"Will you read it to me? In Orcish first?"
"The original doesn't translate well auditorily. Orcish poetry relies heavily on subsonic frequencies that human ears can't fully process."
"Try anyway. I'd like to hear how it sounds in your language."
I clear my throat, feeling suddenly exposed. Reading love poetry aloud transforms academic exercise into intimate performance. But Maya watches with such genuine interest that refusal would feel churlish.
The Orcish words rumble through the alcove like distant thunder:
"Ghak mor'du keth nalara,
Shuval ghesh mor tuk'hai.
Mekh'ta dorei su valka,
Zeph'tok dharan kai."
My voice echoes off book spines and settles into between us like something physical. Maya's eyes never leave my face, absorbing not just the sounds but the emotional weight behind them.
"That's beautiful. Your voice changes completely when you speak Orcish."
"Deeper vocal registers are natural for orcs. English forces us into unnatural frequency ranges."
"It's not just deeper. It's more..." She searches for the right word. "Resonant. Like your whole body becomes an instrument instead of just your throat."
Perceptive observation. Most humans notice only the volume difference between orcish and human speech patterns, missing the physical transformation required for proper pronunciation.
"Now the English version?"
I lift the translated page, suddenly nervous about my word choices. Academic translation focuses on literal accuracy, but poetry requires emotional truth. Capturing the essence while maintaining beauty presents challenges that keep me awake most nights.
"Here. You read it. Your voice will tell me whether the translation succeeds or fails."
Maya accepts the page with careful hands, as if holding something precious. Her eyes scan the text once quickly, then again more slowly.
"Are you sure? This feels very personal."
"Poetry is meant to be shared. Otherwise it's just pretty words collecting dust."
She takes a breath and begins reading, her voice soft but clear in the intimate space:
"The heart betrays its careful walls,
When love arrives like spring's first storm.
To trust another with such truth?—
This courage shapes the soul's true form."
Her pronunciation transforms my carefully chosen words into something living. English flows from her lips with natural rhythm that my orcish accent can never quite achieve. The poembecomes real under her voice, not just translation exercise but actual verse worthy of the original.
*"What fortress-strength can guard against
The gentle siege of hoping eyes?
What armor shields the tender places
Where affection's sweetness lies?"*
