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In the quiet confines of the warship, a sense of heaviness clung to Roboute Guilliman. The aftermath of a recent conflict against the forces of the Tyranids weighed heavily on the Primarch, his usually resolute demeanor dulled by a palpable sense of loss and responsibility. Guilliman has been staring at the same report for at least thirty minutes, his azure eyes clouded with thoughts of countless losses, the burden of leadership pressing down upon him yet again. The creeping fear that he would not live up to the expectation that has been given to him, to save and guide the Imperium. He placed a hand to the lower part of his neck where the scar left by Fulgrim resided, so long yet still hurts, healed but still leaving him this sense of emptiness that consumed him. Unknowingly Ovidious Sulla was also paying close attention to him.
“It wasn’t your fault my Lord.” The human said remaining polite and formal. He’s had the man working for him for several months so far, it always surprised him how he could pinpoint his well sealed emotions with such accuracy. “We are cunning but our enemy is also. We have all the data. They are evolving to fight us, but we are also. We’ll compile it to fuel the Imperium’s next victory.”
Guilliman stood up a bit violently, the chair behind him almost topping and falling to the side. There was pent up rage in his movements, the image of Sulla flinching at the act took him back into his body. Closing his eyes he tried to relax just like while meditating, pushing the feelings deep inside where they could be properly contained. He is a man of logic, not emotions. Emotional dysregulation was what drove his fallen brothers into Chaos, he couldn’t, no, he mustn't fall into their same mistakes.
He paced towards a wall nested among the many rows of bookshelves, a mural depicting an astral chart of the five hundred worlds of Ultramar as they were in the 31st millennium, drafted from detailed description out of Guilliman’s superhuman memory.
“Victory.” He said, his voice dragging a bit. “That is what the preachers cry from the spires of their temples, what commanders tell the soldiers in their service” the tone takes the mask his voice wears every time he has to address a large crowd for a speech “the Indomitus Crusade meets with triumph after triumph. Day by day, we tear Imperium Nihilus from the Despoiler's grip. And though we are beset on all sides, with each battle we drive back the mutant, the heretic, THE ALIEN.” his nose flares in frustration, rest of the body following a well memorized pantomime. “As I speak these words, our forces engage the remnants of Leviathan. Reclaiming lost worlds, atoning for old shames. A crusade to cleanse the stars.” paused with his voice turning slightly guttural, swallowing a cry. “Taking the fight to the enemy, we routed the Tyranids at Baal.” the pause became longer “We broke their hive fleet. Soon, their foulness will be but a memory.” Guilliman placed his armored hand on the mural, caressing a memory only he seems to still hold “THAT is what the preachers say.” his hands turned into fists as he spoke, knowing full well the human could read his disgust and frustration. “Belief will not save us, lies will not protect us, but it is our hope that will damn us.” he rested his forehead on the mural “In the spires and the slums, our people sing of victory.” once again he knocked his forehead slightly on the mural. ” Victory, as the galaxy burns.” again “Victory, as the Imperium rots around us.” yet again “Victory, as humanity rages against the dying of the light.” one final time, just a bit harder, enough to dent the wall “Victory…”
He had heard him approaching as he spoke, if something Guilliman had to give it credit was for braveness.
“Remind me to vox the Factorium to get this repaired.” admitted the Primarch in a bit of a defeated tone he shouldn't be showing in front of anybody. But there was this unspoken treaty written between them, one that discussed the secret trade of snippets from himself he must not be let out.
Ovidius hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, closing the gap between them even more. The tension in the air felt almost electric. He saw him take a deep breath, then gesture at him with an outstretched hand.
“Lord Guilliman, follow me” he said softly.
Guilliman studied the gesture, unsure if the queue meant that he only wished to be followed or for the Primarch to take his hand. Which seemed very silly by all accounts. Theoretical: he does want him to grab his hand. Practical…
He reached out and grasped Sulla’s hand, their fingers intertwining in a tentative hold, already regretting the choice his body had made without him thinking properly, was Roboute Guilliman that tired his body acted on primal thought? Ovid’s eyes opened widely, confirming that he didn’t have the expectation nor plan for the Lord of Ultramar to make any physical contact. Yet instead of letting go he clutched the bigger hand tighter. Roboute felt an unknown rush of warmth flooding through him with the contact, which he couldn’t identify the reason for as both men were separated by a mechanized steel and ceramite.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and led him through the lesser-populated hallways of the ship, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors. Giving a reassuring glance back from time to time. Even if Guilliman’s grip loosened as they walked, his didn't, no matter how awkward it was to hold his armored hand by a normal sized human.
