u/Ancient_Builder76

Just a short piece on how I imagine Regalia’s return from the Warp. It’s not in its fully finished form, but I hope yall enjoy anyway!

———————-

Regalia Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists and their lineage, sat at her desk in the depths of the halls of the Imperial Palace. It had not been a month, and Juno Guilliman had eagerly shared her work with her returned sister. Three of them had rejoined the Imperium, and Regalia was not sure if it was the proper three. She was stoic, strong, and unshakable even after the endeavors in the Warp that had kept her from her home for ten millennia. Juno was stable, controlled, and composed. Leona, though changed by her slumber, remained distant from them, preferring the company of her sons to those of her sisters. Regalia had only seen her once since her return.

It had been once more than she had seen her husband, the man who had stood beside her during Hathor’s rebellion. Her fortress, her Magister.

The soft prickling of tears forced her to close her eyes, wiping them away lest they spill on the documents covering her desk. She purposefully refused to use her mechanical hand, a true masterwork of the greatest artificers of Mars. It had replaced the hand she had lost in the final charge against the Black Legion to save her children. For ten more millennia, she had battled in the Warp, the aetherial realm trapping her time and again. Time and again, she broke free through grit and sheer will. It had been the thoughts of her mother sitting upon the Golden Throne, her sister imprisoned within the stasis field, her husband who staunchly stood in her place on Terra that had kept her from madness, though the Dark Gods knew how to tempt her. She had battled their foul and terrible visions and hallucinations for uncountable years. Even now, the horrors she had witnessed hid in the shadows at the edge of her vision, chattering away in the darkness of her deepest thoughts.

“Regalia.”

That single word broke her from her reverie. Her head snapped up, her expression a mix of fear, yearning, and regret. Her eyes met his for the first time in ten thousand years; her storm-colored eyes met his: one charcoal grey and one shining red. Her breath caught in her chest as she took in his every detail.

Magister had grown older over ten millennia, but the genetic modifications of the Empress had kept the majority of human aging at bay. When she left, he had looked to be in his early thirties: broad shouldered, tall, hard muscled with short-cropped black hair atop a chiseled face. Now, he was perhaps in his late thirties. The hair that had once been stark black was now speckled with grey barely visible to the naked eye. There were deeper creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Though he was still handsome enough to steal her breath and quicken her heart, he appeared more rugged, worn down. She saw the microfraction slouch in his shoulders, the weariness in his organic eye, the frown that now was his natural expression.

“Argas,” she whispered.

“Regalia,” he said again, entering the large office. The Huscarls that guarded the door stepped aside unquestioningly, further showing the utter devotion the Imperial Fists had developed to her lover in her absence. He closed the door and began to approach her.

“Stop,” she whispered.

“Why?” he asked, though he did stop. He settled into a parade rest, his hands clasped behind him while his feet were at shoulder rest. His Praetorian uniform, the very same she had gifted to him before the Heresy, remained perfectly orderly and clean.

She had no words to describe how she felt, no words that could accurately portray the hurricane of emotion within her. In the end, she stood and walked to him. She knelt down and embraced him for the first time since her return. Before she knew what had happened, tears streamed down her face and deep sobs wracked her body. He gently embraced her, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. They remained like that for longer than either of them counted or cared. They were lost in the emotions of lovers reunited. Eventually, Regalia broke the embrace and looked into his eyes, refusing to wipe the tears clean. 

“I’m so sorry, Argas,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I abandoned you and our sons. I abandoned everything. I’m so…”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Stop, Regalia. You did not abandon us. You fulfilled your duty then. You did what none other could have. I am honored to call you my wife. Yes, the ten millennia have been long and lonesome. Yes, my heart broke when I received the reports. However, I never stopped hoping for even a moment that you would return to me. Now, you have.”

Regalia gently pressed her lips to his and sighed into his embrace again.

“We have so much to catch up on,” she said.

“It can wait, my love,” he said softly, kissing her once more.

Good Saturday to you all! Here is an excerpt from my PrimarchGF fanfiction: Dark Empire. It’s just the start, so please review and tell me what yall think!

