Editing End Times (Warhammer 40,000)

=End Times=

'''End Times''' is a fledgling piece of writefaggotry from Wat, that is currently in its' first thread but holds great promise. 

Currently, the God-Emperor of Mankind has finally died at the end of M40, paving the way for Horus to reassemble his shattered soul and be reborn. However, the Star Child prophecies are true and The Emperor has been reborn in a new body - [[-4 str|a woman's]]. Suprisingly, the writer has stated that this is not for [[PROMOTIONS|nefarious purposes]], and could have a serious bearing on the plot. Not much else has been written so far, and /tg/ is waiting for moar.

Currently being archvied as it comes at http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/20692914/

=The Story So Far=
==Part 1(ish, organisation subject to [[Tzeentch|change]])==
When the rumors came from Cadia of the 14th Black Crusade, everyone assumed Abaddon would be stopped once again. When the messages from Cadia stopped completely, everyone started to worry.
When the Golden Throne broke down, everyone started to panic.

'Everyone,' of course, could be a surprisingly small number of people. In this case, only the High Lords of Terra and the Adeptus Custodes understood the full gravity of the terror facing them. Thankfully the Astronomican still functioned, although it flickered and wavered as though obscured by a powerful warp storm; which was, indeed, the cover story. How long it would hold, however, was anyone's guess; and when it went out, so would any chance for survival of humanity.

“It's happened, then. He's... passed,” said the Master of the Administratum, his mouth dry and his voice trembling. “Throne, what can we do?”

His fellow Lords flinched; seeing powerful a man to be reduced to near gibbering terror in the face of this catastrophe only reminded them of the horror and despair welling within their own hearts. The final report from the Custodes had arrived, and with it the knowledge that no life signs could be detected in what was left of the Emperor of Mankind.

“I... that is, we... we aren't sure He's....” the Mistress of the Astra Telepathica couldn't bring herself to say “dead.”

“Gone,” said the Master of the Astronomicon, finishing what his fellow Lord could not. “We believe that if He were truly gone, the Astronomican wouldn't function at all. Envoy, could you elaborate?”

The Paternoval Envoy cleared his throat. The third and final Psyker within the ranks of the rulers of the Imperium, he was simply an ambassador from the true master of the Navis Nobilitas. “Without the Emperor's presence, my Lord believes, the beacon could not work. Where he is, or rather where his soul is, we simply do not know. But we do not think he's gone.”

After some minutes of heavy silence at these words of faint, impossible hope, an agent of the Inquisition entered the room and proceeded to the Lord High Inquisitor's side, wielding a dataslate. She handed it to her master, bowed, and left without saying a word. Entering his personal cypher key, the Lord Inquisitor read the dataslate and paled, looking as if he would pass out. He rallied, however, and set the dataslate down with a sharp rap against the metal desk in front of him.

“My fellow High Lords, I have grave news, news which has been verified to the fourth degree by the Inquisition. Given the gravity of events here on Terra, we cannot wait for a fifth degree of verification, and I do not think we could get it, in any case; not for this. The leader of the newest Black Crusade is not, as we suspected, Abaddon the Despoiler. Instead, this last and greatest Crusade is led by Horus Lupercal, and the other Traitor Primarchs follow him.”

There are over fifty billion humans on Terra, and census takers had long since given up obtaining an accurate count. At any given second, hundreds of newborns were taking their first breath, and hundreds of others losing their last. The sheer psychic brilliance of all those souls living and dying made Terra shine like a sun within the maelstrom of the warp, and the Astronomican focused that brightness into a beacon that the Navigators used to fly all FTL-capable Imperial ships through the dreadful Warp. For something to outshine that brightness would be inconceivable to most every Psyker in the Galaxy, who all felt the gentle light even if they could not see into the Warp itself.
And yet this was a time of inconceivable events; roughly one hour after the last life-signs faded from the broken corpse of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Holy Terra shone with a brilliance greater than it had for tens of thousands of years, a supernova within the Warp, for one brief moment clearing all but the densest Warp storms within hundreds of thousands of light years. On worlds throughout the Imperium latent Psykers experienced a brief and terrifying moment of pure potency, yet none lost their souls to the denizens of the Warp. Navigators became insensate and their ships had to drop out of Warp-space or drift. In the meeting chamber of the High Lords of Terra, the three psykers present were flung from their chairs and fell, unconscious.
And yet, despite this flair of power, despite all it caused and disrupted, no one died from it directly. Only where other lethal circumstances occurred did a single human perish as a result of this immense Psychic event.

