Chapter 2
URSAK
"KEDVES SZERELMEM..."
The Hungarian syllables roll through my chest like distant thunder. Precise. Controlled. Each vowel given its proper weight, each consonant articulated with the care my professors demanded at Budapest University twenty years ago.
Hungarian. German. French. Italian. Spanish. Portuguese.
Six languages of love, filed and categorized like legal documents.
"Minden nap arra gondolok..."
My voice fills the empty flat, bouncing off bare walls and settling into corners where normal furniture should live.
The acoustics here are extraordinary as something about Victorian architecture and high ceilings that transforms even whispered words into proclamations.
It's why I chose this place, despite the suspicious looks from the estate agent when I mentioned my research requires vocal practice.
The love letter trembles in my hands. Not from nervousness, I conquered stage fright during my first dissertation defense, but from the careful reverence these words deserve.
Found this particular piece in a secondhand bookstore in Camden, tucked between recipe collections and automotive manuals like a forgotten treasure.
"...hogy milyen gyonyor? vagy."
Every day I think about how beautiful you are.
The translation burns in my throat. Not because the Hungarian is difficult.
I've mastered its seventeen cases and complex verb conjugations, but because of what these words represent.
Some human wrote this. Felt compelled to document desire in careful script, probably never imagining an orc would discover it decades later and use it to perfect his pronunciation.
I set the letter down and reach for my German notebook.
Wedged between pages ninety-three and ninety-four: another love letter, this one typed on official letterhead from a Munich law firm.
Found it at an estate sale in Hampstead.
The deceased lawyer's widow selling his effects by the box, unaware she was dispersing a secret romantic correspondence that lasted fifteen years.
"Mein liebster Heinrich..."
German requires different vocal placement.
Sharper consonants, more guttural undertones.
My natural orcish accent actually helps with the harsh sounds that most English speakers struggle with.
Ironic, considering how many years I spent trying to suppress those same vocal qualities during job interviews.
The building settles around me as I practice.
Old pipes clicking, floorboards adjusting to temperature changes, the occasional creak from upstairs where someone's moving about their morning routine.
These sounds used to unnerve me—too similar to the night sounds that preceded raids during my exile years.
But now they're comforting. Proof of civilization. Structure. Safety.
I flip through the German notebook, pages heavy with annotations.
Grammatical notes cluster around romantic phrases like defensive fortifications.
Ich liebe dich annotated with twelve regional variations.
Du bist schon cross-referenced with formal versus informal contexts.
Academic armor protecting the vulnerability beneath.
Because that's what this is about, isn't it? Protection.
The University of London hired me for my linguistic expertise, not my emotional intelligence. They needed someone who could parse ancient texts, decode dialects, bridge communication gaps between cultures. Clean, intellectual work that doesn't require personal investment.
These letters are different. Private. Raw.
"Du machst mich verrückt vor Sehnsucht."
You drive me crazy with longing.
The words hang in the air, suspended in morning light. I wonder if Heinrich ever received this particular letter, or if it joined the others in a box marked personal effects when the lawyer died. Love archived like legal precedent.
French next. The notebook falls open to a familiar page. A letter I've returned to dozens of times over the past six months. This one different from the others because it's unfinished. Just fragments. Attempts. Someone struggling to express feelings in a language that wasn't their native tongue.
"Ma chérie, comment puis-je..."
The sentence breaks off. Pen strokes become uncertain. Starts again:
"Ma belle, tu es..."
Another false start. The paper shows evidence of erasure, words crossed out, margins filled with alternative phrasings. Whoever wrote this was fighting the same battle I fight every day. How to make a foreign language carry genuine emotion.
I clear my throat and try the fragments aloud, filling in the gaps with my own educated guesses:
"Ma chérie, comment puis-je exprimer ce que je ressens? Tu es la lumière qui illumine mes journées sombres."
My darling, how can I express what I feel? You are the light that illuminates my dark days.
The translation feels clumsy in my mouth.
