45 Reclaiming Hope (3)

"Let's be honest with each other, Roboute," Sanguinius said. "You want to slack off, don't you?"

"I don't know why you would suspect me of that, brother, but I assure you—" Roboute Guilliman replied solemnly. "—that is absolutely not the case."

He received a meaningful look, and answered it with neither words, nor his gaze, nor any gesture. He merely remained silent.

A few seconds later, he stepped forward, raised both hands with perfect seriousness, and began inspecting the joints of his brother's ceremonial armor.

The armor Sanguinius wore today was as magnificent as a work of art. Though anything worn by him could be described that way, to be fair, ceremonial armor that neither overshadowed its wearer nor was utterly eclipsed by the Angel's radiance was rather rare.

Or rather, pitifully rare.

Its maker had likely poured most of his life into it. It could almost have been called "perfect," yet sadly, nothing perfect existed in this world—its appearance was beyond reproach, so naturally, it could not have been very comfortable to wear.

Its lining was too tight, and the openings reserved for Sanguinius's wings suffered from the same flaw. They ought to have been wider, but when delivering the armor, its craftsman had proudly declared that he had noticed this detail.

To ensure that every part of the armor shared the same style, he had deliberately chosen not to widen the openings.

Guilliman lowered his hands, took several steps back, and examined his brother. His brother responded with a completely expressionless face.

Only a few seconds later did Sanguinius habitually put on a rather official smile, ending this small contest of wits between examiner and examined.

Guilliman finally spoke.

"I call that the sixth form of diplomatic language."

"What are the first five?"

"A handshake, an agreement, intimidation,