9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Julia
Nothing tests a blossoming relationship like the unexpected arrival of your mother, especially when you learn about it over your morning tea.
“She’s WHAT?” I nearly drop my mug of Rhazgar’s healing tea, wincing as the jolt aggravates my ribs.
“On her way,” my assistant Eliza repeats, the apologetic tone clear even through the phone. “She called the library when you didn’t answer her texts. I may have mentioned your accident.”
“Those texts were from three days ago!” I protest, glancing frantically around my condo.
Books still litter every surface despite Rhazgar’s attempts to reorganize them into what he called “a logical system,” which meant categorizing them by size and color rather than subject.
“I was going to call her back when I had the energy to deflect the inevitable string of questions.”
“Well, she’s driving in from Denver as we speak. She said, and I quote, ‘My daughter doesn’t need to face this alone, no matter how independent she thinks she is.’ She sounded pretty determined.”
I groan, sinking deeper into my cushions. “Of course she did.”
After hanging up with Eliza, I check my phone with growing dread. Six missed calls and thirteen texts from my mother stare back at me. The most recent reads: On my way, sweetie. Don’t argue. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t help? I’ll be there by dinner.
My mother, Evelyn Whitaker, isn’t exactly a helicopter parent.
More like a rescue helicopter that appears with sirens blaring when you least expect it, convinced you’re in dire need of assistance even when you’re perfectly fine.
Her arrival was inevitable once she heard about my accident, though I’d hoped the three weeks of travel with her seniors’ hiking group would delay it.
I spend the rest of the morning doing what I do best under stress: researching.
If my mother is going to interrogate every aspect of Rhazgar’s presence in my life, I want answers ready.
By noon, I’ve filled six pages of notes on WarmHearth healing traditions and eaten the last of the crackers Rhazgar left on my coffee table.
By the time the light through my windows shifts to gold, I’ve rehearsed fourteen different versions of “he’s just my neighbor” and convinced myself of exactly none of them.
Just as I’m contemplating how to present this information without prompting a maternal meltdown, a familiar gentle knock sounds at my door.
“Come in,” I call, attempting to sit straighter and immediately regretting it.
Rhazgar enters with his usual grace, carrying what appears to be a large ceramic bowl covered with a cloth. The warm, savory aroma preceding him has become a comfort over the past nine days.
“I’ve prepared the evening healing broth,” he explains, setting it on my coffee table.
His thoughtfulness makes my heart flutter uncomfortably. “Thank you, but I should warn you—”
Before I can finish, a rapid, insistent knocking erupts from my door, the distinct rhythm immediately recognizable.
“My mother’s here,” I finish weakly.
Something crosses Rhazgar’s face, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it.
Not alarm. Something quieter. His gaze flicks once to the bowl he just set down, like the evening he’d brought it for is already over.
Then his posture straightens almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring as if preparing for combat.
“Is this… problematic?” he asks quietly.
I understand the unspoken part of his question, am I problematic?
“Not problematic, just… complicated.” I push myself up, reaching for my crutch. “She can be a bit overprotective.”
“I will leave if my presence would cause her concern,” Rhazgar offers immediately, though something in his eyes suggests he’d rather not.
“No, stay. Please.” The please gives me away a little. “She should meet you. She’ll be seeing a lot of you while she’s here.”
The knocking intensifies.
“Julia Ellen Whitaker! I know you’re in there!” My mother’s voice carries clearly through the door. “If you don’t open up in ten seconds, I’m getting the building manager!”
“Coming, Mom!” I call, rising to maneuver with my crutch.
Before I can take two steps, Rhazgar gently stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Allow me.”
He moves to the door, opening it to reveal my mother mid-knock, her fist frozen in the air.
At sixty-two, Evelyn Whitaker remains a formidable presence despite barely reaching five feet tall: wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, silver-streaked brown hair cut in a practical bob, and an expression that could intimidate seasoned principals during her forty years of teaching.
That expression now morphs from determination to shock as she tilts her head back, and back, to take in all seven feet of Rhazgar.
“You’re not Julia,” she states unnecessarily, recovering quickly.
“Your observation is accurate,” Rhazgar responds with formal politeness. “I am Rhazgar of WarmHearth clan. Your daughter is resting, as recommended by medical professionals.”
My mother’s eyes narrow slightly. “And you are in my daughter’s condo because…?”
