บท 290: The Coffin of Roboute and his 20 sisters (Canon Guilliman Peggy Sue into Female-Primarchs AU) by Seat_Admiral
Words: 54k+
Link: -https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/the-coffin-of-roboute-and-his-20-sisters-canon-guilliman-peggy-sue-into-female-primarchs-au.1132597/
-https://archiveofourown.org/works/52381945/chapters/132510880
-https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/25016
( Roboute Guilliman dies to Mortarion's blade, and finds himself in the far distant past. However, somethings wrong.
His once-brothers are women now. )
Chapter 1 : The Carcass of a Dream
He staggered, the pain that filled the entirety of his form intensifying for a single horrid moment before his vision went black.
His brother's scythe had struck true. He knew it. He could feel it.
Roboute Guiliman, last loyal Primarch, died. And with him, the final flickering ember of hope for Mankind died as well. His legs lost their strength, but he stood for a moment longer, supported by the rapidly draining actuation of his power armor.
He could no longer hear anything. His brother's mockery, the burbling laughter of Nurgle in the distance of this space, the fearful cries of his allies. Nothing but silence in the warp.
It was a small mercy that he also couldn't smell anything. The stench had been atrocious. His brother's filthy habits had only gotten worse in retrospect.
…
… How was he aware right now?
He had died, he knew it as surely as his own name. He knew not what lingered beyond the threshold of life, but his degree of awareness was surely incorrect. Of course, he had nothing but instinct to determine such, and no real evidence until now.
He was in a void of nothing. A void without sight, or sound, or smell, or feel, or taste. A void devoid of the passage of time.
…
… How long had he been here? A moment? An eternity? He couldn't tell. All he could do was remember. Remember his dreams for the future, for humanity, and how the universe conspired to end each and every one. Setback after setback in an endless wave. What could he have done differently? What were the mistakes that he made?
Maybe the mistakes began long before he was born. Long before he had even been a plot in the mind of his creator. A tool in the arsenal of the Emperor, a tool that simply wasn't enough in the end.
He did not mind his role as a tool. He was made to serve mankind, that was a just and honest duty. He had no shame in it, no reason to rebel against such a virtuous mission. He and the Emperor were aligned in that purpose.
… But his brothers did.
… So many of his brothers did, chafing against their duties, self-imposed or otherwise. Straining against chains only they could see.
…
He should've been a better brother to them. Maybe then…
Maybe then…
… It didn't matter anymore. Guiliman was dead. Waiting for whatever happened to souls in the feral clutches of the warp or otherwise. Waiting for whatever entity had hold of his essence to start consuming it. Waiting for whatever final humiliation he would have to endure.
… There was a thrum through the senseless void. His focus immediately strained to analyze it. Anything to distract him from his regrets.
Another thrum pulsed through the void, awareness of that distant thing he called 'himself' began to return to him. He forced unaware limbs to slowly rouse from their half-dead state. He could begin to feel pinpricks of static wash through his nerves.
Another thrum pulsed through the void.
And with it came a dark laughter.
A chilling feeling creeped up his spine.
Hands grasped his shoulders.
A breathless mask leaned in close to whisper next to his face.
Godling
The mask chuckled for a moment, mockingly, madly.
Liberate Isha
The void disappeared.
He collapsed, face impacting the ground. He grunted in pain as all of his senses were restored all at once, flickers of static swarming within him like a thousand insects. He planted a hand in the ground, forcing himself up with a groan and determined glare.
The first step was to gather information. Forcing himself up, he took in his environment, scanning for danger foremost.
Nothing. Merely an empty field of wilderness in the midst of some grand and primordial woodland. It was day, so he couldn't find out what planet he was on that way either. He forced himself entirely to his feet, scanning his surroundings in ready tension.
Nothing but ambient woodland greeted him, the rustling of leaves in the wind, distant calls of foreign avians, and the smallest sights of unknown rodents in the branches.
… No immediate danger. He took stock of himself.
He was alive. His body was hale. His mind felt clear.
