Don't mind me! I'm only here, grinning like an absolute idiot as I write what I feel is the most tooth-rotting saccharine sweet interaction between Roboute Guilliman and his Mom!!
I'm fine... I'm not thinking of how much he respected her and strove to make her proud!! I'm also not thinking about how Tarasha Euten would ABSOLUTELY play wingwoman for her son and his remembrancer!!! And so, I thought I'd share a wee little tidbit from the upcoming chapter that I'm currently editing!
UPDATE: The chapter is out!! Read all about it here: Chapter 6.1 || Chapter 6.2
It was not dramatic. Guilliman did nothing dramatic. His gaze simply paused, an infinitesimal hesitation that would have been invisible to most. Cassia only noticed because she had learned him the way a sailor learned wind: by the smallest changes that came before a storm. Tarasha noticed too. She did not look up. She did not interrupt the deck’s motion. She simply angled her head toward her son and spoke as if commenting on nothing more significant than weather. “Roboute,” she murmured, “you do that thing again.” He did not glance at her. “What thing?” “The thing where your eyes forget they are attached to your head and wander off by themselves.” Tarasha’s voice carried a soft amusement, fond and faintly wicked. “I raised you better than to stare.” “I am not staring,” he said, tone flat with the dignity of a man who had commanded wars and therefore believed he could command his own face. Tarasha’s mouth curved. “Then you are conducting a very long audit with your eyes.” He turned a page of the manifest with excessive care. “I am ensuring readiness.” “Of course you are.” Tarasha’s gaze remained on the deck, yet somehow her awareness seemed to encompass everything: the crew, the servitors, the shifting cargo, and her son’s stubborn restraint. “You looked as your father once did when the harvest wagons came in.” “I have no harvest yet,” Guilliman replied, and the edge of something almost human slipped into his voice, quickly disciplined away. “Then we prayed for rain,” Tarasha said. “We also prayed you would stop trying to look like a statue long enough to remember you were alive.” His jaw tightened a fraction. “Mother.” “That is what you call me, yes.” Tarasha’s amusement deepened, as gentle as a hand smoothing a crease from cloth. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you. I’ll only do it privately, where it’s most effective.” Guilliman finally looked at her then, a brief, warning glance. The sort of look that could silence a council chamber. Tarasha did not flinch. She had kissed his brow in front of officers. She could survive a look. “You have a great many responsibilities,” she continued, voice sweetly reasonable. “Try to remember you are permitted a few comforts as well.” He returned his attention to the manifest as if it were a shield. “Comfort is not the point.” Tarasha hummed, unconvinced. “You say that like a man who has never been comforted properly.” Below them, Cassia accepted a comment from a crewman who was clearly attempting charm and failing endearingly. She answered with a polite line that disarmed him, and then, unexpectedly, she smiled. It was quick and genuine; the kind of smile that made her eyes go bright before she could restrain it. The sight struck Guilliman in a place he did not invite anyone to touch. It steadied him in a way he disliked noticing. He felt the instinct to watch a moment longer, to hold that brightness in memory the way one held a lantern in a storm. He also felt the familiar reflex to deny himself anything that might become a want. Tarasha’s voice drifted up to him, soft as silk. “There. That look again.” Guilliman exhaled through his nose, controlled. “Mother, you are inventing things.” “I am observing,” Tarasha corrected, perfectly calm. “I have eyes. I also have decades of experience watching you pretend you don’t have a heart.” He turned his attention toward the boarding passage as if the metal corridor could save him from her teasing. “We are departing.” “And you are fleeing,” Tarasha said cheerfully, then waved two fingers at a nearby officer who snapped to attention as if she carried a rank. “Go on. Be grand. Be dutiful. I will remain here and admire my own excellent judgment.” Guilliman’s mouth twitched, the smallest betrayal. “Your judgment is rarely in question.” Tarasha’s smile warmed, satisfied. “It should be. It keeps life interesting.”
Don't you love it when you reach a part of your story that just makes you want to melt into a puddle of squee?!!!!!
