Page 38 of Her Orc Protector

I rubbed her back in slow circles, swayed a little from side to side. Hummed something without melody. Nothing worked for more than a minute. She wasn’t crying, not really—just fussing. Restless.

My arms were heavy. My whole body ached. But it wasn’t the bone-deep desperation of the night before—it was something quieter. A hollow space where relief should have gone. A kind of stillness that didn’t feel peaceful, just… empty.

I was alone with her discomfort, with my inadequacy, with the endless stretch of night ahead. And for a moment—just one—I felt myself crack open with the want of someone else's hands to hold what I was carrying.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

I froze mid-step, Ellie still fussing against me. Before I could answer, the door creaked open, revealing Gruha in the dim light of a lantern held low. She wore a thick woolen robe belted over her nightdress, her silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual severe bun. In her other hand, she carried a steaming mug.

"Heard the babe," she said, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

I shifted Ellie higher on my shoulder, strangely self-conscious. "I'm sorry if we woke you. She's not feverish anymore, just—"

"Fussy," Gruha finished for me, setting the lantern on the small table by the bed. "Perfectly normal after a fever breaks."

She moved closer and reached out to place a weathered palm against Ellie's cheek. My arms tightened instinctively.

Gruha paused, her hand hovering. “May I?" she asked quietly.

The question undid something in me—the fact that she'd asked, that she'd waited. I nodded, letting her touch Ellie's face, her neck, the back of her head with gentle, knowing pressure.

"Better than this morning," she pronounced. "Still working through it, though." She lowered her hand and extended the mug she carried. "Mint and honey. For your throat. You've been humming half the night."

I took the mug, surprised she'd noticed. The warmth of it seeped into my fingers, and the steam carried a sweetness that made my mouth water.

"I don't know what else to do for her," I admitted, the words scraping past my dry throat.

Gruha studied me for a moment, her eyes sharp even in the dim light. "Fussing's not the same as failing," she said finally, and sat on the edge of my bed. "Sometimes they just need to work through it. And sometimes," she added, "so do we."

I opened my mouth to protest—to say I was fine, that I didn't need help, that we'd manage—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under our combined weight.

Ellie continued to fuss, her whimpers forming a counterpoint to the crackling embers in the brazier. Gruha didn't try to take her from me, didn't offer platitudes. She just sat, a solid presence, while I sipped the tea she'd brought.

Another knock came at the door, softer this time.

"It's open," Gruha called, not bothering to lower her voice.

The door swung wider to reveal Dora, her round halfling face creased with sleep but her eyes bright in the lantern light. She wore a patchwork dressing gown that nearly swallowed her small frame and carried a plate of what looked like sweet rolls.

"Heard crying," she said, punctuating her words with a yawn. "Brought carbs."

Behind her, like a shadow slipping through a crack, came Leilan. The half-elf girl moved silently, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. She carried a small jar in one hand and what looked like a soft cloth in the other.

"Oh," I said, startled by their appearance. "You didn't have to—"

"Course not," Dora interrupted, setting the plate on the bed and reaching up to tickle Ellie's foot. "But crying's better with company. And pastry."

Ellie's fussing hitched for a moment at the new voice, her head turning toward the sound. Dora grinned, wiggling her fingers at the baby with exaggerated movements.

"She knows quality when she hears it," Dora said proudly. "Smart girl. Takes after her auntie Dora."

Leilan slipped past. She didn't speak, but she touched my shoulder briefly—a silent greeting or reassurance. She set the jar on the table and unfolded the cloth she carried, revealing it to be a soft, blue wrap.

A scraping sound from across the room made us all turn. The window shutter was easing open, its hinges protesting. A small figure hoisted herself over the sill, grumbling under her breath.

"Leaving the shutters unlatched like an invitation," Hobbie muttered, brushing invisible dust from her shawl as she straightened. "Might as well hang a sign: 'Come in, troubles, make yourselves at home.'"

Despite everything—the exhaustion, Ellie's continued fussing, the unexpected invasion of my room—I felt my lips twitch upward.

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