He was also completely nude. He frowned at the impropriety of it. The one who sent him here surely would have sent his undersuit with him? He ignored the inconvenience of it and turned to…
A sword and shield rested on the earth behind him. Both of burnt-gold auramite alloy. Both large enough to overshadow a normal man. Both a comfortable tool in his hands. Both very familiar to him.
His hands reached out for the Sword and Shield of his creator. A familiar warmth filled him as he grabbed hold of them. A cold and distant warmth, but one that he was aligned with regardless.
The one who delivered him here brought his sword with him, and even threw in his father's shield, but failed to give him even a toga? He shook his head at the situation and disregarded it as unimportant. He had to return to armies as soon as possible, there was no telling how much damage would be done in his absence.
Taking a deep breath and focusing, he exhaled as he tried to find the general elevation of the region. Water flowed downhill, and where water was found, civilization was sure to follow. That would be his first destination.
Finding the downhill angle, he began to jog through the woodland, a giant of three meters galloping with naught but weapons to cover his naked body with.
He suddenly knew exactly what Russ felt after that one drinking contest. He smiled in spite of his situation at the memory.
His smile fell as he recalled the words of the entity of the void.
Liberate Isha.
From what he knew of Eldar lore, that was their goddess of life, supposedly the captive of Nurgle and chained within his noxious home. The thought of being forced into a bargain like this rankled him, but he knew death. He was indebted now, and Nurgle was no ally of his regardless.
Liberate Isha? Very well.
He'd burn Nurgle's domain to ash in the process.
The arms of the Emperor warmed at the thought.
~792. M30~
~South-Eastern Ultima Segmentum~
~Exodite World Charnac~
~Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium and Imperial Regent~
A pillar of rising smoke in the distance finally gave him a destination, and he sped to it at a comfortable jog. No need to exhaust himself in the process of moving to potential hostiles. He bore not his armor, nor an undersuit, nor any clothes of all. His skin was firm, yes, but it was not impossible to puncture with weapons of sufficient force.
He was a Primarch, not invincible. His greatest weapon was his mind, and information was the ammunition that weapon required.
His eyes scanned the vicinity of the woodland as he approached, keeping watch for any signs of civilized life. Disturbed underbrush, footprints, marks carved into bark. The forest was thick here, but not so thick that it would be unmanaged. This was a cultivated forest, underbrush managed in convenient regions and open spaces left for ease of movement. It was a forest suited for game-hunting and the occasional foraging, but not timber harvesting. The trees were too disorderly and too old for that.
It had been almost half an hour since he awoke on this planet. Many battles could be lost in half an hour, but the Imperium had stood for ten-thousand years in the absence of the Emperor or any of his loyal brothers, it would stand for however long it took him to return. The only question was how much more work was he to perform once he returned, how much more was required, how many more steps added to the already sprawling mental list.
Too many things to do, only so many trustworthy hands to delegate to, only so many things he could oversee personally.
If he had even one of his brothers, goodness forbid if he had even one of the Dauntless Four at his side, he would not be so grim. The imperial carcass he had to manage had a chance to recover, but it would be far surer a thing if he had able aid. Ten more good men and time, all that he required was that, and his manifold considerations would be far more manageable.
His eyes spotted something in the distance, something white and unnatural against the backdrop of mostly green and brown wilderland. He jogged towards it, slowing in his approach as it became more clear. Gradually his massive bounding stomps diminished, until he smoothly stomped towards it.
He, unlike some of his brothers, had no specific useful mutation or inherited ability. He was 'merely' a Primarch, as laughable as the thought would be to most. He was tall and strong, his skin was tough, his flesh was thick, his bones were robust. His senses and mind were keen, his reflexes superb, his immune system efficacious.
He did not have the wings of Sangiunius, or the unnatural instincts of Lionel, or regenerative capacity of Vulkan. Guilliman was merely a man brought to its most extreme limits.
