in place during the fall. For one suspended moment, I have the absurd thought that at least I’ll be killed by what I love most.

Then gravity claims us both. The massive shelf unit crashes down with me beneath it, its frame catching across my hip and legs rather than my chest, hundreds of pounds of knowledge and wood pinning me to the floor. White-hot pain explodes through my ankle, ribs, and wrist. Something strikes my temple, and stars explode across my vision.

I hear myself cry out, the sound shockingly loud in my usually quiet space. Books rain down around me, pages fluttering like wounded birds. A particularly heavy encyclopedia lands on my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs as a grunt escapes me.