Also, I may want to commission some custom artwork. Any recommendations for artists? I’d prefer people on here to keep it in the community, but all recommendations welcome!

————————

“Kneel before the Lord Emperor, father of the True Imperium, and Master of the 16th Legion,” the Captain said, forcing Centurion to his knees. 

As the Ultramarines struggled against the hold of their captors, a single clack cut through the noise. Centurion watched as an elderly figure, hunched by age and barely able to hold the walking stick that allowed him to stand, entered through a side door. Two attendants flanked him, and they looked eerily familiar to Centurion, but he couldn’t place their faces. The grey hair of the elder fell down his shoulders, framing a wrinkled face that spoke of a long, hard like. It was his eyes that captured Centurion’s gaze. They were a deep orange-red like fire, and a deep hatred seemed to radiate out from them. 

“So, the Empress’ lapdogs have finally found me again,” the man said. His voice was thin and raspy, but he conveyed a bemused tone that infuriated Centurion. 

“Who are you?” Centurion demanded. 

The man ignored the question, his eyes sweeping over the Ultramarines. They met his gaze unflinchingly, but Centurion could see the underlying unease it struck in them. He held out his hand, and Centurion’s sword was placed in his palm. He seemed to admire the blade, the ancient black sword glinting menacingly in the lights of the throne room.

“I remember this sword,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. 

“I’ve never met you before in my life,” Centurion said. “I’m sure of it.”

“You say that now, old friend,” the man said, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “Unfortunately, not all of us can be immortal. The treatments performed on Terra may have prolonged my life, but the ravages of time come for us all.”

Centurion went rigid. “Who are you?”

The man stood and walked down the steps, his attendants never more than two steps behind him. Their hands never left their swords as he stood before Captain Mikael. The Captain didn’t show a hint of emotion as the man reached out and placed a hand on his forehead. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped, and Centurion could sense the man drawing the power of the Warp to him. The shadows in the room seemed to flare to life, animated by a power darker than comprehension. Mikael gritted his teeth, pain flooding his system. Centurion watched in horror as the Captain began to spasm but held in place by the hands of the Astartes beside him. His eyes rolled back into his head, and foamed spit began to fill his mouth. After several seconds, it was over, and Captain Mikael fell to his knees. 

“Fear not, old friend,” the man said, returning to his throne. “Your Captain his unharmed…for the most part.”

“You whoreson!” Centurion roared, his sudden burst of strength throwing off the Astartes behind him. He broke the chains and surged forward. The attendants were dispatched with two quick jabs to the neck. The man looked at him in a disinterested manner and raised his hand. Red lightning flew from his hand and enveloped Centurion, setting every nerve on fire. He was lifted to his feet and thrown down the stairs, but the man stood and stepped down, the lightning never ceasing. An inhuman howl tore itself from Centurion’s lips as he was tortured with the raw power of an immensely powerful psyker. His muscles seized and locked his body in place. The man frowned and dropped his hand, the lightning disappearing in an instant. Centurion sagged to the ground, breathing heavily as smoke rolled from his body in thin wisps. 

“You have forgotten who I am, Julius?”

Centurion’s eyes widened even as his vision blackened. “Moonbeam?”

The man smiled once more, and Centurion felt a shiver of fear roll down his spine. Moonbeam pulled back his hood, and Centurion immediately saw it, the face of a man he had thought dead for ten thousand years. 

“Artemis…”

“The man you know as Artemis, as Moonbeam, is dead,” he snarled, his face contorting into a visage of rage. “He died when she did. He died when the Empress struck my wife to the ground.”

Centurion’s visage was almost entirely black, and he could barely hear Moonbeam, his voice sounding as if he were deep underwater. 

“For ten thousand years, the Imperium has sat as the cradle of power and grown arrogant in its power. Now, the True Imperium, my empire, will rise from its ashes and bring a new era of peace and prosperity to the galaxy,” Moonbeam said. “I am Horus, the True Emperor, and this is my decree.”