12. To Name A Longing
To Name A Longing
From the Private Journal of the Sokar:
They speak of Estar as if it were just another rite. Another tradition of Krystopolis to be endured, expected, obeyed. A sacred release for the Resh’Agar, necessary, ordained.
I know of it. In function. In theory. The ritual copulation of the Companions and the Resh’Agar for the purposes of mana transfer.
Runes are drawn, and during physical release, the Companion is trained to shed her mana into the willing body of the Resh’Agar.
Through this, the Shields are bolstered, and the Resh’Agar is strengthened.
I have never asked for more detail.
But still… I wonder.
He wants me so often. Hardly a night has passed since his return that he hasn’t taken me, body and soul. And I want him. Past reason. Past my body’s frustrating limitations.
Even when I ache. Even when I am unwell. My body could be burning. My injuries throbbing. Yet, when he touches my face, my hair, my skin—he is all the healing I could need.
No matter how much I beg otherwise, he is always careful.
Always restrained. He never lets go—not fully.
He is so large, so all-encompassing, his hands broad enough to encircle my entire waist within their grasp.
On hotter nights, my body shakes after he’s finished loving me.
I can hardly move for the ache in my back and in my thighs.
Yet I do not fear his passion. If anything, I lament this fragile body's lack of stamina.
I do not come from the Lattice of Strength. I was not bred to be the vessel for his need. I was not born for it. I simply fell from a place unknown straight into his willing arms, where he has done nothing but shelter me thereafter.
And yet...there is not a time when I do not crave him. When I do not want his hands, his lips, his tongue, his voice telling me I am his to ravish. Even in silence. Even in sleep. Even when the world unravels and nothing follows rules or boundaries in the chaos.
He brings me clarity.
He touches me, and I become more than just a thing taken from the ice.
More than a lost star, struggling to find its way among those with a past, with memories, with an understanding of how the world is meant to function.
When he enters me, I can hardly breathe for the breadth of him—and each time, I wonder if I’ll break. Yet, there is no pain in this kind of breaking. Only ecstasy. A shattering into someone new, someone more.
Once, I likened our joining to a vessel being filled. I want to be the cup he pours himself into. I want to hold every part of him that the world cannot contain. And yet...sometimes I wonder:
Does he seek Estar because the depth of me is not enough to hold him? Can my arms not wrap around all that he is?
If the Resh’Agar needs mana, why can the Sokar not provide it?
What is it that I lack? Strength? Capacity? Will?
There are moments when I think I feel his hunger—so immense it could eclipse the sky—and I wonder if mine will ever be enough to match it. To soothe it. To satisfy whatever gnaws beneath the surface of his restraint.
But I will not ask.
He already bears too much for both of us.
And if I can give him peace through my silence, I will.
Even now, as I write, something changes.
A thrum beneath my skin. A hunger that is not mine. A tightening in the chest, low in the belly, impossible to name and yet unmistakable.
It crashes into me like a wave, hot and sudden. My thoughts blur. My breath shortens. My fingers tremble around the stylus.
This is not my feeling. It is his.
Kailorien.
I should go to the Archives. I should read. I should—