And a man can only do so much to prevent heavy groves and imprints in the ground wherever his heavy feet landed in relatively soft earth. He was some three meters in height and six hundred or so kilograms unburdened, there were limits to what he could stand on. Roads were vital for transportation, humans invented them long ago for a reason, civilizations need to build them more often!
He grunted and deliberately ignored his memories of Corax, who absolutely could tread over surfaces like this without leaving prints behind. He focused his attention instead on the cream-white object that he had spotted earlier.
It was a sign of some sort. A flat plate of a bone-cream-white held by two loose fiber ropes hanging from one of the many trees of the forest. The sign bore an abstracted image in red paint, likely made from clay from what he could tell of its pigment. The image was a triangle, from which extended a central line, the central line being crossed over by three gradually shortening perpendicular lines. From the triangle at the top of the sign, two half-circles extended like antennae on the head of some arthropod.
He considered the sign for a moment. Eventually, he came to a solid conclusion, and a plan formed in his mind.
"I don't know what this means." He declared to the open forest, stance loose and relaxed. He couldn't read this, that was true, but he could recognize the material it was made from. Wraithbone, a psycho-plastic that was created by the Eldar and used for any number of their constructs.
If the sign was made of Wraithbone, that means either this was a relic being used by some tribal society, ignorant of its origin and properties, or…
'It means you don't belong here, outsider.' The voice was not heard by physical ears, speaking to his mind instead. It drifted through his psyche, giving the impression of coming from directly behind him, which meant the speaker was likely hidden right in front of him and waiting for a chance to emerge.
Following the expectations of the speaker, he turned around to look at the nothing behind him, while keeping his senses sharp for his surroundings.
… Twenty-one, from what he could tell.
After a moment of pretending to look for whatever spoke to him, he turned to see figures in a half-circle in front of and partially surrounding him. Roughly two and a half meters tall in most cases, clad in the same cream-whites of the sign and green-blue leathers, and carrying an array of masterfully crafted but primitive weapons.
If the sign was made of Wraithbone and not being used by the ignorant, it meant that it was being used by the Eldar. And if it was being used by the Eldar, it meant they were waiting on an opportunity to appear and subtly grandstand to the outsider. They were vain creatures that way, they liked showing off to their 'lessers'.
If this world was controlled by Eldar, he needed to rely on them to get back to the Imperium. That was an incredibly poor place to be in, but it was not impossible to accomplish his goals. Step one was to appeal to their spirits with the appropriate displays of 'foolish, dull, humanity'.
He took note of what they called him. 'Outsider', not 'Mon-Keigh' as they typically did. He had to determine a reason for it. Perhaps cultural differences, perhaps they were trying to emphasize the idea to him. He didn't have enough information yet.
"It was not by my will that I am here." He spoke in a different language. The most common dialect of Eldar, something he had specifically studied in his scant free hours at some point. It was something he thought useful to learn, but incredibly difficult to master.
Eldar was composed of a single core language and structure, which was varied in grammar depending on innumerable factors including relative position in society, in the galaxy, in time, and probably several others that were unknown to him. Depending on specific pronunciation, a single sentence could contain a vast amount of information that relayed this to the listener, and thus made the entirety of the sentence vastly more efficient at communicating more complex ideas.
It was, in truth, a headache to learn at even its most basic levels. More complex than what was really worth doing if one had a human lifespan. It was undeniably beautiful in execution, both for efficiency and the actual sounds used themselves. Several of his brothers attempted to learn it at one point or another, but of them only traitorous Fulgrim ever grew close to actual mastery.
It was said that a painting is worth a thousand words. The Eldar used their language to sing sculpture into existence.
Guilliman would personally prefer High Gothic, it made him feel less like he was stumbling over a song in front of a large crowd. Judging from the minute and silent wince he spotted in the most distant warrior, that was essentially exactly what he had done.
The one in front, with the helmet crowned in stylish golden leaves, stared at him for a moment before speaking. "You can… speak… our tongue. By whose will are you here, stranger?" Judging from the sibyllic pause in the sentence, the leader was hesitant to say that.
