~Smother the Infant Nightmare~
~792. M30~
~South-Eastern Ultima Segmentum~
~Exodite World Charnac~
~Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium and Imperial Regent~
He wasn't able to focus on anything else the Worldsinger said after that revelation. All he managed to do was mutter out his racing and half-formed thoughts as they arrived to him.
Eleven-thousand three hundred years in the past. He was at the beginning once more, before the beginning even, this was the year that he and his brothers were scattered from Terra. It would be six years before the Sol System was fully pacified and the Great Crusade began. It would be nine years before his creator found Horus on Cthonia. It would be twenty-seven years before Russ was discovered on Fenris, and so on and so forth.
It would be another forty-five years before his past self finally met with the Emperor and Ultramar joined the Imperium. Another one-hundred and eighty-nine years before Alpharius, the last Primarch, was found, one-hundred and eight before Horus was declared Warmaster.
…Two-hundred and thirteen before Horus reveals himself a traitor at Istvaan III.
Two-hundred and twenty-two before the Siege of Terra.
It could be a trick. It would be all too easy for this to be some manner of intricate and pointless deception to feed off some emotions in his soul. He wanted to believe it was true, desperately he did, but the fact that he wanted to believe made him doubt its authenticity. But if this was a trick by someone who claimed his soul, then it didn't matter what he did or felt at this point, did it? He was already dead and bound in that case.
No, if this was a trick, it didn't matter because he had died already. If this wasn't a trick, and he operated under the assumption that it was, then all he would be doing is wasting precious time.
Time! He had time! Time to prepare, to act, to plan, to accumulate and train legions, to fortify and industrialize! More than a century of time to prepare himself and the galaxy for the coming calamities! To ready humanity for the approaching catastrophes!
The only thing he could have possibly asked for and he received it!
Before, he was set upon his course of liberating that Eldar goddess out of spite for one of his enemies, one of the ones that played a direct hand in the corruption of his brothers. Now he was going to do so with burning gratitude in his heart and a grin on his face.
Fight through the endless armies of a single god of Chaos, retrieve a xenos goddess, and escape from the warp with the screaming souls of endless daemons at his back? A paltry price for the gift he had received. He knew the measure of his enemy, and they knew naught of him, their defeat was already a foregone conclusion. All he had to do was use this time wisely.
The Worldsinger saw his astonishment, and eventually called for a break in their meeting. A room was provided to him, and he had yet to sleep in it, all he could do was stare into the horizon as his mind raced.
A pen, a pen and something to write on, he all but demanded those two things in his haze of racing ideas and plans. Steps for optimal outcomes considered, compared, discarded, and adapted as he thought of them. He did not touch the food or drink they provided, too busy with recording notes and drawing up scratchy maps in his haste to jot his considerations down on something physical.
He lost himself in that haze of writing and note-taking, eventually the limits of his body catching up to him as he fell back into the arms of the chair he had been provided with.
He exhaled mightily, and stared at what he had wrought.
Three piles of stacked notes, each a meter in height and carefully organized according to the best he could manage in his delirium of planning. Each one a tiny obelisk for his daring hopes. Each one…
His stomach growled at him, demanding sustenance. His throat scratched at him, demanding to be watered. His eyelids tugged at him, demanding rest.
He looked around the chamber he was in for the first time, noticing the interior décor and elegant craftsmanship. Or… Crafteldarship? He blinked again, he really was too tired for this. He pushed himself up, spying a tray of some sort of biscuit-like rations and a pitcher of water.
Stumbling over to it, he greedily consumed everything over the span of about a minute, then stepped over to the large mattress-like structure before falling over into it.
He did not remember what he dreamt of. Only that he felt it was too good to be true.
Scant hours passed before his eyes cracked open again and awareness returned to him. His eyes beheld a ceiling of carved wood and elegant xenos swirls. They were not the wrought-iron chambers of an Imperial ship, nor the wretched idolatry of an Imperial fortress. They were hand-cultivated nature brought into beautiful and pleasing shapes.
It wasn't some pleasant dream then.
He was here. Or perhaps this was one of those bizarrely lengthy dreams in which you woke up multiple times. That was also certainly possible.
He pushed himself up from the bed, before noticing something that he didn't the day before.
He wasn't wearing his armor. His life-sustaining armor. The work of artifice that served to restore him to functionality but imprisoned him in its wrought adamantium plating. The thing that allowed him to live once more after Fulgrim struck him down so long ago.
He wasn't wearing his armor.
He brought his hand up to trace across his throat. A slightly raised and rough section greeted him, and he traced it to its limits. All the way from one side of his neck to the other, narrowing to nearly nothing in the center of his throat. Fulgrim's work.
He brought his gaze down towards his chest.
A much more visible and angry scar stretched across it, following it revealed that it began on his back, right below the shoulder blade, and extended all the way down to below his left pectoral. The blade had cut deeply into him, splitting his heart in twain it seemed. Mortarion's work.
They were evidence of his past. Both should have killed him. Yet he lived. He lived without the supposed vital relic that sustained his life. He lived thanks to the actions of a laughing mask.
