The Drink of Wine

Contains themes of substance abuse, emotional abuse, & sexual content

*Note: A.E. refers to After-Event*

City of Barrie, Kingdom of Ontario

August 2112 (100 A.E.)

In the grand hall, torches blazed brightly, casting dancing shadows upon the gathering of warriors. Soldiers, generals, guardsmen, and nurses alike were gathered around tables hewn from the sturdy trunks of sugar maple and white pine. Their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, they feasted upon steaming bowls of soup and broth, served in rough-hewn wooden vessels. Loaves of bread, still warm from the oven, were passed around, accompanied by rich, creamy butter for spreading.

In truth, the fare that graced the tables of these noble warriors was a far cry from the meager sustenance of the common folk. While the average peasant may content themselves with stale bread, bland soups, and whatever meager catch they could manage, these valiant souls feasted on a bounty fit for kings. Their plates overflowed with succulent meats, hearty stews, and bread fresh from the oven. Such luxuries were but a distant dream for the downtrodden, who bore the weight of hardship imposed by forces beyond their control and the harsh realities of economic strife.

At the high table, overlooking the bustling hall, sat King Allenby I of the illustrious House Stewart. He was a striking figure, youthful and handsome, having recently ascended to the throne following the passing of his father, King James II. At the tender age of twenty-three, King Allenby was regarded by some as a gallant hero, while others whispered of him as a brash and arrogant youth, scarcely worthy of his royal title.

Beside him, seated with regal grace, was Queen Elisabetta of the esteemed House Roxenburg, his wife of six years. Her dark brown locks were elegantly coiled atop her head, adorned with a simple bun. She wore a gown of cool blue, accented with delicate white trimmings, a vision of serene beauty amidst the revelry. A wilted rose adorned her bodice, its once vibrant petals now withered and browning, a poignant symbol of fleeting beauty soon to be cast aside.

To the King's right sat his younger sister, Princess Jain, her presence marked by an aura of undeniable discomfort. Pale and wan, she appeared unwell, her skin cold and clammy to the touch. A pallor lingered upon her features, her eyes devoid of their usual vitality, betraying no hint of emotion. Her long locks cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to her subdued demeanor.

The remainder of the table was occupied by noblemen hailing from esteemed houses such as Farkley, Quinn, and Burrows. These men were a sight to behold, their forms swollen with excess, their faces bearing the unmistakable marks of indulgence. Fat and gluttonous, they epitomized greed and avarice, their eyes alight with a relentless hunger for wealth and power. To them, nothing was more coveted than gold, and they spared no effort in their ceaseless pursuit of dominance and opulence.

King Allenby harbored a singular desire: to hasten the conclusion of the dinner, to withdraw to the solace of his chambers accompanied by a select few of the most exquisite whores in the city. There, he yearned to indulge in the pleasures of hemp, to lose himself in the intoxicating embrace of opium smoke and the allure of captivating women. But before he could indulge in such hedonistic delights, he knew he must first fulfill the obligation of delivering a speech.

Standing tall, King Allenby rose from his seat, lifting his brass goblet brimming with wine high above his head. Casting his gaze across the assembled warriors, he offered them a broad smile before addressing them in a booming voice.

"Honorable warriors, esteemed generals, and valiant nurses! We stand victorious! The spoils of war are ours!"

His proclamation echoed throughout the grand hall, met with a chorus of raucous cheers and jubilant shouts. Some among the gathering wasted no time in quaffing their ales, while others joined in the exuberant applause, their spirits lifted by the triumphant declaration of their sovereign.

"With spirits aflame, we embraced the challenge and drove the British invaders back to their distant Isles! With the ferocity befitting true warriors, we shattered their ranks and stood victorious!"

The king's words stirred yet more fervent cheers among the gathered throng, the air alive with the clamor of celebration. However, amidst the revelry, Princess Jain could not conceal her dismay. Closing her eyes with a heavy sigh, she shook her head in silent disapproval.

"United with our allies in the Kingdom of Quebec, we have reclaimed all of Ontario, our rightful domain!" King Allenby continued, his voice ringing with pride despite the slight dampening of the cheers.

"And let it be known to the boy king and his red-coated minions: Our fair Kingdom shall brook no disrespect! Let them carry back to their distant shores the bitter taste of defeat, a lesson learned at the hands of valiant men!"

As thunderous cheers engulfed the hall like a raging tempest, King Allenby raised his drink to his lips one final time, savoring the sweet taste of victory before tossing the empty vessel carelessly to the stone floor below. Wine spilled forth, splattering the ground in a crimson cascade, a testament to the fervor of the celebration.

Sinking back into his seat with an air of satisfaction, the king allowed himself to unwind, the weight of his responsibilities momentarily lifted. His task accomplished, he reclined with ease, content to bask in the glory of triumph, his duty fulfilled for the moment.

Navigating the dimly lit corridors with unsteady steps, King Allenby felt a pounding in his head and a queasiness in his stomach. He had indulged in excess, and now his body protested the overindulgence. With each step, the world seemed to sway beneath him, his senses dulled by the haze of alcohol.

