Potential future story idea: 40k (Patreon)

The Galaxy burned.

From the skies of Macragge, to Holy Terra and the Galactic Rim.

All of it burned.

He could feel the ash on his cheek, the ache, down to his very bones.

The thought was traitorous. Monstrous.

But he welcomed the coming end.

There  was gunfire in the distance; the last pockets of life, still fighting.  Still struggling for that one, glimmer of hope. Too small to realize  that they were staring into starlight long past; its source long dead.

He should move

He should stand and fight at their side until the end.

But though his body was still strong… his will was finally broken.

There was no point. There was no hope.

Perhaps; he could have continued fighting. Kept trying.

But then Terra had fallen.

Not to Chaos. Or Orks. Or Tyranids or Necrons no.

It had fallen… to his father.

Fire  had swallowed the throne world. A million billion souls dying in an  instant. The last great sacrifice needed, for an ascension.

His father’s ascension.

Even  he, who’d never been attuned to the Immaterium had felt it. And now  Father stood amidst the Pantheon; an uncaring God to wage eternal War  against the other monsters of his ilk. Trodding mere mortals underfoot.

And still he’d fought.

He regrouped, he gathered the Space Marines, the Imperial Guard, the people herded them to the Five Hundred worlds, made fortresses and bastions that could withstand all the horrors thrown at it.

And the Galaxy had chosen then to finally bleed them. To kill the wounded beast that was Humanity.

Orks

Tyranids.

Necrons

Chaos.

They fell on his worlds… the last glimmer of promise of hope… and snuffed it out.

He  rested now; within the rotunda, the place of his… rebirth. The place  where this horrid, unending nightmare had started and he’d never woken  up from.

The last  of his legion fought, struggling to defend him as he recovered. A  hundred different wounds that should have killed him many times over,  painted his armor red more than blue. His eye was gone, his arm too;  half of one leg was bleeding raw and the other broken in a dozen  places.

Could a Primarch die of injuries that weren’t instantly fatal?

He wasn’t sure.

He hoped he could.

He let his one eye drift out of the window.

The skies were bleeding. Noxious gas choked the air.

Their hold was firm now.

“Guilliman.”

The voice made him turn his head, it was a struggle to do even that.

She was not as he remembered. Gone was the flawless, pale skin; the measured poise and stoic calm.

She  was wounded. In pain. Cracks, of unnatural deathlight spread across her  features; eyes glowing with pale black light. The touch of her God,  overwhelming now with so much death.

She grimaced, a hand moving to her side as she stumbled, drawing closer, leaning on her sword.

“Yvraine.”  He called her name. Fitting- really. She was here at his rebirth.  Perhaps it was right that she be here at his death.

“Guilliman.” She hissed. “You have to get up.”

“There  is nothing left.” He said by way of answer. “I have no fleets. No  armies. My home is gone. My species; rapidly becoming a memory. Our  afterlife is taken to serve eternally in war.”

He looked to her. “What does it matter now?”

She reached him, her hand stretching outwards to place her fingers over his vambrace, thin fingers seeming laughably small.

He  noted the blood across her midriff. She was wounded too. Psyker powers  styming the worst of the bloodflow. Literally holding herself together.  His one eye stared at her, finding details he hadn’t noticed beneath the  blacklight seeping through the cracks in her skin.

She was, hollow-eyed  cheeks gaunt and worn thin; her armor was battered and tarnished.

She nearly falls again, and compassion makes him move; in spite of the pain, rushing to hold her up before she falls.

But  his strength fails him, and they both fall. Him sliding off of his  seat, she she falls over him. He has enough of a mind to make sure it  would be that way. He had no interest to crush this woman who was his  ally; his friend, and now, the last person he would see before his  death.

She breathes and Guilliman again pans his eyes to the far window; seeing the evidence of their mutual failure.

Something  wails in the far distance. Whatever it is that’s being injured, neither  of them has the strength left to try and help it.

She  shakes where she lays. Her body thrumming with power that is literally  killing her, bit by bit, piece by piece. Turning her into shards of  warpstuff and necrotic flesh.

