Redlance does not go looking for her soul name every time they join together—he never seeks it deliberately at all—but there are times, there are times when he cannot but do so, there are times when it seems his soulname is crying out for hers and unable to breach that barrier between them. Ulm searches for something that is there, behind Nightfall's eyes, and yet not available to him. Not for him. For some other elf, most like; it is the rare elf who does not Recognize some time in their life.
But he cannot express his own soulname any more than he can find hers, no matter how they couple: be it desperate or leisurely, gentle or fierce. His mind speaks Ulm, Ulm, Ulm in the hopes of hearing something—some sound-of-self—from her; and yet the mind does not speak the language of the hidden self, of the soulname.
Instead when they lie together they speak mind-to-mind in the language without words, and as he touches her skin (soft as all elf-skins are soft and yet hardened in places: in the calluses her bow has left on the palm of her hand and her fingertips, in the soles of her feet from when she chooses to run on light bare feet, in the scar on her hip where by mischance a boar's tusk opened her flesh to the bone) he does not speak words of love but sends them, sends them in the image of the flower opening, the vine rising to his hand, the richness of soil and the warmth of sun and the cool quenching of water. All the things he knows, all the pleasures of his nature. And she returns them with her own images of satisfaction: running fleet-foot beside Woodshaver, the cold bright night ablaze with stars and moon, the singing of her arrow's arc from bow to game, the taste of warm red blood in her mouth and on her hands, and even sweeter than that the triumphant howl high in her throat.
All this mind-to-mind is as much a part of their joining as the pleasures of their bodies, and yet he cannot but regret that though they share all this, still there is the barrier between Ulm and whatever name lies in her heart-of-hearts.
They are lovemates. Though they do not confine their love to one another, still, she is dear to him and he to her. He knows this. She comes to him wild and smelling of the hunt; he comes to her with the scent of growing things on his hands. She is the wolf-blood to his elf-magic, the howling moon to his gentle sun, the fierce beating heart to his gentle ebb and flow of breath. They complete each other in all ways but this—and there is no jealousy in him, none; she makes him happy, when they hunt together, talk together, sleep together, join together.
He only wishes that were enough.