Upon reaching his chamber, he was met by the sight of his wife, Queen Elisabetta, reclining upon the bed. She had departed from the festivities earlier, seeking solace and respite from the revelry.

"Elisabetta," the king murmured, his voice tinged with fatigue and remorse. He longed for the comfort of her presence, a soothing balm to his troubled spirit.

Struggling with each movement, King Allenby staggered towards the bed, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. With unsteady hands, he began to shed the trappings of royalty, discarding his kingly trousers, undershirt, and the woolen black cape that draped regally over his shoulders. Each garment fell to the floor with a soft thud, a tangible reminder of the burdens he carried as monarch. As he settled onto the bed, he felt the weight of his responsibilities lift momentarily, replaced by the comforting embrace of darkness and the promise of sleep.

In the dimness of their chambers, Queen Elisabetta's voice cut through the air like a blade, her features contorted with simmering rage as she confronted her husband.

"I returned to find you ensnared by the temptations of three scantily clad women, one of whom dared to wear nothing but a blanket—my blanket," she seethed, her words heavy with indignation. "You dishonor me, disrespect our houses, and bring shame upon our nation!"

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon King Allenby, his hands covering his face as he sought refuge from the storm of his wife's wrath. "Elisabetta, please," he muttered weakly, his voice tinged with weariness.

But her anger was unyielding. "You and your harlots! Your incessant drinking! You make a mockery of me, of our union!" she retorted, her voice trembling with fury.

"I am the king!" Allenby's voice rose in defiance, his words laced with entitlement. "I answer to no one! I will drink and consort as I please! You will adhere to your place!"

With those final, bitter words, silence descended upon the chamber like a shroud, the last flicker of candlelight extinguishing, leaving the king and queen to grapple with the weight of their discord in the enveloping darkness.

As the first light of dawn filtered into the chamber, Queen Elisabetta stirred from fitful slumber, only to be greeted by the unwelcome embrace of sickness. Clutching her churning stomach, she stumbled from the bed, her movements labored and unsteady.

With a groan of agony, she retched violently into the waiting bucket, expelling bile and vile fluids with each wrenching convulsion. Her hair tangled and disheveled, sweat beading upon her brow as she struggled against the relentless assault of nausea.

Wearily, she wiped her mouth with trembling hands, her body trembling with the aftermath of her ordeal. Collapsing back onto the bed, she cradled her swollen belly, the source of her torment, and moaned softly in discomfort, a prisoner to the agony that gripped her.

As Queen Elisabetta cast a disdainful glance at her slumbering husband, the cacophony of his drunken snores filled the chamber, a stark contrast to her own suffering. With a shake of her head and a weary sigh, she rubbed her throbbing temples, the weight of her discomfort pressing heavily upon her.

Yet another wave of nausea gripped her, driving her from the bed once more. Moving with sluggish determination, she made her way back to the waiting bucket, her steps faltering with each agonizing stride. But alas, she was too slow to reach it in time, and she retched violently onto the unforgiving wooden floor, bile spewing forth in a wretched torrent.

Her face contorted with anguish, she collapsed to her knees, overwhelmed by the relentless assault on her senses. In the dim light of the morning, she remained hunched over, a solitary figure of suffering amidst the solitude of her chamber.

As Queen Elisabetta struggled against the relentless waves of nausea, frustration bubbled within her like a simmering cauldron. Her throat burned with the acidic taste of bile as she spat out the noxious liquid, her body wracked with violent coughs. With each retch, her exasperation mounted, a silent scream of anguish echoing within the confines of her mind.

Her husband's voice pierced the haze of her torment, drawing her attention away from her suffering. Startled, she turned to face him, her eyes wide with a mixture of pain and irritation.

"Elisabetta, are you all right?" King Allenby's concerned inquiry cut through the air as he stumbled from the bed, his own discomfort evident upon his features. With a hand pressed to his forehead, he grimaced, his movements sluggish with the remnants of his drunken stupor.

"How do you think I feel?" Elisabetta's response was sharp, her frustration palpable as she shook her head in disbelief.

Determined to offer solace to his ailing wife, the king resolved to fetch a cold rag from the servant's quarters. Clad only in his cotton undergarments, he made his way through the corridors with unsteady steps, the taste of alcohol lingering bitterly upon his tongue. With each cough, he pushed back the discomfort, his resolve unwavering in the face of their shared affliction.

As King Allenby traversed the narrow corridors of the servant's quarters, he encountered a tableau of life in its rawest form. Within the cramped confines of each small room, four to five servants sought solace from the toils of their daily labor. Some slumbered peacefully, oblivious to the world around them, while others engaged in games of chance or skill, their laughter echoing faintly through the dimly lit halls.

Yet, amid the mundane routines of their existence, the king's keen eye caught glimpses of more primal pursuits. In shadowed alcoves and secluded corners, servants indulged in acts of carnal pleasure, their bodies entwined in passionate embrace. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and desire, a tangible reminder of the primal urges that drove them.

