wip wednesday
(Yeah, I've actually been working on some fanfic. CW for someone dying. I can't really copy+paste html without it looking like a half-drawn dick, so no update from part 2 of the reddit-story.)
“What about you, my friend?”
The man looks at Fedorian questioningly.
“Yes, you,” Fedorian says. “Please share a glass with me.”
“Oh, I would be honored to, sir, but uh…” His hands fumble as Fedorian fills the second glass generously. “I’m on duty, you see, and—”
“Now, now. One little glass isn’t going to hurt you.”
He slides the glass to the half-way point between them and sits back in his chair, waiting. Vitorius positions himself behind him calmly, watching the man stare the glass. For every second that passes, Rix and Karyx stare at him more intensely. One of them growls, and he flinches.
“I-it’s such a high-quality wine a-and it’s well above me, s-so—”
Fedorian adds a bit of steel to his tone. “Are you refusing my generosity?”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“Then have a toast with me. I insist.”
Silence blankets the room, uncomfortable and tense. Fedorian’s friendly demeanor turns sharper by the second.
“N-no, I—”
“Captain?”
Vitorius slams his hand on the table in front of the man, making everyone jump. He towers over him and growls menacingly right into his ear.
“The Primarch invited you to share the first toast. Due to your insistent refusals, you’ve insulted him and every single person in this room. Do you really want to continue disrespecting him and his generosity?”
He swallows hard and shakes his head.
“Then drink it, or I’ll make you.”
The tension pulls taught. Knowing he has no choice, he reaches for the glass with a shaky hand and stares at the amber liquid. Vitorius growls into his ear again, drawing a whimper from him.
“Spirits help me…” he murmurs.
He empties the glass in one big gulp. It hits the table with a loud clank. Everyone watches him, waiting for something unknown to unfold. Nothing does at first, not for a minute. Then, the man’s gaze falls on Fedorian. His body twitches, as if he’s sobbing.
“By the spirits…”
Fedorian subharmonics sound horrified. Vitorius rounds the table and draws in a sharp breath. The man is trembling. He’s also crying.
Only, those aren’t proper tears.
Cobalt blue trickle down his face slowly, at first. But as they pick up more and more speed, they start trickling out of his nose slits, mouth, and ears. He gurgles, choking on his own blood, but sits completely still. The more blood that runs out of him, the more violently he convulses. It lasts for half a minute, and then he slumps over the table with a hard thud.
Dead.
