Dawn light filters through the grimy window of 4B, catching dust motes that dance like tiny spirits. I've arranged my six dialect notebooks in perfect alignment on the makeshift desk with a door balanced on milk crates, the only furniture that survived my last relocation. Each notebook represents years of study, margins filled with pronunciation guides and cultural context notes that most academics overlook.
Hungarian. German. French. Italian. Spanish. Portuguese.
Six languages of love, filed and categorized like legal documents.
"Minden nap arra gondolok..."
My voice fills the empty flat, bouncing off bare walls and settling into corners where normal furniture should live. The acoustics here are extraordinary as something about Victorian architecture and high ceilings that transforms even whispered words into proclamations. It's why I chose this place, despitethe suspicious looks from the estate agent when I mentioned my research requires vocal practice.
The love letter trembles in my hands. Not from nervousness, I conquered stage fright during my first dissertation defense, but from the careful reverence these words deserve. Found this particular piece in a secondhand bookstore in Camden, tucked between recipe collections and automotive manuals like a forgotten treasure.
"...hogy milyen gyönyöru vagy."
Every day I think about how beautiful you are.
The translation burns in my throat. Not because the Hungarian is difficult. I've mastered its seventeen cases and complex verb conjugations, but because of what these words represent. Some human wrote this. Felt compelled to document desire in careful script, probably never imagining an orc would discover it decades later and use it to perfect his pronunciation.
I set the letter down and reach for my German notebook. Wedged between pages ninety-three and ninety-four: another love letter, this one typed on official letterhead from a Munich law firm. Found it at an estate sale in Hampstead. The deceased lawyer's widow selling his effects by the box, unaware she was dispersing a secret romantic correspondence that lasted fifteen years.
"Mein liebster Heinrich..."
German requires different vocal placement. Sharper consonants, more guttural undertones. My natural orcish accent actually helps with the harsh sounds that most English speakers struggle with. Ironic, considering how many years I spent trying to suppress those same vocal qualities during job interviews.
The building settles around me as I practice. Old pipes clicking, floorboards adjusting to temperature changes, the occasional creak from upstairs where someone's moving about their morning routine. These sounds used to unnerve me—too similar to the night sounds that preceded raids during my exile years. But now they're comforting. Proof of civilization. Structure. Safety.
I flip through the German notebook, pages heavy with annotations. Grammatical notes cluster around romantic phrases like defensive fortifications.Ich liebe dichannotated with twelve regional variations.Du bist schöncross-referenced with formal versus informal contexts. Academic armor protecting the vulnerability beneath.
Because that's what this is about, isn't it? Protection.
The University of London hired me for my linguistic expertise, not my emotional intelligence. They needed someone who could parse ancient texts, decode dialects, bridge communication gaps between cultures. Clean, intellectual work that doesn't require personal investment.
These letters are different. Private. Raw.
"Du machst mich verrückt vor Sehnsucht."
You drive me crazy with longing.
The words hang in the air, suspended in morning light. I wonder if Heinrich ever received this particular letter, or if it joined the others in a box markedpersonal effectswhen the lawyer died. Love archived like legal precedent.
French next. The notebook falls open to a familiar page. A letter I've returned to dozens of times over the past six months. This one different from the others because it's unfinished. Just fragments. Attempts. Someone struggling to express feelings in a language that wasn't their native tongue.
"Ma chérie, comment puis-je..."
The sentence breaks off. Pen strokes become uncertain. Starts again:
"Ma belle, tu es..."
Another false start. The paper shows evidence of erasure, words crossed out, margins filled with alternative phrasings.Whoever wrote this was fighting the same battle I fight every day. How to make a foreign language carry genuine emotion.
I clear my throat and try the fragments aloud, filling in the gaps with my own educated guesses:
"Ma chérie, comment puis-je exprimer ce que je ressens? Tu es la lumière qui illumine mes journées sombres."
My darling, how can I express what I feel? You are the light that illuminates my dark days.
The translation feels clumsy in my mouth. French demands a lighter touch than Hungarian or German, requires delicacy that doesn't come naturally to orcish vocal cords. But there's something beautiful about the struggle itself. The way language bends and stretches to accommodate feelings too large for simple words.
Italian. Spanish. Portuguese. Each notebook contains similar treasures. Love letters discovered in library sales, vintage shops, estate clearances. A private collection of human vulnerability, filed and catalogued like anthropological specimens.