==Part 2==
Across the Galaxy, on the planet known as Cadia, gateway to the Eye of Terror, Abaddon the Despoiler strode toward the appointed meeting place, a broken yet living body in his fist. He paused, tensing – a bloody moan of pain escaping from the body in his hand – and then stepped forward. Even he, Leader of the Black Legion, Terror of the Imperium, would admit the sheer power collected in this space was frightening.

In what remained of a city center, the largest gathering of Primarchs since the Heresy ten millenia ago began. Six Daemon Princes, once post-human, now so much more: Perturabo and Lorgar, Lords of Chaos Undivided; Fulgrim, Lord of Slaanesh; Angron, Lord of Khorne; Magnus the Red, Lord of Tzeentch; and Mortarion, Lord of Nurgle. They barely resembled humans any longer, these Daemon Princes. They could level whole worlds in their fury.

And yet Abaddon entered their company as an equal, or so he felt, and he would be damned again if he cared what the others here thought. Throwing down the bloody bundle in the center of their gathering, he noticed at last the representative of the Alpha Legion, whose presence was as much an afterthought as anything else. Compared to the powers here, what was the Alpha Legion but a pitiful collection of spies and saboteurs?

“So this is the mortal who gave you such trouble? Doesn't look like much,” said Fulgrim.

“Mortals never do, until Father Nurgle shapes them,” said Mortarion. Abaddon tried to ignore the green spittle flying from the Primarch's lips.

“Creed,” seethed Angron. The World Eaters had suffered quite badly from the tacticians plans and traps.

The body stirred at it's name, though it could not hope to rise. “The Emperor... protects,” he whispered, blood pooling out of his mouth. Abaddon stepped forward and stomped on Ursarkar E. Creed's torso, crushing it into paste, and then did the same to the Lord Castellan's head as his eyes bulged for the last time. A faint bloody pop, and the deed was done.

“Not anymore. Your soul is my Master's now,” said Abaddon. A cruel smile spread across his scarred face.

“And just who is your Master, Abaddon? Have you finally chosen a patron God after all these years?” said Magnus, his red skin shimmering in the oily light of his immense sorcerous skill.

“Surely not you, Abaddon? You're too stubborn to bow to anyone else but yourself,” said Perturabo.

“Rather he recognizes that all true Gods are worth worshipping,” said the ever-pious Lorgar, glaring at Perturabo. Their reasons for not aligning with one of the four major Chaos Gods could not be more different. Lorgar bowed to all while Perturabo held all at bay.

“I have chosen, my Lords. Here comes my God now.” Abaddon was staring upwards as a blackness, like a shadow-light, descended. The Primarchs were for once silent, recognizing a power far greater than their own.

“My Lord Horus, I bow to you,” said Abaddon, The shadows tightened to form a being half as tall again as the largest of the other traitor Primarchs. A giant of a man, if it could even be called a man, without armor or artifice to mar the perfection of this form. It – he – reached out and touched Abaddon's shoulder, bidding him to rise.

Angron broke the silence. “Horus died! You look like him, you feel like him, but he died! I felt his soul disintegrate!” he roared.

Fulgrim glared at Magnus. “Is this your trickery, Sorceror-King? Have you fooled Abaddon into following your commands?”

Magnus blanched at the accusation. “I assure you, brother, to create THIS is far beyond even me... only Tzeentch could possibly...”

