Page 11 of The Orc’s Comfort

“You enjoy music?” he asks, running one large finger along the album spines.

“It’s my other great love,” I admit. “Before books, even. My father taught cultural studies, but the piano was his real language.”

His interest seems genuine, so I continue. “He taught me piano when my hands were finally big enough to reach the keys.”

“You play?”

“Used to. Not much room for a piano in this condo.” I gesture around my book-filled space with my good hand. “But I still listen. Music got me through my father’s death, through graduate school, through pretty much every hard time.”

I reach for the remote to my small sound system. “Would you mind some background music? I’ve been afraid to disturb the neighbors, but since you’re here…”

At Rhazgar’s nod, I press play, and the room fills with Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” the piano notes washing over us like moonlight.

Rhazgar goes completely still, his eyes closing briefly. For a moment, I worry I’ve offended him somehow, but then I see it: the almost imperceptible sway of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he follows the melody.

“This is… pleasing,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“It’s one of my favorites,” I tell him. “Debussy captures something so essentially human, yet beyond words. The piece always reminds me of water reflecting moonlight.”

His eyes open, focusing on me with new interest. “We had no pianos on our world. Different instruments, producing different tones. But the purpose was similar, capturing feelings beyond language.”

This glimpse into his world, freely offered, feels like a gift. “What kind of instruments?”

“Skin drums. Wind pipes, carved from hollow bone. Something similar to your stringed instruments, but played with small hammers. My friend Kragen played the drathvik, similar to a guitar.” A faraway look enters his eyes. “My mother played at celebration gatherings. Her hands were smaller than most in our clan, allowing greater dexterity on the string-stones.”

“Earth has at least one instrument where strings are struck by hammers. It’s the piano.”

As the music shifts to Satie’s “Gymnopedie,” Rhazgar continues talking, describing orc musical traditions with increasing animation. It’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak at one time.

“Music accompanied every significant clan event,” he explains. “Different patterns for celebrations, healings, protection ceremonies, seasonal changes.”

“Like a soundtrack to your lives,” I observe.

His brow furrows slightly. “Soundtrack?”

“In movies, music plays beneath important scenes to enhance emotions.” I hesitate, then add, “Different foods serve similar purposes in human culture. Celebration foods, comfort foods, mourning foods.”

“Yes.” His expression brightens with recognition. “Food and music both speak to a deeper understanding. In WarmHearth tradition, they are often combined. Certain dishes prepared to set rhythms.”

I try to imagine Rhazgar cooking to music, his powerful movements synchronized to ancient beats, and I catch myself smiling at the image.

Our morning conversation establishes a new pattern. Each day, I select different music to accompany his visits. Classical gives way to jazz, then world music, each selection revealing another facet of both our personalities.

The routine becomes unexpectedly easy. I find myself looking forward to the knock on my door long before it comes.

By the seventh day, I catch him almost conducting with one finger during one particularly moving movement by Beethoven, his usual reserve slipping for a moment. When he realizes I’m watching, he quickly returns to his stoic demeanor, but not before I glimpse something I never expected: playfulness.

“My father used to conduct like that,” I say, offering the observation without teasing. “He couldn’t help it when the music moved him.”

Without thinking, I attempt to demonstrate, forgetting my injuries. A sharp pain shoots through my ribs, and I wince visibly.

In an instant, Rhazgar is beside me, his large hand hovering near my shoulder. “You’ve overexerted.”

“Worth it,” I manage through gritted teeth. “For Beethoven.”

His expression shifts to something I can’t quite identify. “You’re very… passionate.”

“Life’s too short not to be,” I reply, thinking of my father. “Music, books, cultural preservation, they’re all ways of holding onto beauty in a chaotic world.”