Okay, alright, listen, listen.
We returned right around the time Horus was about to reach his insanity by Chaos.
We, a ghost from the past, returned without a word of warning, leaving the Primarchs confused about her identity—except, of course, Horus.
And, well, the Emperor breaks down in private.
Let's just say, Horus overheard a conversation between the Emperor and her.
About how disappointed she was, how she despised him for failing to keep his promise to her before she left to "deal with" the Warp. About him, how he failed their children, failed her, who he lost in the warp.
The children she had made him promise to raise with love and must know nothing but love until they were ready to wield a sword, now nothing in his eyes but weapons in human form.
Would Horus change his view of her when he at least knew that one of their creators truly wanted them to live as human beings, as children, capable of love, and not just as weapons to conquer planets and star systems for their father's will?
Took you long enough to ask.🤡
Anyway, this is pretty damn suck because I had to write it in a rush while studying for the finals exam. The part where momma expresses her disappointment is especially terrible, so I might rewrite this someday.
—
Reader as the mother of the Primarchs.
Part 3
The Imperial Palace had always felt cold to Horus.
Beautiful, yes.
Magnificent beyond mortal comprehension.
But cold.
Not physically—Terra’s climate systems ensured perfection everywhere within the Palace walls. No, the coldness came from something else. Something woven into the marble corridors and golden halls themselves.
Everything in the Palace existed for a reason. Every servant, every Custodian, every chamber. Even the Primarchs.
Especially the Primarchs.
Horus had spent decades convincing himself he did not mind.
Because he was the favored son, wasn’t he?
The Warmaster. The first found. The one who stood closest to the Emperor’s side.
That should have been enough.
And yet.
Sometimes, during quiet moments between campaigns, Horus would find himself wondering why every interaction with his father felt like standing before a monument rather than a parent.
Admiration existed there. Pride existed there.
But not warmth.
Never warmth.
—
Then she returned.
Without warning.
No glorious announcement, no psychic storm splitting Terra’s skies, no armies kneeling before a returned consort.
One day, the Palace was as it had always been, and the next, there was suddenly a woman walking through its halls as though she belonged there more than the Emperor Himself.
Horus remembered that moment vividly afterward.
The Emperor seems… odd.
Subtly, perhaps. No mortal would notice it.
But Horus had stood beside his father for decades. He knew every shift in tone, every flicker of expression, every carefully controlled emotion hidden beneath divine stillness.
And now suddenly there were cracks.
Even Malcador, the wise man who had stood by the Emperor since the very beginnings of humanity, a man who should have been unsurprised by anything, dropped his staff.
The woman entered silently.
And the room was frozen around her.
Confusion. Suspicion. Shock.
But Horus already knew.
Some instinct older than reason clawed up his spine the moment he saw her.
Mother.
The word arrived violently inside him.
There's no logic to how that word popped into his mind; he saw her, and simply… recognized her.
As she stepped into the room, her gaze settled on Valdor; the calm expression on her face stiffened slightly, as though she had seen something she had long expected, yet sadly, was unable to fully accept.
Then her eyes moved to the Primarchs, and that fragile composure almost shattered in the way her pupils contracted. If one looked closely enough, they might even catch something breaking apart—something pained—in her eyes during those fleeting moments. Yet she skillfully concealed it again, returning to the same calm expression she had worn upon entering. Unfortunately for her, the room was filled with demi-gods; none of those subtle changes escaped their notice, and each of them formed their own thoughts in silence.
From the corner of his eye, Horus noticed Valdor tightening his grip on the shaft of his spear. The Warmaster then shifted his attention back to the woman; from the moment she had entered the room until now, her eyes had never once rested upon the Emperor.
And then her expression made Horus wonder, why, why in those fleeting expressions of anguish as she looked at them, the Primarchs…
It's like she had been searching for them across eternity and finally found her way home.
Then Neoth spoke.
Not the Emperor.
Neoth.
His voice sounded raw.
"You came back."
And for the first time in Horus’ existence, his father sounded small.
She looked at Him for a very long time.
Then quietly:
"I promised I would."
The Emperor watched her constantly.
Like a starving man watching water. Like someone terrified she might vanish if He blinked too long.
Horus did not understand why.
Not yet.