French demands a lighter touch than Hungarian or German, requires delicacy that doesn't come naturally to orcish vocal cords.
But there's something beautiful about the struggle itself.
The way language bends and stretches to accommodate feelings too large for simple words.
Italian. Spanish. Portuguese. Each notebook contains similar treasures. Love letters discovered in library sales, vintage shops, estate clearances. A private collection of human vulnerability, filed and catalogued like anthropological specimens.
But they're more than research material now.
Somewhere between memorizing conjugations and perfecting pronunciation, these letters became personal. Windows into experiences I've never allowed myself. Relationships I've avoided in favor of academic achievement and professional advancement.
"Cara mia, ogni momento senza di te è un'eternità."
My dear, every moment without you is an eternity.
The Italian flows easier than French. Something about the rhythm matches my natural speech patterns, the way syllables connect and cascade. I discovered this letter pressed between pages of a cookbook, still smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary from whatever kitchen it once inhabited.
Spanish proves more challenging. The rolling Rs require tongue placement that took months to master, and even now my accent carries traces of Eastern European influence that would horrify native speakers.
"Mi amor, eres el sol que calienta mi corazón."
My love, you are the sun that warms my heart.
Metaphors of light and warmth appear frequently across all six languages. Universal human tendency to describe love in terms of illumination, as if emotion could banish darkness through sheer linguistic force. Fascinating from an academic perspective.
Devastating from a personal one.
Portuguese completes the morning routine.
The nasal vowels pose particular difficulty for orcish anatomy, something about sinus cavity structure that my ENT specialist explained in terms I didn't particularly want to understand.
But persistence overcomes physiological limitations.
Six months of daily practice, and now I can navigate even the most complex Brazilian love songs without embarrassing myself.
"Meu corac?o, você é minha alma gêmea."
My heart, you are my soulmate.
This letter came from the most unexpected source: tucked inside a first-edition copy of Portuguese Grammar for Advanced Students that I purchased for research. Previous owner had used it as a bookmark, leaving behind evidence of passion hidden within academic texts. The irony wasn't lost on me.
I close the Portuguese notebook and arrange all six in their designated order. Dawn light has strengthened, casting sharper shadows across the hardwood floor. Somewhere in the building, someone's shower turns on. Normal morning sounds. Comfortable routines.
My visa paperwork sits in a neat stack beside the notebooks. Renewal application submitted three months ago, still pending review. Standard bureaucratic timeline, nothing to worry about. But the expiration date approaches like a deadline, measuring time until potential displacement.
Again.
England represents my fourth attempt at permanent settlement since the exile.
Previous countries grew uncomfortable with extended orcish residence, despite my professional qualifications and exemplary legal record.
Immigration policies shift. Public opinion changes.
Academic positions become temporarily unavailable or restructured due to budget constraints.
Always polite. Always legal. Always devastating.
But this place feels different. More tolerant. The University values diversity, or at least claims to in their promotional materials. My colleagues treat me as an equal, mostly. Students seem genuinely interested in my research rather than viewing me as an curiosity or threat.
And then there are these letters. This secret collection of human intimacy that I practice like scales, memorizing romantic vocabulary I'll probably never use.
"Kedves Szerelmem, minden nap arra gondolok, hogy milyen gyonyor? vagy."
The Hungarian echoes through the empty flat, carrying more weight now that I've completed the full linguistic circuit. Six languages, six expressions of love, six ways of saying what I've never said to anyone in any tongue.
My phone vibrates against the makeshift desk. Email notification from the university. Probably scheduling changes or administrative updates that require immediate attention. I reach for it, grateful for the distraction from increasingly maudlin morning reflections.
The sender line makes me pause: Dr. Miranda Westfield, Department of Anthropological Studies.
Not my department. We've exchanged perhaps twelve words total during faculty meetings. Polite acknowledgments, professional courtesies, nothing that would explain direct communication.
I open the message.
Professor Irontongue,