13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Rhazgar
I sleep four hours.
This is more than I expected.
When I wake, the condo is still dark and Julia’s morning routine hasn’t started yet: no soft sounds of footsteps drifting through the wall, no kettle, no unconscious humming.
I lie still for a moment and take inventory of my condition.
The weight I’ve been carrying for six days is gone.
Something else is in its place, not lighter, more like the tension of a bowstring that has been drawn and released.
The arrow is in the air. I can’t call it back. I’m not certain I want to.
By the time I rise to make her morning broth, something in my chest has gone quiet.
My hands move through the preparation with their usual precision and I notice, for the first time since the eighth day of her recovery, that I am not lying to myself about what I am doing.
This is not a courtship preparation. It is simply food, made with full attention, for someone I care about. The distinction feels significant.
Three booming knocks rattle my door at precisely the moment I am sealing the container.
I did not text an update to Grulk. He always knows anyway.
“Enter,” I call.
He stops two steps inside. His nostrils flare. His gaze sweeps around my condo as though he’s reading the room. Then he looks at me.
“You told her,” he says.
“Last night.”
He pulls out a chair and sits in it, which is not how Grulk usually arrives. For a long moment, he just looks at me.
“How did she take it?”
“She was angry.” I pause. “Appropriately so.”
“And then?”
“She put on my grandmother’s hair comb and ate mediocre pasta and told me I was going to have to earn her trust properly.” I find I am not afraid of that.
Something moves across Grulk’s face. Not his usual exuberance. Something quieter. “You gave her your grandmother’s hair comb.”
“And her broth recipe.”
He is silent for a moment. Then he nods once, slowly, the way he does when something matters more than he’ll say out loud.
“Good,” he says finally. “That was right.”
He folds his hands on the table. “I am still going to walk you through the Courtship Guide.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” he says. “But I came all the way across town, so you’re getting it anyway.”
He sits forward with the focused attention he reserves for things he considers serious.
“Thirty generations of HammerFall matchmaking wisdom places you between stage two and stage three. Stage two is the formal declaration of interest. Stage three is demonstrated commitment through significant personal sacrifice.” He looks at me. “The hair comb counts as stage three.”
“I wasn’t thinking about stages.”
“No,” he agrees. “That’s probably why it worked.”
Through the wall, I can hear Julia’s morning beginning: the soft sound of her moving around her condo, the kettle, the distinctive quiet of someone who is thinking.
“She is processing,” I say.
“She is a librarian,” Grulk says. “She processes by researching. Give her today.” He stands.
“The exhibition is in just over a week. Whatever you are building, build it before then. Public moments have a way of clarifying things.” He heads for the door.
“Also I have prepared an excellent physical demonstration sequence in case you need it.”
“I won’t need it.”
“It involves the Mighty Oak—”
Before I can stop him, he’s on his feet, chest thrust forward, arms wide, filling my living room with an enthusiasm that makes my furniture look fragile.
“—and a very impressive Pouncing Predator—”
He drops into a low stalking crouch that no orc his age should be able to manage, circling the coffee table with predatory focus.
“—and I have developed a new one, which I call the Fertile Mountain—” He plants his feet wide, spreads both arms in a sweeping upward arc, and executes a slow, deliberate pelvic rotation of such serene confidence that I understand immediately and completely why the integration counselors dedicated an entire section of the community guidelines to the prohibition of these poses in public spaces.
“Grulk.”
He straightens immediately, smoothing his coveralls with great dignity. “I’m just saying it’s available.”
He opens the door. Pauses. “She fed you pasta, Rhazgar. After everything you told her.” He looks back. “Think about what that means.”
He leaves.
I stand in my kitchen for a moment. Through the wall, Julia is humming, an unconscious habit she’s never done in my presence. The melody is something classical. Beethoven, possibly. I have learned to recognize it.
I pick up the container of broth and head for the door.