It must be agony

“I’m sorry.” He finds himself saying.

He’s sorry for her people. He’s sorry for his failure. He’s sorry for her pain.

Her  hand moves, and she lets out a tremulous, broken breath, It falls onto  his chest and she pushes herself up, staring at him with one eye still  her own; the other as black as her God’s. .

“I  suppose we both are.” She gasps, a contraction of pain making her curl  inwards, pale hair falling like strands of silk around her face.

When she looks up at him, tears leak from one eye.

“There… might still be time-”

The laugh, broken and hysterical, bubbles up from him.

“Guilliman.” She tries; but he barely hears her.

The avatar of death itself… fighting so hard to hold it at bay for just that little bit longer.

The irony, and her words; make him laugh harder.

His  wounds spasm but he doesn’t care even as the black spots eat up the  vision of his one remaining eye. His brain fogs. The world spins and  darkens, but the moment for his death isn’t quite here yet

Still. The air is colder; it shouldn’t be. It was acrid and smoke and fire and shards of metal. Breathing hurt and burned.

But the cold creeps up his legs.

It seems a Primarch can die from wounds.

It won’t be long.

He prays death brings mercy.

A foolish, worthless hope. Death just brings more war.

Eternal  war. Eternal servitude to a man that desired nothing more than to kill  the beings it hates; at the cost of all the humanity he claimed to love  and champion.

“Roboute please.”

Its the sound of his name that brings him back, that anchors him.

She is crying now. He’s never seen her cry. He’s never heard her say his name.

They sit in silence for a moment and he realizes he doesn’t know of many people who have faced the end of everything together.

Her shaking breaths grow steady.

“There is… one thing. One last thing” She says. “Do you trust me?”

Trusting an Eldar.

Stupidity.

Folly.

And yet; here at the end of everything. What does he have left to lose?

What would it matter?

He breathes. “What do you need from me?”

Her hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. Her touch is the cold touch of death. He feels it creeping up on him faster now.

She  doesn’t answer. Whatever permission she needed; apparently, she’d  gotten it. Whatever power or rules of the Immaterium she was relying  upon were bent just enough.

He  feels the power surging through him; through the both of them. She,  bloated on the essence of death as she was; and he- the last remaining  creature made by the hand of the man that called himself the Emperor

He  hears her scream; its heart rending. Agony given voice, crackling  sparks of purple lightning dance over his flesh harmlessly but they rip  and tear at the very fabric of her being. He sees her soul being cut apart.

The  veil between worlds becomes gossamer thin. Materium and Immaterium  melding together, in an indistinguishable mulch as the floors dance and  the air ripples like oily water.

He  reaches up, his arm gripping her, holding her in place, both of her  hands fall over his, seemingly using the physical touch to anchor  herself.

Then…

It’s over.

Something shimmers at the edge of his sight, crackling and burning. A purple corona.

The  overflowing power has receded, and with it, Yvraine looks nearly a  corpse. The pale flesh has gone stark white, hollow cheeks and sunken  eyes. Her beautiful hair now strands of brittle webbing.

“What…” He struggles to say.

He feels so weak.

“What have you done?”

She hisses, one hand cradling her bleeding belly. “It’s a fold,” she gasps.

He doesn’t understand. Part of him doesn’t care to.

“I’m glad you succeeded.” He answers dully. At least one of them did.

“We…” She gasps. “We have to reach it- before it shuts!” Her legs are shaking like reeds in a storm.

He doesn’t move.

When  she looks down at him, tears burn tracts down the dust and hollow of  her cheeks. “Roboute… Roboute- come with me,” She demands.

He  huffs out a breath; his head falling to the side, pointedly looking to  the blood that even now spreads across the floor like a crimson bed  beneath him.

“I’m…  flattered by your confidence in me my lady.” He says glibly. “But I  believe I will be dead by the time I make it to my feet.”

She stares down; seemingly disbelieving at what she just heard.

His  hand flops upwards, pointing to the thing just out of his line of  sight. “Go… Do whatever it is you wished to do; for both of us.”

At least one of them will dig something out of these ashes.

There’s pain across her features. Its touching.