He buried his pride for a moment and continued. He needed them to like him well enough to get back to the Imperium, which meant ignoring the implied insults. "I do not know. I had died, I know. Thereafter all I know is a mask, laughter, and a demand."
They paused briefly, perhaps only a tenth of a second, but he had noticed. They knew the figure he spoke of, meaning it was something related to the Eldar. Or perhaps they were thinking of a very similar figure, known to them but actually distinct from the one that had spirited him away from his grave. The limited information made him wary of making any definitive conclusions.
"What was this demand, stranger?" The leader of the Eldar unit also demanded, making it twice he had to receive one of those and not glare the offender into submission.
"Liberate Isha from Nurgle's house." He stated simply. Their word for Nurgle was truly a masterclass in layered insult. It conveyed a dozen negative connotations and comparisons simultaneously. He had to appreciate it for that alone. Speaking of his 'house' specifically added six more.
There was a long pause, almost ten seconds long as they evaluated him and his words. After the time had passed, the leader nodded his head minutely, and turned around.
"Follow stranger. You will speak to our Worldsinger."
And under heavy watch, no doubt. He nodded in return and began another mighty jog to follow after them. After the first few steps, a thought occurred to him.
"Beg pardon. Do you have garments to spare in my size? I arrived without any."
A note of amusement entered the voice of the leader, calling back to him from their place some meters away.
"We will see stranger."
He grunted, there was a coin's flip on whether or not they gave him something to cover his nakedness then. Typical of the Eldar.
The Eldar proved that they were capable of the basics of hospitality by providing him a large sheet of some quilted cotton-adjacent material to wrap himself with. They proved they weren't above inflicting minor inconveniences by making him stride through one of their settlements to a warehouse on the opposite side to retrieve the sheet first. His disdainful grumbles and blank stare had clashed against the equally blank stare of the leader.
They were very careful to not laugh as some of their civilians pointed and reacted to the giant naked man with small ears walking through their settlement. His revenge will be swift and terrible, and they shall be laughing as he inflicted it no doubt. He just had to figure out what his revenge could be without sabotaging his efforts here.
Once clothed, he turned to follow again, eventually reaching one of the few proper technologies he saw present. A form of rapid air-transport, clearly not suited for hauling bulk cargo or exiting atmosphere, but good enough for moving officials across a world. He climbed aboard, followed by six of the Eldar that had been watching him. The other 14 boarded three more of the small sleek vessels, and steadily the hovercraft rose into the air and away from the techno-primitive settlement.
These Eldar were mostly primitive in their wear and construction, meaning they were likely Exodites. Eldar that were descended from those that long ago abandoned their grand city to settle garden worlds and live out rural lifestyles. They were similar to the knight worlds of humanity, in a strange instance of parallel development.
Difficult to conquer and purge, and often not worth the effort required to do so and keep their planet's ecology intact. Exodites were some of the few xenos that were sometimes simply passed over during the Great Crusade, if under heavy watch by all surrounding planets and various satellite installations. This was relatively safe to do, as they did not usually leave their planet unless forced to for whatever reason.
Only sometimes, of course. Often the danger of having a xenos-controlled world so deep into Imperium territory was not something that could be risked. Especially the Eldar, their average soldier a match for some of humanity's finest warriors. He could name… four such worlds that were within a year of standard warp travel to Ultramar.
Standard warp travel was a ratio of about one to twelve. One day of travel within the warp to twelve days of equivalent time spent traveling outside of it. Of course, the warp being what it often was, this arrival time varied wildly between instantaneous and never. The most commonly accepted 'true standard' for how long it took to travel through the warp (using the galaxy as an amusing standard unit of measure) was between 75 and 300 days for the crew, and 6 to 40 years for the rest of the universe.
Dorn, in one of his rare moments of levity, once joked with him that warp travel occurred at the speed of whatever was inconvenient as possible without making them all stop using it.
His mood darkened as he remembered reading the report of his brother's disappearance.