Once, in a moment of despair, he had asked what more they wanted from him, when he awoke to see the nightmare the dream of his father and his brothers had become. He did not feel the need to ask it this time. Because this time he knew that they didn't know what they wanted from him.
But he knew what he was going to give them.
He was going to give them his dream. A dream of a table seated by twenty brothers. Of an Emperor not bound to his throne. Of a galaxy united against the thousand-fold apocalypses that were soon to arrive.
The first step was diplomacy. He rose from the bed fully, readjusted the sheet they gave to him as an improvised skirt, and took up his father's arms. Walking over to the table, he sorted through them until he found the correct documents, and took them under his arm.
He marched to the doorway, and opened it gently, coming chest-to-face with an Eldar servant.
He took a few moments to apologize and ask to meet with the Worldsinger again. The Eldar maid took a few moments to righten herself and rapidly flee the vicinity. The nearby Eldar guard took a few moments to haughtily chuckle at him.
All in all, about what he was expecting.
—
"You're returned from your Vaulspell then?" The Worldsinger spoke dryly as one of his attendants poured two more cups of tea. Following the ceremony again, he drank first, demonstrating the cup was not poisoned, and then set it down politely.
Guilliman took a slightly larger drink this time, demonstrating a willingness to put trust in his host, something that was met with a keen stare. He paused for a moment, before asking a question to get it out of the way. "Vaulspell?"
"Not familiar with our pantheon then?"
"I know of Isha and Khaine." He admitted ignorance in the subject, he didn't have any particular pride in how much he did and did not know about Eldar religion.
The Worldsinger nodded, before explaining in a tautological manner. "You know very little then. Vaul is our patron of artifice, to lose oneself entirely within your work is a Vaulspell. It's known to occur at times."
He nodded and filed the information away, before continuing with his original line of thought. "I apologize for it interrupting our conversation then."
"How far back in the current of time have you slipped?"
Guilliman paused and then sighed. "I suppose it was rather obvious."
"It's known to occur at times." The Worldsinger said again, this time his voice was tinged in amusement. "So long long then? Decades? A few centuries?"
"Eleven thousand, three hundred years."
There was a lengthy silence. The Worldsinger stared at him for seconds, before slowly inhaling and exhaling, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow. It was the first expression Guilliman had seen him make.
Slowly he reached for his tea, raised it to his lips, and drained it completely. He held out the cup for a refill. A refill that came shakily from the much more visibly stunned Eldar servant. A single drop fell from the stream to splash against the table. Slowly, the Worldsinger drained half of the second cup, before finally setting the cup down and opening his eyes.
"...I see." Was his final reply. "You claimed humanity was dominant across the galaxy then? I suppose eleven-thousand years is sufficient time for us to fall completely after the utter foolishness of our city-dwelling kin."
"...Not quite." He corrected. "Humanity will achieve galactic dominance in about two centuries. Thanks to the efforts of the Emperor and his sons, the Primarchs."
He could see a slow fury begin to rise on the Worldsinger's face. He cut it off before adding another line.
"Then, about twenty years after our height, Chaos will turn half of us against each other. Civil war will erupt, and eleven-thousand years of suffering and endless war will burn across the galaxy. I will be revived from crippling stasis at the turn of the forty-first millennium, and valiantly fail to make things right."
"Then I will feel hands on my soul, hear laughter in my ears, and see a silver mask. It will give me a mission, and I will wake up on this planet, in the exact year of my birth."
"...Save Isha, the figure commanded of you." He likely heard from his warriors already. "Save her from the depths of Nurgle's house."
He nodded grimly. The Worldsinger took time to steady himself and consider the tale. After some time, he turned his attention back towards the last loyal Primarch.
"Show me."
Let him into his mind, was the real demand. He was hesitant to do so, but he was more hesitant to waste even a moment of preparation on things like doubt and fear. He needed to be ready for the future as soon as he could. And in order to be ready, he needed the aid of these Eldar. It was not optional in any plans he could create from his current point.
So instead he nodded, closed his eyes, and bowed his head towards the Eldar.
A finger pressed against his scalp. A presence approached the fortress of his mind, and with hospitality, he greeted it with gates opened. It strode into his mind, passing everything until it reached the mental library that formed his memories.
Many moments passed. The presence began to sift through his memories.
Guilliman had no shame worth hiding if it meant the same future would come to pass. He'd gladly endure a thousand humiliations before he allowed it to happen again, not while he could prevent it. He did nothing to interfere with the Worldsinger's work. Nothing but wait.
Eventually the presence withdrew, the finger retreated from his scalp, and Guilliman opened his eyes.
His eyes met the eyes of the Worldsinger, wide and full of horror. His mouth slightly agape and his brow furrowed. Guilliman set his features into an expression of grim empathy, and slowly nodded.
Eventually, the Worldsinger spoke, waving a hand and snarling a demand at a nearby guard. "Find our king! Tell him to return from the survey, as soon as he can! Do not return unless he's with you!"
