Chapter 18
URSAK
She shifts in her sleep, one hand reaching across the space where I was lying. Even unconscious, she searches for me. The sight tightens with something I'm still learning to name.
Home. The word surfaces in my mind unbidden, carrying weight in six different languages. But none of them capture what I feel when I look at her.
The envelope sits on my kitchen counter where I left it last night. A thick manila paper containing my visa appeal, Maya's character witness letter tucked inside like a talisman. Her words, written in her careful handwriting, vouching for my contributions to the community. To her life.
"Ursak Irontongue represents the best of what integration can achieve," she'd written. "He has enriched our neighborhood, our building, and my life in ways I never expected. Losing him would diminish us all."
I'd read it seventeen times before sealing the envelope.
Maya stirs again, this time her eyes fluttering open. She finds me immediately, that sleepy smile spreading across her face like sunrise.
"Morning," she murmurs.
"Keth'mor dalak," I reply, then translate: "Good morning, beautiful one."
She stretches, unselfconscious in her nakedness, and I have to look away before I abandon all my carefully laid plans for the day. The appeal needs to reach the immigration office before noon.
"Coffee?" I ask, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Always."
I brew her coffee the way she likes it—strong enough to wake the dead, with just a hint of cinnamon. For myself, I prepare tea, the grass-scented blend that reminds me of home. Of the home I left behind, not the one I'm building here.
She appears in the doorway wrapped in my oversized shirt, hair a beautiful disaster. The sight of her wearing my clothes does something primal to my chest.
"The appeal?" she asks, noticing the envelope.
"Ready." I hand her the coffee, our fingers brushing. Such a small touch, but it steadies me. "Your letter... gratath mor. Thank you. It means everything."
She takes a sip, studying my face over the rim. "What time is the deadline?"
"Noon. I want to hand-deliver it."
"I'm coming with you."
"Maya—"
"Try to stop me." Her tone brooks no argument, but her eyes are soft. "We're in this together, remember?"
Together. Another word that carries new weight, new meaning. I lean down to kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with last night's passion.
"Thirty minutes," I say. "Then we go."
She nods and disappears into my bathroom. I hear the shower start, steam beginning to fog the mirror. For a moment, I consider joining her, but the envelope on the counter keeps me focused.
Discipline, I remind myself. Structure.
But even as I think it, I know those old mantras don't fit anymore. Not with Maya in my life, bringing her beautiful chaos to my ordered world.
I dress carefully in my best button-down shirt, the navy blazer that makes my shoulders look less imposing. First impressions matter, especially when you're an orc trying to convince humans you belong in their world.
Maya emerges twenty minutes later, hair still damp, wearing jeans and a sweater that brings out the gold flecks in her eyes. She's beautiful and fierce and mine, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
The immigration office squats downtown like a concrete fortress, all harsh angles and intimidating glass. Maya's hand finds mine as we approach, her fingers threading through mine without hesitation.
"You've got this," she says quietly.
The clerk behind the bulletproof glass barely looks up when I slide the envelope through the slot. No acknowledgment of the hope and fear I've poured into those pages. Just a stamp, a receipt, and a bored "Next."
Outside, Maya squeezes my hand. "Now we wait."
"Now we wait," I agree.
But as we walk back toward the subway, I realize waiting doesn't feel as terrifying as it used to. Not with Maya beside me.
We stop at her favorite café, our café now, I suppose. The barista, a pierced twenty-something with purple hair, grins when she sees us.
"The usual?" she asks.
"Please." Maya settles into our regular corner booth. "And maybe one of those blueberry scones."
I slide in across from her, marveling at how natural this feels. How quickly we've built routines, traditions. Small domestic rituals that feel more significant than grand gestures.
"So," Maya says, breaking off a piece of scone. "I have something to show you."
She pulls out her laptop, fingers flying across the keys. The screen fills with text, and I lean closer to read.
"Letters to My Neighbor: A Love Story in Real Time," reads the header.
My breath catches. "Maya..."
"It's our blog," she says quickly. "Joint byline. I've been working on it all week. Our story, but told together. Both perspectives."
I scroll through the entries, recognizing moments from our early encounters reimagined through her words, my voice woven throughout. It's beautiful and honest and completely terrifying.
