Page 21 of The Orc’s Comfort

My mother pauses, clearly not expecting this response. “Well. That’s… diplomatic.”

Within minutes, Rhazgar has her soup warming on one burner while he portions his healing broth into bowls. My mother watches with grudging fascination as he moves through my small kitchen with an economy of motion that makes his size irrelevant.

The tension builds as she continues fussing around me, positioning herself as a human barrier while Rhazgar prepares the broth with quiet calm. I catch his eye, mouthing “sorry” when my mother turns to adjust my blanket.

As she approaches the kitchen, clearly intending to serve the broth herself, Rhazgar steps into her path. “May I,” he says, already reaching past her for the bowls. Before she can answer, one hand is at her shoulder, guiding her back toward the couch with the same unhurried certainty he brings to everything else.

“The broth must be consumed while hot,” he explains, carrying three bowls to the coffee table. He sets one in front of me, one in front of my mother’s seat, and one on the footstool in front of the chair he’s appropriated. “Temperature affects the medicinal herbs.” He looks at my mother directly. “The volcanic mineral infusion targets nerve inflammation. Based on the way you’ve been touching your lower back since you arrived, it may be useful.”

My mother’s hand stills on her lower back. She looks at the bowl, then at him.

“Did you just… move me?” she finally manages.

“I adjusted your position to ensure optimal serving efficiency,” Rhazgar confirms without apology.

A beat of silence. Then my mother accepts the offered bowl with visible suspicion, sniffing it cautiously before taking a tentative spoonful.

Her eyebrows rise immediately.

“That’s… interesting.” Another spoonful, more deliberate. “Actually, that’s quite remarkable. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“WarmHearth healing traditions date back thirty generations,” Rhazgar explains, a hint of pride entering his voice. “My grandmother was the master healer for our clan. She passed these recipes to me before joining the ancestors.”

Something in his tone, the blend of pride and reverence, catches my mother’s attention. She studies him with renewed interest as she continues eating.

“These traditions seem very important to you,” she observes.

“They are my heritage and my responsibility,” Rhazgar confirms. “I am the last keeper of our clan’s healing knowledge.”

My mother’s expression shifts subtly, the retired teacher in her recognizing the serious preservation of knowledge. “That’s a significant burden to carry.”

“Not a burden,” Rhazgar corrects gently. “An honor.”

As they continue talking, I observe with growing amazement as my mother’s wariness gradually transforms into genuine curiosity. Rhazgar answers her questions with patient thoroughness, explaining elements of orc culture without condescension.

By the time we finish the healing broth, my mother has unconsciously consumed the entire oversized portion and is touching her back with surprise.

“My sciatica isn’t bothering me at all right now,” she admits with clear amazement. “That’s remarkable, especially after the long car ride. I’ve tried everything from physical therapy to acupuncture.”

“The effect is temporary but cumulative with regular consumption,” Rhazgar says, collecting the empty broth bowls. He returns to the kitchen and comes back a moment later with two more bowls of her chicken soup, ladled out with the same attention he gives his own preparations.

“The broth has done its work,” he says simply, setting one in front of my mother and one beside me. “Now this.”

My mother looks at the bowl, then at him, clearly uncertain what to make of a tall, muscular orc serving her own soup back to her with such quiet ceremony.

I take a spoonful. It tastes like every childhood illness I ever had: garlic, warmth, and the deep comfort of someone taking care of you.

“It’s perfect, Mom.”

She watches me for a moment. Then picks up her own spoon. Something in her expression shifts in a way that has nothing to do with her sciatica.

“You know, my late husband, Julia’s father, was fascinated by traditional healing practices. He taught cultural anthropology at Denver State.”

This personal sharing surprises me. My mother rarely mentions my father to strangers.

“He would have found your traditions fascinating,” she continues, her voice softening. “He always said that food was humanity’s oldest medicine.”

“A wise observation,” Rhazgar responds. “In WarmHearth tradition, cooking and healing were never separated as they are in human practice.”