Tomorrow, I guess I'll find out.
CHAPTER 8
URSAK
The university library after midnight feels like a cathedral built for secrets. Security badges us through the main entrance. My faculty access still works despite the visa uncertainty hanging over my head like storm clouds. Maya follows quietly, her footsteps echoing against marble floors that have absorbed decades of whispered conversations and late-night revelations.
"This feels very cloak-and-dagger," she murmurs as we pass through the main reading room. Empty chairs surround tables still scattered with abandoned textbooks and coffee-stained notebooks. "Are we committing some kind of academic crime?"
"Only the crime of accessing knowledge after proper hours." I guide her toward the back corner where literature collections gather dust between semesters. "The real crime would be waiting until daylight to share this."
Her blog post disappeared from the internet at exactly 8:47 this morning. I watched the deletion timestamp while grading papers in my office, noting how quickly she'd chosen trust over traffic.Stone warms slow, but sometimes decisive action accelerates the process.
"Here." I stop beside a narrow gap between towering shelves marked 'Comparative Literature' and 'Medieval Studies.' The space looks like an afterthought, too small for proper browsing, but I know better.
Maya peers into the darkness. "Are you sure this isn't where serial killers store their victims?"
"I'm the only orc on faculty. If anyone's storing victims anywhere, it's probably me."
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is."
I slide between the shelves, gesturing for her to follow. The space opens into a hidden alcove that most students never discover as a triangular pocket created by the building's odd architecture. Someone years ago dragged in a reading chair and small table. A forgotten desk lamp provides warm amber light that transforms the cramped space into something intimate rather than claustrophobic.
"Oh." Maya steps inside, her voice soft with surprise. "This is actually lovely."
The alcove embraces us with shadows and whispered promises. Dust motes dance in the lamplight like tiny golden spirits celebrating our presence. Books surround us on three sides. Poetry collections and translation studies and linguistic analyses form walls of accumulated human wisdom.
"I discovered this during my first semester. When homesickness felt like drowning and American English syntax made my head pound." I settle into the reading chair, which groans but holds my weight. "This became my sanctuary. A place where language could be beautiful instead of just functional."
Maya perches on the table's edge, careful not to disturb the neat stack of notebooks I've left here over the months. Her proximity makes the space feel even smaller, but not uncomfortably so. More like the cozy chambers of orcish mountain dwellings where families gather during winter storms.
"You come here often?"
"Most nights. To work on translations without academic pressure or deadline stress." I pull a leather portfolio from my messenger bag, fingers trembling slightly as I untie the cord binding. "To remember why I fell in love with words before bureaucracy complicated everything."
The portfolio contains months of careful work, handwritten pages in both Orcish and English, with margin notes tracking rhythm and rhyme schemes. My personal project, separate from university obligations or visa requirements. Pure passion distilled into careful translation.
"What is it?"
"A love poem. Traditional orcish courtship verse." I smooth the top page, aware of how my voice drops to something almost reverent. "Written by Grashak the Tender-Hearted, roughly eight hundred years ago. He was considered revolutionary for writing about emotional vulnerability instead of conquest."
Maya leans forward, curiosity brightening her expression. The lamplight catches auburn highlights in her dark hair and transforms her skin to warm honey. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight with unnamed feelings.
"I've never heard of tender-hearted orcs in any literature."
"Most human scholars focus on our warrior traditions because violence translates easily across cultures. But orcish poetry has always celebrated emotional depth alongside physical strength." I trace one line of Orcish script with careful fingertips. "This particular poem explores the terror and wonder of falling in love for the first time."
"Terror?"
"Love makes you vulnerable. Vulnerability can be weaponized. For a culture that values strength and self-protection, romantic attachment requires enormous courage."
Maya studies my face with growing understanding. "Is that why you're showing me this? Because it requires courage?"
Because I'm falling in love with a human woman who deleted viral content to preserve my trust. Because 'stone warms slow' but my heart apparently heats much faster. Because sharing this poem feels like offering my most vulnerable self for inspection.
"Because the English translation I've been working on needs testing with a native speaker. Your blog post demonstrated sophisticated understanding of cross-cultural communication challenges. I value your linguistic perspective."
A diplomatic answer that skirts the deeper truth while remaining technically accurate. Maya seems to recognize the deflection but doesn't push for greater honesty.
