~Morose Blood~
~794. M30~
~Eastern Ultima Segmentum~
~Charnac's Pride~
~Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium and Imperial Regent~
"I thought you said you had nineteen brothers." The dry voice of Asarnil spoke to him quietly, nursing a cup of that spiritual wine of the Exodites. Taking a small swig, he lowered the glass and continued. "But unless my measure of humanity is entirely off. That seems like a female child."
"I know." He ground out, nursing his own glass of the same wine. A somewhat persistent headache had developed yesterday, and it continued to plague him even after he got some sleep. He suspected it wouldn't go away for quite some time. He sipped the glass again, tasting the sweet and salty liquid caramel, and did his best to alleviate his resurgence of worries.
The drink did very little.
In the distance, handlers of the Exodite dragons carefully watched and steadied their great beasts as his little sister, apparently named 'Petra', scurried about their talons and teeth and investigated the strange new creatures with scowling curiosity. The beasts, apparently well used to such, laid about like massive guardian warhounds, letting her push and prod their scales and claws without complaint.
"I was operating under the assumption that all things barring my presence would be the same. But now I see before me direct evidence against that assumption. Now all the plans I have are in potential ruin, and it's possible I shall lead all of you to your deaths, and the galaxy at large to its doom." He wanted to throw the glass in his hands to the floor, but stopped himself just in time. Hand shaking slightly with nerves, he forced himself to calm and gently set the glass down on the nearby table instead.
"...You were brought here by Cegorach. Correct?" Asarnil suddenly questioned, deep in thought.
Guilliman nodded idly. "As far as I understand it, yes."
"The Aeldari gods are not like gods of lesser races. The Aeldari hold mastery over the immaterial, its secrets are known to us, and that in turn influenced our pantheon." Asarnil began to work out his thought process. "Our gods were not the disorganized storms of Chaos, nor the inferno of your once-future Father. They were precise, deliberate in domain and capability. Limited."
Where is this going, Asarnil?" Guilliman questioned, suddenly focused on the Dragonlord with greater intensity than before.
"Art, Creativity, Deception, Mockery, Punishment, and Stealth. Those were the domains of Cegorach. None of those include mastery over time and resurrection inherently. He is a trickster god, a sinister god, a laughing god. In order to act, he must act within these patterns."
"...Are you saying that he is mocking my efforts?" A slow fury started to build in him. A slow, carefully controlled fury. It would not be acceptable to ruin what he has built in a fit of maddened emotion.
"Cegorach is a mocking god, but he is not evil, and he ultimately serves all good things. He is a god, however, and thus limited by his nature. It's possible that in order to send you back at all, things had to be changed to result in you being subject to some great jest."
Guilliman kept his fury in check, and slowly considered that information, deliberating upon it. "You describe gods like machines, performing functions only within their encoded parameters."
Asarnil blinked, before turning to him and nodding. "They are. Gods cannot think like Aeldari or Humans do. They cannot think in such ways, because they are not mortals. They are gods. The gods of Chaos are called such because they are wild, thoughtless storms. They can only act as their domains permit them too, and their domains are unfocused spiritual refuse from all corners of the Galaxy."
"The Soul is the compromise of Truth and Legend. The only Truth a God knows is its Legends." Asarnil spoke that last line with absolute conviction, in the same manner a man might say that the sky was blue, or that fire was hot. It was a fundamental truth to him.
Guilliman pursed his lips, taking up the cup of wine again and sipping.
…Was this the wisdom beyond trappings of divinity that the Emperor beheld? The wisdom that was behind immaterial religion, that in turn was behind the sciences of man, that in turn was behind primitive faiths of stones and fire. The wisdom at the end of all thought?
Machines made out of faith, programmed by legends and stories. Science and Religion were not opposites, they were the same once one reached the realm of gods. Reality as dictated by Belief.
What a truly bizarre realization. He almost loathed it.
"So in order to give me this opportunity to set things right, to rescue his fellow god and ensure his people survive…"
"It had to be in the form of a jest at your expense. Some form of mockery. Something that can be laughed over, but will not disrupt the potential success of your duty."
"...Turning Perturabo into a fe-" Guilliman cut himself off, and furrowed his brows. "No, that's not enough. That's not funny enough." He spoke instinctively, intuitively beginning to grapple with the limited logic of this divine engine.
He thought back to the jests that Russ would perform at the expense of their brothers, mostly practical affairs that involved slipping from the tops of staircases or walking into a room full of summoned courtiers. He thought back to the rare moments of stone-like observational wit from Dorn. He thought back to Khan and his layered japes.
"He would send me back, only for me to realize that all of my brothers are sisters now. I would be utterly baffled by the first for days after, and then as I located more and more of them, I would grow increasingly weary." He could almost imagine the laughter from a crowd, were this play to be performed in a Macraggian theater. Their laughter slowly escalating with his increasingly slumped shoulders and despairing expression.