He pushed the thought away, and focused on the task before him. Waiting for the transports to touch down at their destination in the distance, something he could see through the open air design. This vessel was protected from air resistance by psychic shields then, something he found a tad excessive for a simple unit transport.
Still, it was certainly smoothing out the journey. Looking down at the landscape speeding by and making some rough estimates, this simple transport was traveling faster than the vast majority of even the fastest within the Imperium. Still, that was to be expected when you were comparing your people's technology to a species that was millions of years old.
… Millions of years, if only he had so very long to work with. So much time to put things right.
"We sincerely apologize for the long travel time. This was one of the only transports available on such short notice, and it's a slower design." The leading Eldar made a show of sincerity in his apology. It was undercut by the fact that Guilliman knew they were just showing off again, as they typically did in their indirect manner.
A transport traveling faster than almost anything in the arsenal of humanity (of the same general use-profile that was) was considered slow by their standards, how much faster are their truly exceptional designs? That was the thought the Eldar was trying to direct him to.
He snorted and responded in the driest manner he could. "Indeed, this vessel doesn't even have complimentary snacking and wine. Downright shameful really, though I'm sure your other works are up to par." His few non-hostile interactions with Eldars had demonstrated their preference for little spars of wit like this, something he should take advantage of when possible.
The Eldar rose to the challenge. "Unfortunately, our wines proved too intoxicating for those not Aeldari, and our minor treats far too addictive. Serving them to non-kine was deemed unacceptable many years ago."
He shook his head in mock sorrow. "The mighty Aeldari, incapable of creating treats that the entire galaxy could enjoy. The littlest things are often our worst enemies, are they not?"
"Enjoy, yes. Find satisfaction in anything else afterwards? No, most certainly not. Alas, some labors are beyond even the Masters of the Galaxy." The Eldar returned his mock sorrow with some of their own. It was only his prior knowledge that told him that they weren't being sincere with it.
He was about to respond in kind before the first glances of where they were taking him to started to appear over the horizon. First light greens, then darker shades of the same, trailing down into dark browns as it descended to the ground.
A massive tree, perhaps some kilometers high, that most likely served as their effective capital and living fortress. A site to guard their infinity circuit and host their bound spirit. Most Exodite worlds had something like this, usually a tree or a mountain that loomed over all its peers.
"Awestruck by our world-manse then? I suppose it's rather inspiring for those not used to its splendor."
He responded idly. "I've seen larger." Mostly ones that were under the process of being bombarded by shells from beyond the atmosphere.
He restrained the urge to grin triumphantly as he felt the stare of the Eldar on his face, searching for a lie and finding none. Another victory for humanity, claimed by his banner. A fantastic tale for improving morale, he'd be sure to relay the story when he returned.
The rest of the trip was in relative silence, the craft eventually arriving at a structure built along one of the nigh-tectonic branches of the massive flora. He stepped off and moved to the center of the platform, before glancing over to his current guide. The elder leader raised a hand, and a table and chairs were carried in by five civilians in well-crafted by mostly unadorned robes. The symbol on their breast looked familiar to him, although he couldn't place where he had seen it before.
"Our Worldsinger will be present shortly, stranger. Conduct yourself with all the considerations of hospitality, or we will flay you and mount your entrails along the branches of our forests." The Eldar dropped any pretense of civility with the coming arrival of one of their effective royalty. An open threat was honestly refreshing when it came to dealings with the Eldar, so he simply set his face into a grim scowl and nodded.
"I will not be the one to open hostilities." But he would respond in kind, went unsaid but well understood. The Eldar nodded and ceased all movement for a time. Likely speaking with their Worldsinger through psychic communication. Around him, the guards fanned out in a perfect circle, and held salutes. He stood in front of the table, waiting to greet the one that he would have to bargain with to return to his people.
A long period elapsed, before the elegant doorway into this landing structure opened, and another escort of guards poured onto the platform. Doubling the size of the total number of Eldar warriors present and filling in the gaps in their circle of soldiers around him. All save two, which stood apart and provided a small opening for one to walk through.