—
The Palace changed after her return.
Not visibly.
Subtly.
The Emperor appeared distracted during councils. Watching her when He thought no one saw. Following the sound of her laughter with Malcador through corridors, unconsciously, like a starving man scenting food.
It disturbed Horus deeply.
Because he had never seen the Emperor want anything before.
Then came the argument.
Horus had not meant to overhear it.
Truly.
He had been searching for his father after Erebus planted another whisper in his ear, another poisonous seed of doubt regarding the Imperium, regarding purpose, regarding love.
The Warmaster’s soul was already fraying at the edges by then.
Chaos waited patiently in those cracks.
And then he heard shouting.
Not the Emperor’s commanding voice.
Something infinitely worse.
Pain.
Horus stopped outside the private chamber instinctively.
Inside, his father sounded shattered.
"I did everything I could."
Her laugh cut through the room sharp as broken glass.
"No."
Silence.
Then:
"You did what was efficient."
Horus froze.
The psychic pressure radiating through the doors was unbearable now. Not violence.
Grief.
Ten thousand years of grief compressed into words.
"They were scattered!" The Emperor snapped suddenly, voice cracking with something dangerously close to desperation. "I searched for them. I reclaimed them. I built an empire for them—"
"You built an empire to use them!"
The words landed like executions.
Horus felt sick.
Inside the chamber, something shattered.
Glass perhaps. Or composure.
Her voice trembled now—not with fear.
Rage.
"Do you remember what you promised me...?"
Silence.
The Emperor said nothing.
And suddenly Horus realized, with dawning horror, that His silence was answer enough.
When she spoke again, her voice had become unbearably soft.
That softness hurt worse than shouting ever could.
"I asked for one thing, Neoth. One. Simple. Thing"
The Emperor made a sound Horus had never heard before.
Not anger. Not authority.
Guilt.
Pure guilt.
“I only asked you to love them in my stead…”
Horus’ breath stopped.
Inside the room, she continued quietly:
"You promised me they would know nothing but love until they were grown enough to bear weapons!"
Another silence.
Then, brutally:
"Tell me honestly—when you looked at Angron, did you see a wounded child or a broken tool…?"
No answer.
"Look at Mortarion and answer me, Neoth — is this what you promised me?!”
Still nothing.
She inhaled sharply like He had struck her.
And suddenly Horus understood the trap hidden inside those words.
Not beloved.
Not Sons.
Not gentle.
Loyal.
Tools
Useful.
His stomach turned violently.
Then, maybe the Emperor whispered something too quiet for Horus to catch.
Her answer came sharp and devastating:
"No. Do not tell me this was necessary."
A long silence followed.
When she spoke again, she sounded exhausted beyond language.
"I left to protect them."
Horus pressed a hand against the wall, suddenly dizzy.
"I walked into the Warp alone for them."
Another pause.
Then the final blow.
"And I came back to find my children so starved for affection that they mistake scraps of approval for love!"
Horus stopped breathing.
Because suddenly everything hurt.
The endless need to please their father. The desperate hunger beneath every achievement. The way praise from the Emperor felt like sunlight to starving skin.
Inside the chamber, the Emperor finally spoke again, voice frighteningly quiet.
"I loved them."
Oh, how pathetically hollow those words sound now… Horus slowly stepped away from that door, his body moving on its own until he finally came to a stop at one of the palace balconies.
Inside the chamber, his parents continued breaking each other apart quietly.
But the Warmaster could no longer bear listening.
Because for the first time in his life, the whispers of Chaos sounded smaller than the grief inside him.
And later, much later, when she found him alone staring out across Terra’s endless lights, she did not speak immediately.
She stood beside him silently.
Waiting.
Giving him the choice.
Horus hated how much that kindness hurt.
Finally, without looking at her, he asked the question destroying him from the inside out.
"Did you really want us?"
The silence afterward nearly killed her.
When he finally looked up, tears stood openly in her eyes.
Not just sadness.
Devastation.
She stepped toward him carefully like approaching something wounded.
Then cupped his face between trembling hands.
"Horus," she whispered, voice breaking completely, “I clawed my way through hell itself to return to my children, so please… even if only a little, do not doubt me… no matter how much of a failure your mother may be...”
The Warmaster shattered.