He was here because it was comedy.
But… everything else would be the same… because the joke didn't work if it was distorted by too much additional information and context. It had to be pure to get the humor across.
So if everything else was the same, that was…
"Good enough." He declared, standing from the chair and finishing the glass in one pull. "If it's a joke at my expense, but most everything else remains the same, it's more than good enough for me. It's still more than I could have dreamed for three years prior, and I like to think myself capable of handling a jest or two."
"Shall we stick to the planned curriculum for your sister, or shall I order the servants to alter it?"
Guilliman considered it for a moment. He rocked his head back and forth in consideration. "...Perhaps lessons on feminine things…?" He didn't like how unsure he sounded. "It's probably necessary, but I haven't the faintest idea what those entail or involve."
After all, he wasn't a woman.
…Or wait, he supposed the version of himself from this time would be a woman. Which was technically accurate but…
…He let his features fall into a grim stare. He wasn't the same as he was. This version of himself was a woman. Which meant that Ultramar had already diverged from his predictions, which meant it may turn out differently.
…Which may mean his father's death might not be the known and sorrowfully acceptable outcome…
He forced himself to inhale and exhale. He had many years to think on the matter of interference or non-interference. He did not have to solve all problems immediately.
He had time. Even if that time came with a jape attached.
He turned to walk over to his sister, now scaling the side of Asarnil's own bonded Dragon. A massive, dreadful saurian known as 'The inevitable jaws of certain death'. A predator large enough to maul Imperial Knights, and armed with scales as thick as armor on a Leman Russ pattern tank. Claws and teeth the size of spears and swords, rows of boney spikes along a ridge-like back, and a crocodilian visage that cast shadows over its glowing eyes.
All Eldar not named Asarnil he spoke too called the massive beast 'Deathfang' for short. His sister was currently inspecting the bottom of its foot with a frown.
—
"Where's home?" Petra stoically grunted out, something that contrasted heavily with her appearance and the Exodite children-sized clothing they had produced for her. The same sort of form-fitting black bodysuit covered by a second layer of shorts and a top that almost looked like a toga. Layers of loose cloth over an initial form-fitting layer seemed to be the standard wear for Eldar.
She was wearing two of the littlest feathers from Deathfang's crest in her hair, pointed up and behind her ears.
Currently leaning over the map between the two of them, her glare at the wide array of dots and letters would send most into chuckles. He was wary of potentially setting her off like Perturabo always did when he was in the presence of laughter, so instead he hummed and reached out to point at two spots.
Terra and Charnac.
"Father created us on Terra originally. But I currently reside down here, with the Exodite Eldar on Charnac." There was no point in trying to dumb down his words or situation to a Primarch. They learned far faster than humans did, and Guilliman knew that he himself never appreciated it when he was younger.
"Why."
"Soon Father will begin a conquest of the galaxy, as will I. Starting from two places simultaneously will make the jobs faster and easier than if we both started from the same place."
"Why was I on Olympia."
"Because an evil spell picked up the Primarchs, what we are, and scattered them through the Galaxy. Father and I are looking to reunite all of us, but we have different ways of doing it."
"Why."
"Because Father does not like the Eldar. But I don't mind them." He paused, and raised a hand. "Well no. I don't mind the Exodite Eldar. There are three types of Eldar. Dark Eldar, Craftworld Eldar, and Exodite Eldar. Father doesn't like any of them because of what the Dark Eldar did."
"What?"
"Our kin in Commorragh created a demon-god that ate most of our old gods, some of which we liked." Asarnil commented from a small distance away. "They performed so many evil spells that they made a giant storm where our homeworlds were." He spoke in High Gothic, the language that he and Petra were currently speaking in, one that was ingrained in her by her instincts as a Primarch.
Guilliman had taught him over the course of the last two years, he was interested in learning.
Petra stared at him for a long few seconds. He slowly raised a brow, not flinching in his staring contest with the small girl.
"Your voice is ugly now, change it back." The words came out like a blunt but very soft hammer.
Asarnil staggered back, exaggeratedly clutching at his chest in mock-pain. Guilliman chuckled a bit, catching a tiny smile briefly coming to life on Petra's face, before being smothered once more.
She turned her gaze to the map again, before looking up to the void sky above. The interior of Charnac's Pride's bridge were lined screens that showed the projections of the world surrounding them through psychic cameras of some sort mounted on the exterior of the hull.
Her gaze locked on one particular spot in the sky. He furrowed his brow, before turning his gaze to the map again.
She was looking at…
Oh.
"You can see it." She whispered, staring at him intently. A complicated expression was on her face. She could see the maelstrom that was Chaos at its current strongest. She could see it in all of horrid malignance.
No wonder Perturabo was so grim, with that always in his attention.