He’d wondered at times if she considered him a friend. Or if he was just being foolish and sentimental as humans tend to be.

It seems that he judged her too harshly.

But;  what does shock him is when he feels her; the tendrils of warp energy  coiling around his body and with a great, heaving effort he is lifted.

He gasps in the pain of his injuries and turns his eyes to her.

Blood leaks from her nose; veins bulge from her neck and skull.

Whatever is beyond his sight shudders and quakes.

“You won’t make it like this!” He barks.

“Then I won’t make it,”

She falls on one knee, heaving herself up as she pulls him along.

Then she stumbles; hard and he falls to the ground, the armor of fate rattling his body within it and his vision swims and darkens.

For a few seconds the world goes dark and he wonders if the fall did finally kill him.

Then the color returns to his eye and she’s hovering over him panting and bleeding.

“You’re right…” she gasps. “I… I can’t. Not both of us.”

He nods. He understood that. He did not begrudge her for it

“Go.” He implores.

But then, he sees her body glow with psychic light. The air crackling and shuddering around her.

Something strikes him. The pain is immense, and as he goes sailing through the  air, distantly he understands that she’d just used the last of her  strength to send him hurtling into the ‘Fold’

He slips into its churning waters. Purple lightning and blackened nothing closing in around him like a gaping maw.

The last thing he sees is Yvraine ‘s body torn apart from the inside out as her power consumes her whole.

(X)(X)(X)

So  this is an idea I'm toying around with for the future. (Also this scene  was inspired by another one I saw in a Dragon age fic, an internet  cookie for whoever guesses which one :D)

By  the title; you can guess this is a Peggy sue fic where our boy Bobby G  is sent back in time or possibly to an alt universe version of 40k where  I can play around with things.

In  this idea, Big Bobby G could show up either, just before the Horus  Heresy, just after he winds up on Macragge (in his child body) or even  elsewhere entirely like perhaps a Craftworld. I can very literally play  around with this and have him wind up wherever I like

The pairing; if it would be one would be Roboute/Yvraine.

Now to explain this whole 'The Emperor is uncaring' bit that I know people are gonna ask about.

To  start with; after reading a lot of the recent novels and the Horus  Heresy books... yeah I'm thinking the big E is just an asshole.

​I'm  giving him the benefit of the doubt and just labeling him a villain  playing 3d Chess rather than an incompetent racist dickhead because him  being intelligent actually makes him interesting; but the reality is  that if he IS a hero, he's probably the WORST guy who's ever tried to  Hero in the history of Heroes.

So  in short his plan in this fic was to ascend to Godhood. Plain and  simple and be powerful enough to wipe the Chaos gods clean out of  existence using ten thousand years of prayer and countless quintillions  upon quintillions of humans in the largest greatest ritual of its kind  to ascend to Godhood and become the real "Anathema" and he figures once  Chaos is dead as the only God left standing he could recreate humanity  in whatever way he saw fit.

Not a bad plan to wipe out the oposing Gods but its the humans already alive that get shafted.

Which seems to be par for the course for 40k honestly.

Now as for Roboute himself; I'm gonna be honest; I'm not his greatest fan.

I  don't hate the guy like some other people do but my personal favorite  Primarchs are Jagathai and Vulcan in that order. Bobby G is like a  distant fourth or even fifth.

But  frankly for an idea like this he just flat out works best especially  since unlike his brother's we can definitively say that Bobby G has the  WORST hand dealt to him by far at this point in the canon and I can  totally see him being worn down and traumatized by everything he's gone  through since his re-awakwning.

​I  wouldn't classify this as a fixit fic because I do see Roboute failing  here and there but I'm not going to artificially force the setting to go  completely wrong either like 40k tends to do. Good things can happen to  people; not just the worst of two options. Which is where I think 40k  is best; Books that let characters have good things like Cain's books  are good ones that go grim-derp tend to get laughed at at least in my  experience.

So yeah, tell me what you think; is this a project you'd be interested in seeing more of after the Weaving Force?

(Just  so you know I'll probably be posting one or two  more of these future  snips and projects through the course of my break for funsies)