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Varro knows when the funeral rites have been concluded by the increase in movement outside the medicae station. He has been forbidden to attend—You had to be carried to battle by mortals, my friend. I'm proud of both your efforts and theirs, but for the love of the Primarch, get yourself some rest—and is on his back in a medicae bed with restorative fluids being fed into one of the ports in his arm. He's paid his own respects to the brothers lost, and given thanks for the victory the chapter won.
A great shadow darkens the door to his room, then ducks inside. "How are you feeling, old friend?" Calgar asks. His voice is still gravely from shouting orders in battle, but he no longer wears the Gauntlets of Ultramar; the worst danger is past, for now.
"I have been reliably informed that I will fight again," Varro says with a wry smile. "But, I hope, not this week."
Calgar smiles, but his good eye still looks worried. Presumably he can see perfectly well how much Varro is downplaying his condition. He pulls up the one Astartes-sized chair and sits down, taking Varro's hand in his flesh one. "Not this week, thanks to a number of heroic efforts. Yours among them." He squeezes Varro's hand. "I don't know what I would have done if we'd truly lost you."
Varro laces their fingers together. Part of him wants to remind Calgar that the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines must always be ready to adapt to the resources (or lack thereof) he has available. He stifles the impulse; Calgar is a veteran who knows that perfectly well. The loss of a friend is a different struggle altogether. "I feel very fortunate that we both survived." He remembers the long blur of floating in the dark, half-conscious of his own identity and only certain that the defensive barrier he created must not fall.
"Your psychic efforts were eating you alive," Calgar says softly. "We could see you wasting away each day that you remained in trance."
"It was hard for you." Varro's psychic senses are almost silent after how deeply he drained his reserves, but he can feel the sorrow buried beneath more permissible emotions.
"Of course," Calgar says, as if it would be absurd to think anything else. "I hope you know what you mean to me." The softness and warmth in his aura at that moment are overwhelming. "And I hope, but have more sense than to expect, that you won't wind up in such dire straits again."
Varro chuckles. "This from the man who's led more melee charges against tyranids than any Astartes alive." He squeezes Calgar's hand. "There are two things I hope you can count on me for, Marneus. First, that I will always give you the best advice I can with the abilities at my command. And second, that I will do anything in my power to ensure that you and the chapter are kept safe."
"Fair enough." Calgar nods. "For my part, I will always listen to your counsel—even if I sometimes make rash decisions about tyranids anyway." He's smiling again, and he looks far less worried. "And as far as I can, I will ensure that keeping the chapter safe includes its Chief Librarian."
"A fair compromise." Varro closes his eyes for a moment—he can feel how much his body needs to rebuild its resources—and when he opens them again Calgar is rising from his chair.
"I'll leave you to your recovery," he says gently. "Rest well. The realm and I will both be glad to see you on your feet again."
"Thank you," Varro says. "Rest assured, I'll be back at your side soon."
Calgar squeezes his hand one more time, then steps away. Varro closes his eyes, the sound of Calgar's footsteps fading as he drifts into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.