The guard snapped into an immediate salute and raced out of the chamber. The Worldsinger clenched a fist and set it on the table, shoulders shaking minutely in a combination of fury and despair. A minute or so passed before he regained his composure once more, and settled himself with steady breathing.
The expressions of horror on the faces of all other Eldar were still present after witnessing one of their most venerable leaders have their composure so thoroughly shattered. Their glances occasionally shot over to Guilliman, who only took action to set his notes upon the table and wait for the Worldsinger to recover.
Once the Worldsinger recovered, he reached for his tea, and drained the cup again. He did not hold it out for another refill, instead he gave another order, this time to the servant. "Bring a bottle of wine, millennium vintage at minimum. No wait." He raised a hand and clearly held a debate within himself about it. "Three bottles."
The servant nodded and scurried out of the room. The Worldsinger exhaled again, and turned back towards Guilliman. He stared into the Primarch's eyes for a moment, before speaking with none of the usual elegance of the Eldar.
"What a wretched vision."
Guilliman nodded. What a wretched vision indeed.
A vision that he was going to murder long before it began. He tapped a finger on the documents he had prepared, before sliding them over. This was the Eldar-specific translation that he made detailing one of his many plans. The Worldsinger took the papers in hand, and began to read. His brows unfurrowed, instead rising high upon his forehead as he read Guilliman's hasty handwriting.
"From what I now know of your memories, this is rather ambitious." The Worldsinger muttered.
"The galaxy cannot afford my hesitation. Even a single one of the threats to come would have me consider this, all of them render it non-optional. There is only one path ahead of me."
The Worldsinger looked up from the papers to lock eyes with him. Guilliman had no hesitation in his heart as he spoke. "I cannot afford to choose who to save. I must save everyone."
"Including the Eldar." The Worldsinger tested, knowing of the Imperium's policies on xenos by now.
Guilliman responded resolutely. "I cannot afford to spend a single working life wastefully. Not Human, not Eldar, not anyone. I need an empire of everyone in the Galaxy to handle what's to come."
"And when the Imperium of Man demands the head of all non-humans in your empire?"
"Page four."
The Worldsinger flipped to the page, and read through it. After a moment, he nodded, and set the paper down.
"...You swear to rescue lady Isha?"
"I owe this opportunity to that figure in the void. Her rescue is a paltry price to pay in exchange for it. I swear on my life that she will be set free."
The Worldsinger hummed in consideration. "...Not a small matter to the Aeldari, son of man." He exhaled and nodded. "I will speak on your behalf to the lord of this world. I see the value in your plans."
"Thank you, Worldsinger."
"Savan, son of man. My name is Savan. You will use it from now on." The tired-looking Worldsinger demanded.
Guilliman blinked, and nodded bemusedly. "Thank you, Savan."
"Thank me when our future is secured, son of man."
—
He had been escorted back to his guest chambers after the conversation with Savan had ended, waiting for their apparent king to return and for the Worldsinger to speak with him. In the meantime, Guilliman went over his plans in further detail. Redrafting over and over again was a vital habit to cultivate, as all plans could be improved upon.
Perfect was a waste of time to pursue. The amount of effort expended to have a single perfect plan might instead be used to create a good enough plan for the current problem, and then good enough plans for the next three problems to come. The best plan was good enough to be serviceable, while flexible enough to adapt later on as the situation demanded. At the present moment, all he had was time to expend on reviews, and it would be time he would use well.
Inefficiencies and irregularities in his timetables were marked, considered, and resolved. Factors were brought back into his awareness, given a second look, and then adjusted. Maps of the galaxy were filled out in greater detail as more and more memories came to him.
Critical steps in his plans were underlined, then ranked in order of importance. Issues were sorted into categories of 'can resolve' and 'can't resolve'.
Then, once he had gone over his entire stack of notes, he moved on to making a new set of notes. This time specifically for others to read and use.
The beginnings of a book that would allow him to delegate more of his work to other people, containing everything he knew of planetary development and management in the general sense. It couldn't be too specific, of course, but if he could make it good enough, then he could conquer more worlds in a shorter period of time and have them all brought up to an acceptable level of quality.
Precious time to perfect singular worlds could be used to bring three into the fold. He would need as many resources as possible, as soon as possible. That meant he had to prepare things like this tome. If he could delegate work to trustworthy individuals and ensure they had a solid guide on how to develop their world, that freed him up to conquer more. It was the exact situation that his creator was likely in, he realized belatedly.
He wasn't sure what he would call it yet, but he was thinking 'Codex Administratum'.
…
It was a working title at least.
He grunted and pushed that time Fulgrim called his naming sense terrible out of his thoughts.
Eventually, there came a knock at the door. He turned to face the individual at the door.
A series of maids and guards entered the room. The maids were carrying various bundles. The lead maid had her hair tied into a bun, and spoke to him with a flat but polite tone of voice.
"Rise if you would, guest. You must be properly washed and clothed before greeting the Dragonlord."
He glanced down at his body, only covered in a towel. Then he raised an arm and sniffed.
"Ah." He answered, standing up from his chair.
"If you would follow us to the baths." It was worded as a request, but from his judgment of her gaze, it was not.