“I’ve been assisting with her recovery,” Rhazgar explains, stepping aside to let her through. “Providing nutritional support and necessary accommodations.”
My mother stands frozen for a moment longer before bustling past him, her compact frame making Rhazgar seem even more massive by comparison.
She’s rolling a large suitcase with one hand and a cooler in the other.
It’s undoubtedly filled with her infamous chicken soup that tastes strongly of good intentions and excessive garlic.
“Julia!” she exclaims upon seeing me, dropping her bags and rushing over. “Oh, honey! You look terrible!”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say dryly as she examines me with critical eyes. “Always good for my self-esteem.”
“I mean, you’re clearly in pain. Why didn’t you call me immediately?” She turns accusingly toward Rhazgar, who has closed the door and now stands perfectly still, watching our interaction with near-anthropological interest. “And how long has… he… been helping you?”
The slight hesitation before “he” doesn’t escape my notice, or Rhazgar’s, judging by the subtle stiffening of his shoulders.
“Rhazgar is my neighbor,” I explain, gesturing to the wall we share. “He heard the bookcase fall and came to help. He lifted it off me and called the paramedics.”
“Lifted it? That massive oak thing?” My mother looks skeptical, glancing between me and the now-secured bookcase. “By himself?”
“Orc physiology allows for approximately triple human strength capacity,” Rhazgar states matter-of-factly.
My mother’s eyes widen slightly. “I… see.”
“And he’s been bringing me healing foods prepared according to traditional WarmHearth clan recipes,” I continue, unable to hide the enthusiasm in my voice. “Mom, they’re incredible. I’ve been documenting everything for the cultural preservation archives.”
“You’ve been… feeding my daughter?” My mother’s tone suggests she’s not sure whether to be grateful or alarmed.
“Providing nutritional support with medicinal properties,” Rhazgar corrects. “The preparations follow traditional protocols. Your daughter’s recovery has been the priority.”
“Well, that’s…” my mother begins, clearly searching for an appropriate response, “…very neighborly.”
An awkward silence falls, during which Rhazgar remains perfectly still while my mother shifts uncomfortably, her gaze darting between us. I can practically see her maternal alarm system activating, processing the unexpected presence of a seven-foot orc in her injured daughter’s condo.
“Perhaps you’d like to rest after your journey,” Rhazgar suggests with impeccable politeness. “The healing broth should be consumed while warm.”
“Oh, I’m not tired at all,” my mother counters. “In fact, I brought my chicken soup.” She gestures to the cooler. “Family recipe. Always helped Julia recover from illnesses when she was little. Should I put it on the stove?”
“Thanks, Mom. That’s thoughtful,” I say, catching Rhazgar’s eye over her head, trying to convey an apology for the subtle territorial marking happening in my living room.
“Allow me,” Rhazgar says, already moving toward the cooler. Before my mother can protest, he’s lifted the container and is heading to the kitchen.
“I can manage my own soup,” my mother says, following him with visible suspicion.
“I’m certain you can,” Rhazgar agrees, locating my largest pot. “WarmHearth tradition holds that healing foods from all cultures deserve respect. Your chicken soup and my healing broth can coexist.”
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.”
As they continue talking, something in me relaxes that I hadn’t realized was braced. Seeing them find common ground, my mother gradually recognizing Rhazgar’s knowledge and Rhazgar showing genuine interest in her teaching experiences, creates a connection I hadn’t anticipated.
My mother stands, stretching slightly. “I must admit, my back hasn’t felt this good in years.” A pause as she meets Rhazgar’s eyes directly. “Thank you for taking care of my daughter, Rhazgar of WarmHearth. I can see she’s been in good hands.”
Something profound passes across Rhazgar’s usually stoic features, a flash of emotion so intense it transforms him momentarily. Hearing his care for me acknowledged by my family clearly holds deep significance for him.
“It has been my honor,” he responds formally, bowing slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I should prepare tomorrow’s healing broth.”
After he leaves, my mother turns to me with her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.
“Just neighbors, huh?”
“Mom,” I warn, looking at the ceiling.
“Honey, I’ve been teaching for forty years.
I know when there’s more to the story.” She pats my hand gently.
“And for what it’s worth, I like him. Anyone who notices my back before I've said a word about it, and then fixes it as though it’s the easiest thing in the world, has both talent and manners. ”