So uh. I did some pretentious analysis on why the primarchs and the emperor will never succeed, from a weird mixture of an in universe and narrative PoV:
“Why have I not asked the king about his wounds?” or how the primarchs and the thoughts behind their creation destroyed any chance the Emperor ever had of succeeding
One of my favourite book series as a child was the series “Gwydion” by Peter Schwindt. I haven’t read or even seen the books anywhere in years, but beyond creating a lifelong obsession with King Arthur and his knights, this series about a simple swineherd who becomes first a squire and then a knight at Camelot, and then discovers he’s tasked with guarding the grail also stayed in my mind because of a single sentence. “Why have I not asked the king about his wounds?” This lament is spoken by Lancelot, driven insane by the curse of the Fisher King, a curse only the young Gwydion, ignorant in the ways of nobility and knights, accidentally breaks (Gwydion: Die Macht des Graals, Schwindt, Ravensburger Verlag GmbH, 2006). In noble society, asking a man where he had received his wounds is a grave insult. Gwydion, because of his common background, does not know of this prohibition and therefore breaks the curse, a task the noble born and raised Lancelot would have never been able to fulfil.
The young swineherd is in good company here, for the story of the Fisher King is old and one often tread. Normally the one to break the spell that keeps the Fisher King – and his lands – ill and close to death is Galahad (Lancelot-Grail, Anonymous, Boydell & Brewer Ltd, 2010), or Percival (Perceval ou le Conte du Graal, de Troyes, LIVRE DE POCHE, 2004). Galahad is, as people might know, the son of Lancelot, but he himself was not raised as a noble, but instead was raised in a nunnery (Le Morte d’Arthur: King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Malory, Canterbury Classics, 2025), while Percival was raised in ignorance of knights and their traditions by his mother, a thing other knights ridicule him for (though to be fair, Sir Kay, who does so, would ridicule someone for the way they sit) (The Mabinogion, Guest, Passerino Editore, 2019). As one can see, Gwydion, Galahad and Percival share a simple thing: a common background. That they might not actually be commoners is unimportant, what counts is their ignorance of “noble” matters and general demeaner.
But how does this connect in any way to the Emperor of Mankind and the primarchs, I hear my dear readers cry in agony. Well, the Emperor is the Fisher King – or at least a Fisher King type figure. The meetings Lion El’Jonson, primarch of the Dark Angels, himself the leader of a group of knights not quite unlike the Knights of the Round Table, has with “him” in a mindscape after his return to the land of the living very much harkens back to the Fisher King (The Lion: Son of the Forest, Brooks, Black Library, 2023) and herein, the king that is fishing also consistently refers to a question the Lion doesn’t ask, or how the Lion asks the incorrect questions at all points. And while the Lion notices his wounds, he doesn’t ask after them. This points to the same circumstance that Lancelot’s incapability of asking after the Fisher King’s wounds points to. The Lion is a noble, raised in noble ways, despite the wilderness of his youth. He, like all the primarchs, is the son of the Emperor, and as such won’t fall for the “trap” of asking a question not fit to be asked by an Emperor’s son. But if the question is not asked, the lands of the Fisher King will never be put in order.
And this is the mistake the Emperor made. All of his creations show the desire to create an upper crust that won’t allow swineherds in. He has the primarchs, his little kings and conquerors, heirs to his realm, that never really could see past the “but I should be king” so inherent to the sons of Great Men (False Gods, McNeill, Black Library, 2016), the same kind of petulant infighting between potential heirs that stopped “great empires” from continuing before, one just has to look at Alexander (Plutarchs’s Lives, The Complete 48 Biographies, Plutarch, Engage Classics, 2020) or Charlemagne (The Carolingian World, Marios/Matthew, Cambridge University Press, 2011). He has the Astartes, who see themselves either as better than the “masses” or view them with a sort of inherent paternalism that stops even the kindest of them to truly take them seriously (one of many examples: Rynn’s World, Parker, Black Library, 2010) and the Custodes, superior philosopher warriors who view themselves as apart from the Imperium, that they view with amused curiosity or detached disgust for the most part (Watchers of the Throne: The Emperor’s Legion, Wraight, Black Library, 2017; The Gate of Bones, Clark, Black Library, 2021).
But why are swineherds so important? Why do I consider an Empire that is ruled by an upper class of little warrior kings and conquerors to be inherently unable to defeat Chaos?
Because Chaos is a thing of emotions and faith. We believe in the stories of the Little Man who Defeats Evil because it is so culturally engrained in humans. We inherently cheer more for the Percivals of the world than we do the Sir Kays. And to add proof to my musings: there is a man who hurt Nurgle. A man who went to Nurgle’s Gardens twice and directly injured the god himself, not just his representatives. This man was a simple doctor before his faith in his god made him a warrior (Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, Reynolds, Black Library, 2017). And then of course there is the two gods that helped lock Slaanesh away – two elves who weren’t always gods, and weren’t always important, but who grew up in a simple house with a father who never lighted the fires and one of whom was so desperately sick that he never knew whether he’d wake up in the mornings (Blood of Aenarion, King, Black Library, 2011).
What the Emperor did with his creation of his artificial princes, and lords, and philosopher warriors, is to rob the world of the natural heroes that stand against the fate the Gods determine for their worlds. He took away the choice to stand tall that makes great men great. Garradan of Demesnus might be a warrior of Sigmar now, but he only became one because this simple doctor chose to stand and fight the hordes of chaos in an act of bravery he knew was futile (Ghosts of Demesnus, Reynolds, Black Library, 2018). It was a mistake to take away the Astartes’ fear, because only by overcoming fear can we truly become heroes that stand in the face of darkness. “Pain and fear are important tools for survival. A good soldier should be able to overcome them, but they must be there” (Once Upon a Time (In Space), The Mechanisms, Independent, 2012) after all. The primarchs will never be Elric of Melniboné, opposing and defeating Chaos (Stormbringer: The Elric Saga Part 2 (Volume 2), Moorcock, S&S/Saga Press, 2022) because unlike Elric they were never forced to overcome their nature to become heroes. They were artificially created as heroes with no input from themselves, and thus will never reach the heights of true heroism needed to strike back at Chaos.
And therefore, none of them will ever gain the heroic humility to truly ask the Emperor after his wounds, and his realms will never be put into order.