"I know what you're looking at, but I cannot see it with just my eyes." He gently corrected, her features twisted into a sort of half-despair and half-joy. It was an expression he didn't like on her face. "It's called the Eye of Terror. It's where the old Eldar worlds were, and where the demon-gods are. They are evil things, and you shouldn't listen to anything they say."
She looked down at the map, her fingers curled on the table. "Why can I see it?"
He wasn't sure, but he had a reasonable estimation. "Each of the Primarchs has a special power."
"...Special power?"
He nodded seriously. "One of us has wings, another can see the future, another heals fast. All of the Primarchs have a special ability. It might be that yours is being able to see things I cannot."
"...You can make your sword on fire."
He blinked, then he smiled. She averted her gaze. "No, that's actually just a magic sword. My power makes me good at planning things."
"...your power is boring." She grumbled out, trying to not look at him but occasionally sending a glance over.
"It is. But I think I like it. It helped me find you after all."
She ducked her head down as far as it could go, tucking her face into her toga-shirt and pulling her legs up so that her forehead touched her knees.
"Stupid." She muttered.
He said nothing, letting her be the next one to speak. He refilled his glass of wine, before corking the bottle again and setting it gently to the side. Tasting the wine again, he busied himself reviewing the planned course to Nostramo.
"I can see how things break." His young sister muttered from behind her shirt. Her head rotated until a single eye was exposed and staring at him. "Their worst parts."
He considered that for a moment, before nodding.
No wonder Perturabo was such a pessimist.
"A good power, if you can use it well." He commented.
"I like your magic sword and shield." She gave a disjointed reply. He blinked at her and asked.
"Why is that?"
Her reply was prompt and immediate.
"I can't see how they break."
—
Asarnil had lingered after Petra was led away by a small host of maids for the start of her lessons on things that men didn't know anything about. He walked over to sit down in a chair adjacent to Guilliman, and rested his cheek on his fist.
"Dark Eldar." He said, voice filled with humor.
Guilliman blinked before slowly nodding. "That's what they called themselves in the future, as far as I'm aware. Dark Ones."
Asarnil snorted, before an uproarious laughter started to bubble up out of him. His fist came down from his face to slam against the table as he tried to contain himself.
"D-Dark Ones! T-They call themselves d-dark ones! H-holy! Isha preserve me! Hah!"
Guilliman reached out to grab the cup of wine, stabilizing it as the table shook with Asarnil's laughter. A smile grew on his face as he watched Asarnil slowly unleash a torrent of amusement.
Asarnil suddenly stopped, like a statue, eyes wide and sporadic.
Guilliman reacted immediately and instinctively, raising the Sword of the Emperor to tap and hold it against his shoulder.
Asarnil kept staring into space for a time, before slowly his eyes steadied and focused. He turned his gaze towards Guilliman again, reaching up to gently hold the blade of the Emperor. He gave a slow shuddering breath in and out, before gently pushing it away from him and withdrawing his fingers.
Guilliman could see the slight burns now present on their tips. The sword hated Daemons far more than it did Xenos, but that didn't mean it liked Eldar either.
Asarnil looked out to the void, through the great windows of the bridge, and slowly spoke. "We've been away from Charnac for a while now. I suppose we'll have to start more active prayers to our World Spirit." His voice was stable and considering, calm despite what just happened.
Guilliman poured him a glass of wine, sliding it across the table. Asarnil caught it, and nodded in thanks.
"I could have slipped her grasp on my own." Asarnil declared, an undercurrent of pride in his voice. "But I appreciate the aid nevertheless."
"It was a small matter to me." Guilliman replied.
"It was my soul to me."
"Very well. I accept your thanks."
"Hey now, I didn't say that."
Guilliman snorted, and stared out into the uncaring void. "Any plans for how to address that?"
"Perhaps if we had more soul-stones, or if one of your siblings can invent something that can stop a god. The best solution we have currently is being within the protective presence of our World-Spirits."
"...I'm sorry." It was his will that had them this far away from their spiritual safety, and at the potential depravations of Slaanesh.
"Do not apologize, Honored Friend of Charnac. We have a future to secure, and a wheel to put right. Our immortal souls are cheap compared to the souls of all of our children, and our children's children." There was a burning stoicism to those words, the same kind Guilliman imagined was present in his own voice if one was looking for it.
Still, if only he had a solution to this problem…
He furrowed his brows as he considered it again.
Their best protection was being within the protection of their World Spirits.
There were many Exodite-Worlds, and thus many World Spirits.
One Guardsman could not usually hope to defeat an Astartes.
But thousands of Guardsmen…?
"Asarnil…" Guilliman slowly began. Machines made of faith, programmed by legend. "...How well do World-Spirits cooperate?"
"...You'd have to ask the Worldsinger, I'm not certain." Asarnil's own eyes were slowly filling in the beginnings of realization. Not quite enough to formulate a plan, but enough to consider the possibility.
Guilliman could almost feel the same look in his own eyes.