The Blood of Sanguinius Shall Not Be Betrayed!
Almost instantly, he felt a weight fall on him as a light and slightly cool body leaned against him.
Yvraine, like an elegant and languid cat, adjusted her posture, resting her head in the crook of his breastplate-covered arm, her long legs curled up.
Her cool, delicate skin pressed against him through his clothes, and beneath that coolness, he could almost feel the faint, continuous warmth emanating from the unique life rhythm of the Eldar —a contradictory yet wondrous sensation.
After a moment of silence, Yvraine's voice rang out again, very softly, as if afraid to break the brief tranquility, and also revealing a hint of the bewilderment shared by all intelligent beings of this era:
"We will win, right?"
Robert?
In this mad and desperate universe, even the Aeldari Farseer, who have witnessed countless prophecies and possibilities, sometimes need to seek a word of affirmation from another being who carries hope.
Guilliman did not answer immediately.
He kept his eyes closed, but moved his arms slightly, gently wrapping them around her slender shoulders in a way that wouldn't weigh her down.
"Victory is inevitable." His voice was calm and firm, like an unyielding mountain rock. "Hope has never truly left."
We will win.
The Eldar gods will seek their return home, and humanity's 'gods' will also find a way out.
At that time, two scarred yet still brilliant civilizations will establish diplomatic relations and coexist on a completely new foundation.
He sensed that Yvraine's body seemed to relax a little.
"I would be happy to establish a deep friendship and alliance with you, with the Reaper Host," Guilliman continued, his voice filled with sincerity, "But only with you."
Other Eldar factions... the arrogant Craftworlds, the mad Harlequin Troupe, and those scum of the Commorragh...
Please forgive my bluntness, but it's difficult for humans to develop a liking for them, and I don't want to waste my energy catering to their quirks."
"I am the leader of the Reaper Host," Yvraine whispered in his arms, her breath brushing against his neck armor. "I naturally share the same views as you."
The Reaper Host of today, and... those 'actors' who follow the Laughing God, may be the true, distorted, but still hopeful inheritors of the ancient Eldar.
As for the others... many Eldar, after losing everything, indulged in extreme paths or pure pleasure and plunder.
They are more like... the pathetic remnants that splashed out when Slaanesh devoured the souls of our race, possessing only the form but having lost the heart of the Eldar."
"Aren't humans the same?"
Guilliman smiled bitterly, recalling the twisted doctrines of the Imperial Cult, and the madness and superstition that had sprung up in countless worlds from despair:
"What you are facing is at least one clear enemy and one temptation."
Humanity... must contend with the all-encompassing erosion and corruption of four entire Warp Chaos Gods, from faith to the body, from the collective to the individual."
But then he changed his tone, and his weary voice was infused with an undeniable strength, like a torch lit in the darkness:
"But I always believed, and I have said to everyone, that there is still hope!"
Yvraine, hope will always exist.
Even, deep breathing gradually came from Guilliman.
He was exhausted, his mental state had been stretched too thin for too long. Now that Malcador has returned, he can share the burden of endless political affairs and strategic planning.
Even if it only allowed him to temporarily relieve some of the burden, the fatigue that had been building up for countless days finally surged out like a burst dam, quickly dragging him into a deep, unconscious rest.
Yvraine didn't blame him for his "lack of romance" or for falling asleep suddenly.
On the contrary, she understood this exhaustion.
During the time she spent with him in Ultramar, she witnessed countless times his almost undisguised weariness during brief pauses in wartime or when he was reviewing government documents.
And upon returning to Terra, they will face the Emperor, the Chaos army, the Imperium High Lords, and even the resurrected familiars...
This series of extremely intense events is enough to drain the energy of anything that exists.
She slightly raised her head and, in the dim light, gazed at Guilliman's face, which had relaxed in his sleep.
On that handsome and resolute face, his brows were slightly furrowed, as if he were still planning something in his dream.
She stretched out her slender arms and gently wrapped them around Guilliman's armored neck, pressing her cheeks closer to his cold breastplate, listening to the slow, powerful beating of his heart beneath.
She could feel her cheeks burning slightly, a strange yet warm feeling spreading through her ancient heart.
Although she has lived for hundreds of Earth years, she is considered to have experienced many vicissitudes among the Eldar.
But in intimate areas involving such purely personal emotions...
The strict social norms of the Craftworld Eldar and their focus on their respective "paths" have left most of them with almost no emotional experience.
Unions are often for the survival of the race or for the needs of the path, more like a responsibility or ritual than an emotional fusion.
And now, nestled beside this being, marked as a "Godling" by the ancient prophecies of the Eldar, yet so full of human warmth.
Yvraine felt that the tense defenses that belonged to the "prophet" and the "leader" had quietly loosened a little.
She allowed herself to immerse herself in this peace and strange intimacy, experiencing the simple emotional comfort that had long been rejected or forgotten by the mainstream society of the Eldar.
Listening to his steady heartbeat and feeling the vast, star-like power and warmth within his body, she gradually relaxed, her consciousness sinking into a long-lost, dreamless tranquility and darkness.
Outside the window, Terra's artificial night sky remained unchanged, but inside this simple room...
Two souls, each carrying the hopes for the future of humanity and the Eldar respectively, nestled together during this brief respite from the war, finding a precious moment of peace.
Dreams, or rather, a kind of "horizon" that transcends dreams and is closer to Psionic Energy omens or Warp echoes, seized Guilliman.
He didn't actually "fall asleep"; his consciousness simply sank into a deep state similar to meditation or rest.
"We shall not betray the Blood of Sanguinius!"
Those were deafening battle cries, as if countless voices had converged.
Vivid, cruel images, steeped in despair and bloodshed, surged into his mind like a rampaging torrent.
The field of vision suddenly rose high, then plummeted rapidly, finally settling on a sky dyed a sickly scarlet red.
It wasn't the magnificence of a sunset, but rather a nauseating color painted onto the atmosphere by some kind of biological spores, burning debris, and indescribable organic pollutants.
The air itself seemed to flow thickly, filled with a stench that was a mixture of sourness and sweetness; even while "watching," Guilliman could feel the corrosive odor.