They were prepared to strike him down in an instant, understandable he supposed.
A final three figures stepped through the doorway. Two in less adorned robes and wearing face-concealing veils, they produced forwards with serving trays, marching in unison to either side of the table he stood in front of and proceeding to load it simultaneously.
Tea and some form of biscuits. It was possible they were poisoned, but to refuse would be an insult…
He would evaluate the Worldsinger first.
A final figure, clad in robes of green and gold and cream-white, stepped forwards through the doorway. A visage-mask on its face concealing all features save two brightly glowing green eyes, from which curling patterns emerged and trailed across the entire surface of the mask. A wreath of interwoven antlers sat atop its head, and it carried a staff that looked as if it had been grown into shape rather than carved.
The figure stepped forwards, eventually entering within the bounds of the circle of guards (who closed ranks behind it) and stopping to stand before him. It evaluated him for a moment, before speaking.
"A strange guest indeed. Sit if you would." Judging by the voice, the Worldsinger was a male. Guilliman paused in his own evaluations and proceeded to sit, gently setting the sword and shield of the Emperor by his side, ready to take them up but demonstrating a willingness for diplomacy first.
The Worldsinger did the same, sitting down, handing his staff off to one of the servants, and gently removing his mask. The face was unremarkable, looking just about as idealized as any other Eldar face to Guilliman's eyes. There were likely many tiny differences between various Eldar, but he didn't care enough to learn the more subtle ones.
The mask was set off to the side, and a cup of steaming tea was poured for the both of them from the same pot. The Eldar sipped first, to show that the drink was not poisoned to the guest, and then set the cup down. He exhaled slowly as he took the cup up, and sipped the smallest amount he could get away with.
Hopefully, his enhanced biology would be able to handle any toxin long enough for him to somehow escape, should it come to pass. This act was required to show the guest's trust of the host.
"You are most certainly not Aeldari. And yet you are similar to nothing else I'm aware of. What are you, Stranger?" The Worldsinger began the questioning with something utterly bizarre.
He furrowed his brows and looked at the Worldsinger, searching for any hint of mockery, only finding idly curiosity and puzzlement.
"… I am Roboute Guilliman. Lord Commander of the Imperium of Mankind. Son of the Emperor of Mankind?" He answered with befuddlement. "Humanity is present at nearly every corner of the galaxy. Is this planet trapped by an endless warp-storm or simply isolationist?"
"… No. It isn't. I know no species by the name Humanity."
He restrained his instinctual response to reel back in baffled astonishment. Instead, his mind began to race for ways to figure out the mystery before him. "… I've heard your kind refer to mine as 'Mon-Keigh', is that familiar?"
"… Yes, but you are not a Mon-Keigh. Too tall, too well-spoken, and not nearly enough cravings for sapient flesh." The Worldsinger responded.
Alright, that avenue was cut off, next point of reference was…
His brow furrowed, and his features grew grim. "How many Gods of Chaos are there?" That would give him a definite point to work with.
A rustle of fury rippled through the accumulated, and the Worldsinger's eyes narrowed at him, before he closed them and raised a hand. At once the Eldar surrounding them stilled entirely. After a few long moments, the Worldsinger opened his eyes again and spoke.
"Four."
So then…
"How long has it been since the Birth of the Fourth?" He spoke with all seriousness.
"How do you measure time?" The Worldsinger drawled out in turn.
He tapped his finger ten times on the table, once per second.
"That was ten seconds. Each minute consists of sixty seconds. Each hour consists of sixty minutes. Each day consists of twenty-four hours. Each year consists of three-hundred and sixty five days."
The Worldsinger took that in, and thought about it for a moment. After a long tense silence, he spoke again.
The words crashed into Guilliman like the shell of a naval cannon. It took away his ability to breath for the briefest moments, suffocating him in arrival.
"By your people's measure, forty-two years."
It was the year in which the Primarchs were scattered. The year in which he originally landed on Macragge so long ago.
He was a little more than eleven-thousand, three-hundred years in the past.
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