They arrived at a small observation deck, a hidden gem that overlooked a vast expanse of the galaxy. Stars twinkled in the distance, the brilliance of the cosmos casting a serene light across the room. Ovidius turned to face Guilliman, gesturing toward the spectacle before them.
The accountant finally let his gauntlet go and took a seat on the sailing, resting his body on the voidship grade glass.
“I’ve been juggled between ships most if not all my life, every time I’ve found myself overwhelmed in the ships,” Ovidius began, his voice steady “I would try to find a pier facing outside, in these times making sure it is away from the Cicatrix Maledictum, that opening to the warp.” He pointed toward the vastness outside, where the darkness of the warp loomed threateningly, a stark reminder of the chaos that could spill into their reality at any moment. “Instead, I’d seek out a view overlooking the actual galaxy, remembering that my job is for them,” he said, indicating the stars that flickered with life and potential. “At least that’s what I tell myself, maybe I am also full of that hope that bothers you.”
Guilliman’s expression shifted, the weight of his burdens momentarily lightened by the beauty before them. The Primarch’s eyes softened, the deep blue depths reflecting the starlight.
“Hope is not what worries me it is…” he couldn’t keep talking, he had already shed too much of his shell in front of the man. There was a long silence in which Guilliman joined Ovid, seating by the window, just at an arm's reach and with an effort due to the bulkiness of his armor.
“You seemed to have found your way easily around this ship, I don’t think I’ve ever been in these parts.” Guilliman noted, dragging the charisma out of his tiredness to change the topic the best he could, even though he had calmed a bit, the sound of moving machinery beneath the walls was strangely soothing.
Ovid smiled and nodded, the afterglow on his expression denoted his understanding of The Primarch’s attempt to change topics.
“I could find my way around any unknown ship faster than in my home town, or any town, after this long I’ve grown to find non vessel places daunting.” His new head of the Logisticarum drove eyed the passing starry landscape, at the distance there was a nebula with the same hue of his eyes.
“You tend to speak about Maccrage with nostalgia but is there also apprehension I sense in your tone?” He asked politely.
"I was born in the deep countryside of Macragge, a place far removed from the greater cities my homeworld has. But it, and the planet I came from, are strange to me. I was taken into the Administratum by recruitment when I was very young, my Lord. I've spent most of my life far away from the worlds of Ultramar.” his tone relaxed before returning back to its formal iteration “But those are some things you may know pretty well from the dossier you read."
Guilliman listened closely, noting the careful, practiced tone of a man who had explained his story many times but rarely with any personal investment. There was something almost clinical about it, as though Sulla spoke of another person’s life, not his own.
“But what if this time I want to hear it from you? You’ve seen how Imperial documents tend to fail at… ” his head reviewed term after term, not finding the correct one. “... capturing the true soul of things.” No, that still wasn’t the correct word he had in mind.
“Want to capture my soul my lord?” The question sounded innocent enough but there was an underlying tone in it that Guilliman couldn’t decipher, and there was that weird heat again. He looked at the ventilation system intake, he may need to order getting it checked around the ship.
"I’ve kept contact with my family, of course," Ovidious continued. "I know of them; their names, their lives, what they are up to, but it feels… distant. I speak our planet’s language, but my accent is wrong. It’s more like that of an immigrant just learning."
He sighed softly, face dragging a cheek on the window, a rare crack in the formal veneer he always maintained. Guilliman could see the tension in his shoulders, the discomfort of a man who found himself between two worlds but fully belonging to neither.
"They..." Sulla hesitated for a brief moment, his voice softening . "They have managed to send me some family pictures a couple times despite me ranting to them about the expenses they would have had to pay.” he paused “They look similar to me, you know? I have my mother’s nose and my father’s eyes. The silhouette of an identical jawline or the copy of the same mouth, but… it feels mismatched. Like I do not truly belong among them. Our expressions, our way of dressing, our body language. I often find myself thinking how I am as alien to them as the xenos we fight.”
As Guilliman processed those words, the sense of isolation that echoed in the man’s tone struck something deep within him. His brothers; his fellow Primarchs, had always been different, Jaghatai’s untamable soul, Lorgar’s zeal, Magnus’ lust for knowledge, Dorn’s stoicism… All connected by the same ‘father’ but with such different cultures and upbringings, views on… everything. Guilliman had always been the builder of empires, the one who sought to create something lasting amid the destruction. But that had always set him apart, even from his family.
For a moment, Guilliman felt the weight of his own disconnection pressing down on him. He was the son of the Emperor, a symbol for the Imperium; but what did that truly mean now? What did he represent, truly, in this new age where even the Emperor was but a fractured consciousness on the Golden Throne? And in many ways, like Ovidious, he too had been taken away from what he might have been, forced into roles and responsibilities that left little room for a personal identity.
