Maya pauses, glancing up at me with something like wonder. "Ursak, this is gorgeous. You wrote this?"
"Grashak wrote it. I merely found English words worthy of his Orcish ones."
"This doesn't feel like translation. It feels like new poetry that happens to be inspired by something older."
Heat rises in my cheeks, the green flush that humans find so alien but which signals deep emotion among my people. Her praise affects me more than academic recognition or professional validation ever could.
"Continue reading. There are three more stanzas."
Maya returns to the page, her voice gaining confidence:
"The bravest warrior trembles when
A smile becomes his greatest need.
The strongest heart grows fragile when
Another's happiness takes the lead."
My posture softens without conscious decision. Academic formality melts away as her voice wraps around words I labored over for months. This is how the poem was meant to exist, not trapped in scholarly journals but alive in human breath and rhythm.
"So let the walls come tumbling down,
Let careful guards lay down their arms.
For love's sweet siege brings victory
Through tenderness, not force or harm."
Silence settles between us as Maya finishes reading. The last words hang in amber lamplight like incense, transformingthe hidden alcove into sacred space. She sets the page down carefully, her expression soft with something I don't dare identify.
"That's not just translation," she says finally. "That's art."
"You think so?"
"I know so. The rhythm works perfectly in English. The imagery feels natural, not forced. And the emotional core..." She meets my eyes directly. "It's about more than falling in love, isn't it? It's about choosing vulnerability despite cultural conditioning that says vulnerability equals weakness."
Precisely.She understands not just the words but the deeper truth they carry. The risk inherent in loving across species lines, across cultural boundaries, across the vast difference between human spontaneity and orcish caution.
"Maya, I?—"
The fire alarm's sharp beep cuts through the moment like a blade. Both of us startle, knocking against the small table. A heavy anthology of comparative mythology tumbles from the stack, landing with a sound like thunder in the enclosed space.
Emergency lighting flickers on, casting harsh white illumination that destroys the golden intimacy we'd created. The beautiful shadows that had embraced us scatter like frightened spirits.
"Shit." Maya jumps up, checking her phone. "Is that a real alarm or just a test?"
I gather my papers with hands that shake slightly from interrupted emotion. The poem goes back into its leather portfolio, the moment broken but not destroyed. What nearly happened between us hovers in the air like promise waiting for better timing.
"Probably real. The old building has sensitive smoke detectors. Someone's late-night pizza in the graduate lounge likely triggered it."
We squeeze out of the alcove as evacuation announcements echo through the library. Students emerge from hidden study spots like nocturnal creatures startled by sudden daylight. Maya stays close as we join the stream of people heading for exits.
"Will you show me more translations?" she asks as we emerge into cool night air. "I'd like to learn about orcish poetry traditions."
Yes. Always yes. Every night if you want.
"If you're genuinely interested in cross-cultural literary studies."