“The Lord of Change is not responsible for my re-existance, my brothers. Nor is the Blood God, the Prince of Pleasure, or Master of Pestilence,” said the being resembling Horus. At his voice the planet beneath them trembled. “I was far beyond their reach after Father struck me down, and I am even further beyond them now.” Horus smiled. “And I am pleased to see all of you alive and well.” He turned towards the Alpha Legionnaire, who was obviously debating running for his life. “Fear not, little nephew, I look forward to seeing Alpharius again too.”

A row broke out among the other Primarchs, although it soon escalated into accusations and oaths of vengeance at this perceived trick.

“Silence,” said Horus softly, although his voice drowned out even the roars of Angron. “You need proof. Know me now, brothers, and know what I have become!” He spread his arms and the head off everyone present snapped back, eyes glowing, as they received a vision – a vision into the birth of a new Chaos God.

They saw the Emperor strike down Horus and perish, and the fragments of Horus' soul scattered like dust on the winds of the Warp. They saw the Chaos Gods themselves reel away from the fury of the blow. They saw the tiny shards of his soul swirl in the Warp, bringing rebellion and ambition wherever they interacted with the materium. After thousands of years of flying through the Galaxy's dark reflection, they saw a mere fraction of the pieces begin to pool and merge in a spot of relative calm in the warp, only to be swept apart as a storm raged through. Yet this time the pieces did not scatter, but stayed close, ignored by the denizens of the warp due to the lingering taint of the Emperor's blow. Ironically, that which destroyed Horus preserved him, kept him from being truly unmade, although he was yet little more than a shadow compared to even the meanest human soul in the Warp. As they flowed along Warp currents, the pieces which held together now like a raft of debris in a hurricane grew as they encountered other pieces, scattered throughout the Immaterium. Now enough to swim rather than be swept, a sense of unthinking instinct made the remnants of Horus gather in ever greater numbers. A shade without thought, without purpose other than the impulse to collect. Time passed. In early M36 the shade grew large enough to think, although without a directing consciousness it was quite mad, and drove everything it touched mad as well, including an unfortunate Prefectus of the Administratum named Vandire.

They saw the ripples from this chance meeting shake the Imperium, and still they saw nothing that could truly be called Horus, only an echo of his ambition or his defiance. By now the pieces had gathered in large enough numbers to take the form of a chaos spawn, deadly and dangerous to an unprepared Psyker perhaps, but still unthinking and nothing compared to what Horus had been at his height. By M40 nearly all the fragments were gathered again in the form of this Warp creature, which Lesser Daemons avoided and Greater ones ignored, yet still the spark of self that was Horus was not there. They saw the Horus-shade drift mindlessly for nearly two millenia, until by chance it drifted into a warp current threading to the past, all the way back to the Heresy.

At last here was something more than mere fragment-gathering. The Horus of the thirty-first millennium left a wake in the warp as he traveled, and the warp creature hurried along it, swelling as it passed the events of Davin even as the Horus of the past planned the first assault on the Sol system. By the time the creature reached the aftershocks from Isstvan V it resembled a humanoid, and hurried onward faster even as the Siege of Terra began to stall. It reached the fringes of the battle of Terra even as Horus lowered the void shields of the Vengeful Spirit in order to draw out the Emperor. It reached the battle between Horus and the Emperor, just as the Emperor prepared his fateful blow.

They saw the shade, looking like a statue of Horus hewed from smoke, reach out to Horus at the height of his power just before the blow landed and steal something precious, something it protected as it vanished from M31 and returned to the first hints of the current which had swept it back in time. But it was no longer an it. They beheld Horus, newly born Chaos God, God of Defiance, of Ambition, of Pride, of all the things that made humans strive ever onwards in the face of impossible odds. The Chaos God of Humanity was born not in a violent eruption like that which had accompanied Slaanesh and created the Eye of Terror but in the way of Khorne; for war had existed before Khorne, just as humanity was older than Horus, and so Khorne took up an empty throne waiting for a King just as Horus did.

