Page 6 of The Orc’s Comfort

“I notice things.” That came out more significant than intended, judging by the pause that follows.

“Right,” she says, recovering. “Well. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed you too. Mostly through the wall. You cook a lot.”

“You require proper nutrition,” I say again, because it’s true, and because I don’t know what else to say to that.

“Is that a professional opinion or a Rhazgar opinion?”

“Is there a difference?”

“With you? Probably not.”

In her kitchen, I retrieve two sealed granola bars, reading the label with some suspicion. Portable. Shelf-stable. Nominally nutritious. “This is what you eat?”

“That’s an accusation, not a question.”

“It requires no question. The evidence is self-explanatory.”

“Okay, chef.” She says it like a taunt, warmth underneath it. “What’s the professional recommendation, then?”

From my own kitchen, I bring back a small bundle of dried leaves with a silvery underside. “Chew this slowly. It will help with the pain until the human medication takes effect.”

She eyes it like it might bite her back. “What is it?”

“Moon willow. One of the few plants from our world that adapted to Earth’s soil. Natural analgesic. No side effects.”

“Does it taste terrible?”

“The taste is secondary to its function.”

“That is not a no.”

She eats it anyway, chewing slowly, suspicion shifting into something more surprised. “It tastes like mint. And something I can’t place. You could have led with ‘it’s minty.’ Would have saved us both some drama.”

“I am not in the business of leading with the interesting part.”

“Clearly.”

“Do you need anything else before I leave?” I ask.

“No, thank you. You’ve already done so much.” She hesitates. “I’m sorry we had to officially meet like this. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself properly for months.”

“As have I.”

“Well. At least something good came out of my literary avalanche.”

“I will return in the morning to screw your bookcase to the wall, and fix your door properly. Tonight’s repair will hold. Barely.”

She looks briefly stunned, like the sentence outpaced what she was braced for. Then, quietly, “Okay.”

As I walk next door to my condo, my mind is already focused on the task ahead. My grandmother’s healing broth will be ideal for initial recovery: mineral-rich with anti-inflammatory properties and specific herbs that promote bone and tissue regeneration.

I close my door and move directly to my pantry, selecting ingredients with ceremonial care. The preparation of healing foods is sacred in WarmHearth tradition, requiring not just proper technique but proper intent. Each item must be handled with respect, each step performed with intention.

I place my sharpest knife on the preparation block, then light the traditional healing candle I made according to my grandmother’s specifications. As the flame catches, I begin the ancient invocation, asking the ancestors to guide my hands in creating sustenance that heals body and spirit.

“For Julia Whitaker,” I murmur, the words feeling right in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Then, in my native tongue, “May this offering bring strength to her bones, vitality to her blood, and peace to her spirit.”

The knife gleams in the candlelight as I begin the first cuts, each deliberate. This is no ordinary meal preparation; this is WarmHearth healing at its most fundamental. And for the first time since my grandmother’s passing, I feel the full weight and honor of being my clan’s last culinary keeper.