Against his better judgment, Guilliman spoke, his voice quiet and more vulnerable than he intended.
"I know something of what you mean, Sulla. I... have found myself a stranger, too. To my family. To this galaxy. To the Imperium I once sought to guide. And now this new… nightmarish place I woke up after 10,000 years, it has made me feel even more stranded. It can be, just as you had said, as alien to me as the xenos we fight." There was a beat of silence as he realized how much he had revealed, more than he ever intended. He quickly retracted, stiffening his posture and returning to a more formal tone. "But that is neither here nor there. We all have our roles to play."
But Ovidious the always perceptive, though, had caught the shift, he had over the months learned how to hear the unspoken truth beneath Guilliman's words, and his now attempt to return to professionalism. There was a pause as he weighed his response, his honey gaze studying Guilliman who pretended to ignore it. With a soft but steady voice, Ovid spoke.
"You can always talk to me if you wish, my Lord. You always know where to find me, anyways." His smile was short and sheepish. “Or don’t, silence is also fine."
Guilliman looked at him, the words sinking in, more comforting than he expected. It was such a simple offer, but it carried with it something profound. In the vastness of his duties, his responsibilities, and the expectations placed upon him, someone had quietly and earnestly offered him a space to simply be himself. It was disarming, and Guilliman found himself, for a moment, unsure how to respond.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging the offer without fully committing to it.
"Thank you, Sulla," he said, his voice measured. "I will... keep that in mind."
“Just Ovidious is fine, at least when it is just the two of us.” the redhead interjected shily “Or Ovid, as you prefer.” he paused, the conflict on his expression showing the want of maybe taking back the words. "Only if you wish, my Lord."
Guilliman’s eyes flickered back at the unexpected offer. There was a subtle shift in his expression, a moment where his formal exterior cracked just slightly, and his gaze met Ovidius’ with a hint of warmth that hadn’t been there before. The offer, much like the earlier one to talk, was an invitation. It was Ovidius offering Guilliman a small sliver of normalcy; something human, something grounded. And Guilliman realized how much he longed for that, how much he needed someone who wasn’t just a subordinate or a follower but someone he could connect with, even in these brief, stolen moments.
“Just Roboute then, at least when it is just the two of us.” he proposed in exchange before realizing what he was saying, to his and Ovid’s surprise.
Ovidius froze, his gaze hovering over the galaxy outside, eyes then lifting slowly to meet Guilliman’s. The air between them suddenly felt charged, as if a sacred boundary had been crossed. Guilliman felt it too, the weight of what he had just said sinking in. But he didn’t backtrack. Instead, after a brief, tense pause, he added quietly:
“Only if you wish… Ovidious.”
For a moment, Ovidius looked as if he didn’t quite believe what he had heard.
"Roboute?" he repeated, as if trying out the name, feeling the weight of it.
"You don’t have to," Guilliman quickly added, sensing the weight of his own words and the surprise in Ovidius’ expression. He felt vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.
But Ovidius’ eyes softened, and he smiled, a small, genuine smile.
"If that’s what you wish and not because you feel obliged to," he said gently, "Roboute."
Hearing his own name spoken like that, without the weight of command behind it, sent an unfamiliar shiver down Guilliman’s spine. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it; being called by his name, not his titles. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his composure slipping ever so slightly.
"Yes," he replied, his voice low and steady, "I think... I would like that."
And with that, the space between them felt different. Less rigid. More human. Ovidius went back to observing the galaxy, but the atmosphere had shifted.. Guilliman, for the first time in a long while, felt the warmth of genuine companionship. They spent a long while sitting in silence, observing the stars go by. It wasn’t uncomfortable nor bothersome, just for this moment he was immersed in a moment that didn’t expect anything out of him. The space around them seemed to shrink, the distant stars fading into the background as he focused back into the man.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Guilliman said, his voice a husky whisper, laden with unspoken emotions.
“One of my functions is to lessen your burden, my Lo… Roboute.” they held their gazes in silence again. “Are you ready to return?”
“Are you ready to guide me again?” What made it ask that question? He had a superhuman mind and was capable of memorizing entire books in seconds, Ovidious also knew it, remembering the couple turns they took on the ship was nothing for him.
“So apart from me needing to save you from the oh so horrible plastek flimsies every time you have to wear that armor, does it make it now that I have to guide you through your own ship?” He stood up and grabbed Guilliman by the Hand of Dominion, having to use both of his to even grip it properly due to its sheer size. “Just this once, don’t get used to it.”