They saw the first act of this God, before even the other Gods of Chaos could notice him, as Horus struck at the distant presence of the God-Emperor and caused irreparable damage to the Golden Throne. To strike past the shade of the God-Emperor took nearly all his early strength, so Horus curled in on himself and hid in a way only possible in the warp. If Khorne noticed his presence, he did not care, for what was another rival? If Nurgle noticed his presence, he did not object, because he was too absorbed in his own dominion to act. If Slaanesh noticed, he did not strike out, for the Prince of Pleasure was growing bored of the endless struggle with the other three. Only Tzeentch, master of plots and sorcery, could have possibly objected as Horus' domain overlapped somewhat with his own, but who could say this isn't what the change master had planned?

As for the God-Emperor, he was too busy being nearly dead to do anything about Horus' return, and if the Chaos Gods changed their mind about his existence then Horus was prepared to demonstrate just why they never truly controlled him in the past once again. And Horus smiled, for the God-Emperor would soon be truly dead, and the Chaos God of Humanity would be the only God it had left.

They saw all this and reeled back as if struck, staring at Horus like the dreadful wonder he was, the dark miracle of his presence at once staggering and invigorating. One buy one, the champions of Chaos bowed to Horus in the ruins of Cadia, and pledged loyalty to him once again. Some, Horus knew, were lying and hoped to over-throw him, but it did not matter. He was so far beyond them now. Horus smiled, because he had returned. Soon, the Galaxy would burn and the Age of Horus would begin.

==Part 3==
On the other side of the Eye of Terror, a motley band of warriors fought their way through the Arx gap. Clad in mismatched power armor, no two warriors looked alike. Some wielded power swords, others bolters, and others with whatever they could find that would work. They had been fighting in a place where time had little meaning, yet they had fought for thousands of years. Standing over these warriors were four martial lords unmatched in all the galaxy, save for their kin. They stared at the stars – real stars, the like of which they hadn't seen since.... none could remember when they had last seen real stars.

“Right,” said Leman Russ, “Does anyone know where we are?”

In the void between the galaxies a hungry malevolence observed the psychic ripples of these events and hurried onward. Soon it would reach the Light, and then it would feast.

Back on Terra, in the lower core of a hivespire, a child was being born to humble, pious parents who worked for the Administratum. Conceiving had taken longer than either of them expected, and only the advice of a local doctor had finally allowed them to become parents.

“You can do it, Maria, just push!” said Iosephus. He held her hand tightly, love in his eyes.

“Aaaaaargh!” screamed Maria with a final push, and as the child entered the world the doctor caught and swaddled the babe, and snipped the umbilical cord.

“We did it...” she panted. “We did,” he replied.

“Congratulations,” said the doctor. “It's a girl.”

“I am going to strangle Cegorach,” thought the God-Emperor of Mankind, as his avatar cried and suckled at her mother's breast.

Within the Webway, the Laughing God's cackle grew to new heights as his greatest trick unfolded. He – although such a concept as gender had little meaning to the Laughing God – bid his harlequins to dance, and on every craftworld in the galaxy Farseers awoke with a screaming headache.

Months passed. The galaxy turned.

On Terra, a girl child, newly born, blazed with the light of the Emperor and grew into a young woman even as she led her devoted followers to the gates of the Imperial Palace itself. They swung open as the Adeptus Custodes marched out in force.

“My Custodes, do you not recognize your Emperor?” she said, and even those at the rear of the massive crowd could hear, though not with their ears. Only a few at the very front, such as the holy couple Iosephus and Maria, heard the reply.

“We do, my lord. We welcome you back home.” As one, they bowed. A cheer went up. Terra celebrated for days, even as the darkness grew.


----
''We do believe in Creed, we do, we do!
We do believe in Creed, we do, we do!''