Unperturbed by the sights before him, King Allenby merely shrugged, accepting the inherent nature of human desire. To him, their need for intimacy was but a means to find fleeting moments of solace and pleasure amidst the harsh realities of their lives. And so, with a nonchalant flick of his hand, he continued on his quest, allowing the servants to revel in their carnal pursuits undisturbed.

With an abrupt halt, the King belched loudly, his gaze unfocused as he doubled over, expelling the remnants of his feast onto the ground below. Witnessing the distressing scene, a few servants sprang into action, hastening to provide a bucket for their ailing sovereign.

"Are you well, sir?" inquired one of the attendants, a young woman of no more than eighteen or nineteen years. Her fair complexion and long, blonde locks hinted at her German heritage. As the King glanced up, a flicker of recognition crossed his features, recalling a past encounter with the woman in the privacy of her chambers. It was a night tainted by desperation and the haze of intoxication, his memory clouded by the influence of hemp and, perhaps, lingering resentment toward the queen.

"I'm fine!" bellowed the King, his voice tinged with irritation. "Just fetch me a cold rag and clean up this cursed mess!"

But as suddenly as the words left his lips, King Allenby's demeanor shifted. A sudden dizziness overcame him, his vision clouding with a blinding whiteness. With a heavy thud, he collapsed backward, his consciousness slipping away into the depths of unconsciousness.

A chorus of panicked shouts erupted from the servants, their cries echoing through the chamber as they frantically called for the guardsmen, their voices filled with alarm at the sight of their fallen sovereign.

In the opulent grandeur of the king's chambers, Queen Elisabetta lay sprawled upon the cold stone floor, her once regal attire discarded and forgotten. Nearby, a diligent servant worked tirelessly to scrub away the remnants of the king's illness, the acrid scent of vomit lingering in the air.

As the queen struggled to overcome her own sickness, a hushed commotion heralded the arrival of the king. He was borne upon a makeshift stretcher of wood and sticks, his form shrouded in the soft embrace of cotton fabric. Though barely conscious, his murmured words betrayed a flicker of concern for his surroundings, his gaze unfocused as he drifted in and out of awareness.

With a heavy swallow, Queen Elisabetta cast a worried glance at her ailing husband. As he was gently lifted from the makeshift stretcher and carefully laid upon the bed, his lips parted to emit soft groans of discomfort. The servants worked swiftly, draping cold rags across his feverish body in an attempt to alleviate his distress.

King Allenby's brow furrowed in pain as beads of sweat gathered upon his feverish skin, each droplet a testament to the intensity of his fever. Despite his weakened state, he muttered incomprehensible words to himself, lost in the haze of his illness. Concern etched upon her features, the queen watched over him with a mixture of apprehension and hope, praying for his swift recovery.

In the throes of his affliction, King Allenby's movements grew erratic as he reached out desperately, his voice a garbled plea for aid. His words, muddled and unintelligible, echoed through the chamber as he grappled with the searing pain in his stomach.

Clutching his abdomen, the king grimaced in agony, his discomfort manifesting in involuntary bodily functions. He belched and farted uncontrollably, his attempts to maintain composure faltering as he struggled to retain his grasp on sanity amidst the onslaught of pain.

"Somebody has poisoned me!" he cried out, his voice a hoarse shout that pierced the air with urgency. In response, nurses and doctors swarmed into the room, their faces etched with concern as they hastened to tend to their stricken sovereign.

With tears welling in her eyes, Queen Elisabetta choked out a desperate plea, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fetch the priest..."

As the king's consciousness slipped away once more, his words emerged as fragmented murmurs, a final admission of the poison coursing through his veins. With a heavy sigh, he succumbed to unconsciousness, his form limp and lifeless upon the bed.

Sensing the gravity of the situation, the attending doctors swiftly intervened, pulling the queen away from her fallen husband. "He may be stricken with illness," they cautioned, their voices laced with concern. "We cannot risk the health of both you and the heir within your belly." With gentle yet firm hands, they guided her away from the bedside, their primary focus now on preserving the safety of the queen and her unborn child.

As the doctors hurriedly ushered the queen away from the bedchamber, their urgent whispers caught her attention. Sensing something amiss, she turned back just in time to witness the doctor's grim expression, his head shaking in silent disbelief.

Her heart clenched with dread as she watched the scene unfold before her eyes. The realization struck her like a thunderbolt, a cruel blow to her already shattered heart. The lifeless form of King Allenby lay still upon the bed, his once vibrant spirit extinguished by the merciless hand of fate.

Tears welled in the queen's eyes as the words escaped the doctor's lips, each syllable echoing in the chamber like a death knell. "Our king...he's dead."

In that moment, the world seemed to stand still as grief washed over her like a tidal wave, engulfing her in a sea of sorrow. The king, her husband, her love, was gone, leaving behind only memories and a kingdom plunged into mourning. And as the weight of his loss settled upon her shoulders, the queen could only mourn the passing of a beloved king and the shattered dreams of a future that would never be.

And a Kingdom falls to anarchy.

Those who died:

Allenby of the House Stewart, King of Ontario, Prince of Ottawa: b. January 21, 2089 (77 A.E.) – August 11, 2112 (100 A.E.) aged 23