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Just For A Moment (I Can Be Your Brother)
Roboute Guilliman in all of his glory was a sight to behold. Clad in his wargear, one armored hand pressed to his forehead as he focused on the dataslate in his hand, he was everything a Primarch appeared to be.
But (possibly) Captain Mendax could see the cracks.
It was in the grit in Guilliman’s jaw, the soft clench of his teeth as he mentally digested the latest supply report. (Transport ambushed by Aeldari forces, casualties unknown, collecting data, immediate aid requested).
It was in the creases of his blue eyes, the angle of the dataslate in his hands.
It was dozens of minor imperceptible things that no one had any reason to notice.
And it was in his lips, pressed thin and creased. To any other Marine, to any other mortal (or immortal) they would have thought the Primarch lost in thought, or his expression simply set in grim resolution against the perils of his position.
Captain Mendax knew better. (Or did he?)
He took a step closer, nearly to the beginning of the desk of his (the) Primarch.
“Father.” He finally greeted his Primarch (Brother).
Guilliman looked up, then returned his gaze to the data slate. “Greetings my son. What news do you bring?”
Information prepared long in advance for that question flowed from Mendax’s lips then. He told his Primarch (Brother) of his Company's victories and losses. He explained his visit, and a request to refill his Company's depleted ranks with recruits from other planets in the Ultramar realm. He spoke to his Primarch as a good Captain should, report dull and devoid of emotion, yet full of information and relevant news.
It is only after he has finished that Guilliman takes a breath, long and slow as if the Primarch only now deems it necessary for respiratory use.
“See you take care of your brothers, my son.”
And there is a pause. A shift in focus from Mendax (?) was not prepared to see. A brief moment where the light changes in Guilleman’s eyes and the true weight of the war and time is evident on his face, reflected by the dower in his eyes.
“Yes Father.” A pause. A lapse.
And for a moment Mendax is not the one standing in front of Roboute Guilliman. For Mendax is exactly as his name suggests, a lie, a story that was swiftly created for the purpose that Alpharius deemed necessary. Mendax was only useful for this one singular interaction, this one minute of conversation.
For a moment Alpharius looks at his brother and wonders how heavy the weight of the Empirum must be on his brother’s shoulders.
But he leaves. He walks out of the room.
He has other plans, other schemes in the works that no one can know about, not even his sons, not even those he trusts. Not even his brothers. For should they find out, surely Chaos would as well.
But he allows himself one dalliance.
~*~*~*~*~
It is hours before Roboute looks up again.
It is hours after Captain Mendax and dozens of other officials and dozens of his other sons have trickled in and out of the filing cabinet that is his office.
He has not moved from his chair, lost in logistics and data and the continual everlasting thought that has devoured him since awakening.
Why me?
What am I to do with this rotten corpse of an Empire?
If only Sanguinus were here, or any of my other brothers.
It’s been hours.
And yet when he looks up, he can find no reason for the objects in front of him.
Two cups of coffee, seated on small saucers.
Steam is still idling from the lip of both of the mugs. He recognizes both cups for what they are without needing to sample either. He can smell the difference, the addition of cream and sugar in the farthest one, and plain but calming scent of frothed milk in the closer of the two.
He finds it amusing, and perhaps even heartwarming to find that the cup is not a delicate ceramic, nor a cheap polymer material, but something sturdy and strong enough that the mug does not shatter when Guilliman picks it up, even under the enhanced and often cumbersome strength of his armor.
He brings the cup to his lips, sips it slowly and closes his eyes.
It's a cappuccino.
It’s well made, steamed milk cutting off the bite of the espresso.
Without a doubt it is a luxury that the Imperium can ill-afford.
Without a doubt it is a luxury that Guilliman knows the resources to create and produce are not located anywhere near him in the galaxy. Not within the next fifteen neighboring planets, at least.
He sets the mug down, wishing and lamenting the fact that the warmth of the mug cannot be transferred directly to his hands. Instead he must settle for the unexpected but appreciated allowance of a mug that he can hold and not break.
His gaze turns to the second mug.
A cortado.
A half-and-half blend of espresso and steamed milk.
The preferred drink of one of his brothers.
Guilliman takes another sip of his cappuccino, humming softly to himself before he set the mug down.
He takes the time to enjoy the coffee. He takes an entire five minutes to sit and soak in the flavor, the inherent warmth of the brew, the careful time that went into the creation of it.
And then he calls for one of his aids, waving them forward until they stand by the desk.
“Yes, Father?” His son, Lieutenant Corvan, asks.
“Send a vox message to Captain Mendax for me. Thank him for the coffee.”
The marine nods, and headed out immediately to relay his message.
Guilliman returns to his work.
When he looks up a few minutes later and finds the mug the cortado is in is now empty.
A few minutes later, when Lieutenant Corvan returns to inform him that there was no Captain under the name Mendax, nor was there ever, the cup is gone.
“I’ll look into the matter immediately Father. I swear that-” Guilliman holds up a hand, cutting the Marine off.
“No.” He takes a breath, then reaches out, picking up the mug and the small platter it had come on. “That won’t be necessary. Perhaps I remembered the name incorrectly. Would you get someone to wash this for me?”
Lieutenant Corvan seems distressed for a few moments. He accepts the plate ware without qualm or grievance, and dutifully heads out. If he shows worry that his Primarch has apparently mis-remembered a name, it does not come up when he returns later with the cleaned mug and saucer. He sets it down at the corner of Guilliman’s desk.
“Dismissed.” Guilliman says it as an afterthought as he considers the cup.
“If I may, my Lord.” Lieutenant Corvan says suddenly. “I know it is not my place, and I beg your forgiveness for this assumption of privileges. But…” Guilliman looks up, curious to find his son with his son peering down. “I would like to say that you seem brighter than you did this morning during my report. I know not what twist of fate brought upon this change, but I would be remiss if I did not state that I am glad for the change.”
It isn’t quite a smile, not in it’s full capacity.
But it is a twitch of a lip in an upward direction, and the sigh that escapes Roboute’s lips isn’t as heavy as it had been hours before.
“Your words are appreciated my son.”
He glances over at the coffee mug.
“Take care of your brothers.” He adds.