Thread/Soulmate Warhammer AU
Not really a soulmate AU, but more of "threads of fate" au.
~~~~
Ra’s thread is a thin, fragile thing. The Emperor had been loath to break it, had hesitated, His claws hovering over the delicate braid. He had held it, as delicate as the umbilical cord of a newborn, and grieved as He felt what He had to do. In the end He had wrapped it in gossamer like the finest of silk, and woven it, with infinite care, into His own.
When Drach'nyen thrust itself in, it had severed both threads.
~
Valdor’s thread is crimson. The Emperor had cut off at his wrist, with the only remnants wrapped around his forearm like a chain. The ends still twitch and tangle, as if waiting for a man he had lost before they even met. The Emperor took the frayed threads of the severed rope, and bound it to Him.
Now it wraps around Valdor’s throat like a leash. (Or a noose.)
Valdor does not mind.
(Once, only once, in mere moments before Constantin lowered the blade, he had seen the flash of recognition. The sudden unknotting of a thread of fate both had assumed severed so long ago.
And then the mercy blow. A horrible moment of terrible pity etched across his victim’s pain-stricken face, and the sadness in those tormented eyes not for himself but for Valdor.
And, finally, oblivion. )
~
Sanguinius’ thread is black. He can see it, twisting there, stretching onwards, inked across the sands of time. When he had met Horus, the Angel had stalled, a smile still stretched across his face, noting down the way his thread had wrapped itself lazily around Horus’ arms. Their threads had tumbled and tangled over one another, so deeply intertwined it was impossible to remove without severing one.
Horus did not seem to see a thing amiss.
~
Lorgar, his thread brilliant red, wrapped around the Emperor’s chest. The way he had screamed at the fury in His eyes when He had reached up and tore the thread out of His breast, snapping the thin thing in half beneath His claws. The way he had cursed Him, the remnants of the thread pooling around him like shed snakeskin, the scent of Monarchia’s ashes curdling upon his tongue.
~
Alpharius and Omegon’s threads, a single, thick cord that split in half, bobbing and weaving until neither could tell who was whose. It just seems to love knots, looping around itself, around others, dragging others together without abandon.
~
Vulkan’s thread, thick and dark and braided, glowing softly with a gentle warmth. It trails itself around his chest, wrapping itself around all near and wide, spreading like a kind coat of flame. It is tender, such a lovely thing. It has chipped, and knotted, and frayed over the eons, but it braids on, thick and resolute. Ashes are embedded in its strings now, but their warmth is still there, just buried under the charcoal.
~
Fulgrim’s thread was made of silk. A beautiful, perfect, fragile thing. It had bound itself around his hands, around Ferrus’ silver hands and his neck. The delicate silk, so pale against the silver. And how pitifully it had shattered, without a cry, without a song, only with the slithering of sick silk as he had snapped it when the Laerblade took Ferrus’ head.
~
Ferrus’ thread was a chain. It wrapped around his neck and hands. It had pooled itself slowly around Fulgrim, like a lazy snake, braiding itself together into intricate knots with his silk. When Fulgrim took his head from his shoulders, the links had shattered.
~
Horus’ thread, white and black. It tied itself so languishly over one of his forearms. If only he had known. If only he had seen. If only he had felt the thread tightening, tugging, unraveling as he had sped his way down a path, and never glanced back upon the road he had trodden. When it finally spun itself out of silk, it tied together in one, final blasphemy of angel feathers. Both tips of their threads had been charred together, one longer than the other.
It was Horus that undid the knot.
He did not even see it unravel when he cut the life out of his brother.
~
Malcador’s thread. Grey, seemingly thin, but with an impossible, resolute strength. There it was, underpinning the Emperor's thread like a shadow, together even in death. How brightly it had burned, like candlewick, as he sat upon the Throne, eyes bulging, nerves burning, feeling the cells in his body die one by one. It had charred itself to cinders, and then to ash, and finally dust, before his lord made it back home.
~
And finally, the Emperor's thread. It wrapped around Himself, and only Himself, but it branched off like the leaves of Yggdrasil. It curled itself into the veins of His Custodes, it dragged together the binds of His Primarchs, it curled together like one with Malcador. Some branches were frayed, their ends charred, some had curled up into a solitary knot that no longer held another, some burnt like living, writhing sunlight caught in flesh, but some were warm. Some still dreamt, lazily winding through the fog, one out of thousands. They would bind themselves not to men, or to women, but to entire worlds, to every last beating heart upon the land. It was not a leash, or a noose, or a chain this time, it was merely a bridge, the last heart of a dead god who had once gazed upon His people. And smiled.
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Hey @squishyowl , you mentioned about Horus wanting to father several children in lore. Which book was that from and could you screenshot an excerpt?
so, it's from End and the Death vol 3, so spoilers ahead under the break
This is from Horus' direct POV. He's absolutely spouting off insane ramblings, but the language used here is very interesting. It could be referring to him creating his own primarchs like the Emperor had, but it's really particular on 'fathering' and 'siring', along with the fact he mentioned not only sons but daughters as well.
So it's up for interpretation; he could have been so insane that he genuinely desired and believed he could have biological (daemon?) children, or he was referring to Emps' version of making kids.
Either way he wholeheartedly believed he would be a better father than Emps.
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having read several 30k books about the falls of various chaos legions, Fulgrim is SO funny because it's like:
Horus: externally has SEEMINGLY logical, well-reasoned justifications for engaging in rebellion. Post Isstvan, he is approximately the same guy as before and externally reasonable, even if he is cold, cruel, and calculating
Angron: literally exactly the same before and after rebelling, the man has a chip in his brain that makes him love murder so loyalist!Ronnie and rebel!Ronnie read basically identically. the rebellion doesn't change him that much at first in terms of the level or intensity of his murderhoboing
Magnus: the fall of the Thousand Sons is like a Shakespearean tragedy level of pride and misunderstanding, but Magnus going to Horus makes perfect sense especially considering he is literally like 20 ghosts in a trenchcoat, and he's clearly still ~trying~ to do his own fucked up version of the right thing after getting Bane'd by Russ
Fulgrim: picks up a sword and INSTANTLY becomes the most vindictive mentally unstable honors kid you've ever met. Polite art loving loyalist to BATSHIT Dorian Grey in 100 pages. Decides who will die on Isstvan III not based on their loyalties, but on who has dealt him narcissitic injuries (based on what a talking demon sword is telling him). Engages in heated debates with a portrait of himself painted in the blood and viscera of a murdered man. Stabs his captain in his quarters and gets kind of turned on about it approximately. 5 seconds after deciding to turn on the emperor. This man was a corked bottle of pure chaos just waiting for a screw and it is amazing.
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