"You want to publish this?"
"Only if you're okay with it." Her voice is uncertain now. "I know you value privacy, but I thought maybe it could help other people. Show them that different doesn't mean dangerous."
I keep reading, my chest tightening with each paragraph. She's captured things I didn't even realize she'd noticed, the way I arrange my notebooks, my careful pronunciation of English words, the vulnerability I try so hard to hide.
"Here," she says, clicking to a new entry. "This is what I was working on last night."
"Day 47: On Learning to Be Loved"
"Ursak tells me that in Orcish, there are seventeen different words for love, each with specific applications. The love between warriors. The love for homeland. The love of parents for children. The love that builds slowly, like stone warming in sunlight."
"He taught me that phrase—'Stone warms slow.' I thought he was talking about his own heart, how carefully he opens it to new people. But I think he was also talking about mine."
"I spent so long protecting my solitude, building walls to keep the world at bay. But love, real love, doesn't respect walls. It seeps through cracks, pools in unexpected places, transforms everything it touches."
"Today I woke up in his arms and realized something: I'm not losing my independence by loving him. I'm becoming more myself than I've ever been."
My throat feels tight. "You wrote this about me?"
"About us." She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. "If you don't want me to publish it—"
"Publish it."
The words surprise me with their certainty. Six months ago, the thought of my private life exposed to strangers would have sent me into hiding. But Maya has taught me something about vulnerability, about the strength it takes to let yourself be seen.
"Are you sure?"
"Keth dalak mor ushran," I say. "Love shared is love multiplied."
Her smile could power the entire city. "I love when you speak Orcish."
"I love when you write about us."
We sit with her laptop between us like a bridge. I watch her work, adding final touches to the blog post, and marvel at this woman who saw past my size and difference to the heart underneath.
My phone dings. Text message from an unknown number.
"Visa appeal received. Initial review in 2-3 weeks. Thank you for your patience."
I show Maya the screen. She whoops loud enough to make the barista look over, then launches herself around the table to kiss me.
"Two weeks," she says against my lips.
"Two weeks," I agree.
But I'm not scared anymore. Whatever happens, we'll face it together.
We walk home slowly, hands linked, taking the long way through the park. Maya stops at a food truck to buy roasted nuts, sharing them with me as we find a bench overlooking the pond.
"Tell me about your first home," she says quietly. "Before the exile."
I've never talked about this with anyone. Not the immigration lawyers, not my colleagues at the university. But Maya's hand is warm in mine, her presence a steady anchor.
"Mountain clan," I begin. "My family has been metalworkers for generations. The forge songs, the rhythm of hammer on anvil—that's where I learned about voice, about how sound shapes meaning."
"Is that why you became a linguist?"
"Partly." I watch ducks paddle across the pond, remembering. "But also because words were how I survived exile. Learning new languages gave me new identities, new ways to belong."
"What happened? Why were you exiled?"
The old shame tries to rise, but Maya's steady presence keeps it at bay. "I questioned tradition. Suggested we could learn from human methods, integrate some of their techniques with ours. The elders saw it as betrayal."
"Their loss."
Such simple words, but they hit me like a physical blow. Not pity, not sympathy—just fierce, unwavering support.
"I used to think so too," I say. "But now... maybe it was necessary. Maybe I needed to lose one home to find another."
Maya squeezes my hand. "Home isn't a place."
"No," I agree, looking at her. "It isn't."
We head back as the sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades that remind me of the fairy lights in her hallway. Our hallway now, I suppose.
In the elevator, Maya leans against me, solid and warm. "Stay tonight?" she asks.
"Where else would I go?"
She grins. "Your place or mine?"
"Ours," I say, and mean it.
We end up in her apartment. My things scattered among hers now, creating a beautiful disorder that would have horrified me months ago. She settles at her desk to finish the blog post while I make dinner, the domestic rhythm as natural as breathing.
Later, I find her asleep at her laptop, headphones tangled in her hair, soft music still playing. The screen shows our joint blog, cursor blinking after the final paragraph.
I save her work, then gently lift the headphones away. She stirs but doesn't wake as I scoop her into my arms, carrying her to bed.
"Mmm," she murmurs. "Ursak?"
"Sleep, dalak mor. I'm here."