Page 10 of The Orc’s Comfort

As he leaves, I sink back into my cushions, feeling better than I have any right to, given the severity of my injuries. Whether it’s the magical properties of orc healing broth or simply the knowledge that someone cares enough to prepare it, I’m not entirely sure.

I reach for my phone and text Eliza asking her to take me to urgent care. She’s been calling since last night and I’ve been putting her off, but the paramedics were clear about follow-up imaging, and I can’t put it off indefinitely. Her reply comes in under a minute: on my way, don’t argue.

While I wait, I reach for my notebook and document everything I can remember about the healing broth while the experience is still fresh. After all, I am still a librarian and cultural preservationist, even if I’m temporarily confined to my couch.

Eliza arrives forty minutes later, takes one look at me, and begins fussing like she’s been waiting for an excuse. She brought crutches. Using one on my right side so I don’t put weight on the injured ankle, I’m able to painfully but urgently make it to the bathroom, my ribs vehemently protesting the whole way. Thank goodness it was my non-dominant wrist and opposite ankle, or I’d never manage.

With Eliza’s help I’m able to change into some fresh clothes. The urgent care visit takes most of the morning. She stays the whole time, which I pretend to find unnecessary and am privately very grateful for. The imaging confirms what the paramedics suspected. Nothing alarming. The wrist is sprained, not cracked, just rest, follow-up care, and patience, all of which I was already doing my best to manage.

Rhazgar knocks at precisely one o’clock with the midday preparation. I tell him about the urgent care visit. He listens without interrupting, asks two direct questions about the imaging results, and then adjusts the pillow beneath my wrist. The brace has been repositioned by the urgent care doctor and he notices immediately, settling it into a slightly better angle before turning to the preparation.

“Good,” he says simply. And somehow that single word carries more relief than an entire speech would have.

He sets the broth container on the table and then, without comment, produces something wrapped in a kitchen towel: flatbread, still warm, the edges darkened from a dry pan, folded around something dense and savory. “Braised beef,” he says, when he sees me looking. “Slow-cooked. The broth addresses inflammation. This addresses the fact that you have not eaten a real meal since yesterday.” I don’t argue. The flatbread and meat are extraordinary, and I eat all of it.

What I do know is that my disaster of a bookcase collapse has created an unexpected bridge between my world and Rhazgar’s, and despite Grulk’s complete lack of subtlety, I find myself eager to see where that bridge might lead.

And if my professional interest happens to align with my growing personal fascination with the serious orc next door, well, that’s just efficient research methodology.

Chapter Five

Julia

My injuries form a strange kind of metronome, marking time through pain and gradual healing. Each day, the steady beat of Rhazgar's punctual visits creates the melody of my recovery.

By our fourth day, I've grown accustomed to his gentle knock at precisely 8:00 AM, 1:00 PM, and 7:00 PM. Each visit brings a different healing preparation, each one explained in that deep, rumbling voice that I now find more soothing than intimidating.

His punctuality is so consistent I could set my clocks by his arrivals.

“Do all orcs have internal clocks?” I ask on day four as he enters precisely at seven PM.

“Only WarmHearth,” he responds without missing a beat. “HammerFall arrives when the mood strikes, StillWater when the tides shift, and FirePeak mostly when hungry.”

“And when is WarmHearth hungry?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He considers this like it's a formal inquiry requiring an exact answer. “According to integration pamphlets, we are supposed to say, ‘the same as humans.’ The accurate answer is ‘almost constantly.’”

“Integration pamphlets sound like they could use a revision,” I say.

“Indeed. They also suggest we enjoy human portion sizes.”

“Criminal misinformation,” I declare solemnly.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “At your suggestion, I'll be filing formal complaints.”

I laugh, then wince and settle back against the cushions.

“Tissue repair, this time,” he says, setting a steaming bowl on my coffee table.

He places a second container beside it, something I don't recognize, braised and dark, faintly sweet-smelling. He opens it without explanation and positions the spoon inside it, handle angled toward my right hand.

“Hearthgrain with an equivalent for ember-root,” he says, when he sees me looking. “WarmHearth celebration food. My grandmother made it when someone returned from a long journey.” He doesn't explain why he's brought celebration food to a recovery visit. I don't ask.

He's already cut the root pieces small enough that I won't need a knife. He's done this every visit now, broth first, then something else. Something real. He feeds me like it's the most natural thing in the world, and I've started to wait for it.

I’ve progressed to moving around my condo on a crutch, though my ribs protest sudden movements and my wrist throbs when I forget and try to use it. Still, the improvements are remarkable.

As I eat, I notice him studying my vinyl record collection tucked beneath the window, a passion that predates my book obsession.