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 myaccent 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 coração, 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 ofPortuguese Grammar for Advanced Studentsthat 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 becometemporarily unavailableorrestructured 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 gyönyöru 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,
I hope this finds you well. I'm writing regarding some unusual acoustic phenomena my research assistant has been documenting in residential areas near the university. Your expertise in dialectical variations could prove invaluable for our current project.
Would you be available for consultation this afternoon? The matter is somewhat time-sensitive.
