Drunk With Death

 

 

Drunk with

Death

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By B. R. Bloor

 

 

 

 

 

             Darkness clung to him like a tight cloak, wrapping around him like a garment woven to conceal its wearer, hiding him from the ‘righteous’ eyes of God. Filling the room with its macabre ether the darkness covered the bodies of the dead, the slain, the martyrs of their cause. The man did not need to see them to know that they were there, he could feel them, sense them, see them in his mind. Their blood was still wet on his sword.

            He dropped his blade on the table that he knew stood before him and lifted his goblet of polished copper to his lips. The red wine was sweet and comforting, calming his body as he drank it down. He was almost able to pour himself another without spilling. The first draught must have sat too long in the goblet, he thought, for it left the bitter taste of copper in his mouth, the second was so much sweeter. The high-backed chair of carved wood had always been a symbol of grandeur, wealth, status among his people, but now it served only to support his weight as his body collapsed into it.

            Time passed so quickly. What had seemed like moments ago light had shown in through the open windows and flooded the room, splashing against the stone walls and plush tapestry; now all was black, his eyes straining to penetrate its depth; its twisting, abyssal depth, full of shades and eddies.

            His hand reached through the shadows and grasped the earthen pitcher. Splashing more wine into his goblet his thoughts were of the peasant girl who had always kept his drink full for him at dinner. He hoped that she was still alive. She was so young, so pretty. The sweet, sweet wine had almost made him forget, but only for a moment.

            Running warm from his body his blood pooled on the cold floor beneath him, and the lord found himself too weak to regain his feet. He held his goblet tightly, conscious of his weakening grasp.

            He knew that dead men could not speak, could not criminate, could not prosecute, and yet he felt accused, implicated, charged with a mortal crime even by the night itself, indicted by the silent testimony of the dead. With shaking hands he drained his goblet and reached for more wine.

            They had accused him of encroaching on their lands, stealing from them what was theirs by birthright, earned by their own blood or that of their father’s. He had not! He had taken what was due him by divine right, what had been allowed him by the new king, the property had been his as was everything on it! He held his cup tightly and basked grimly in that which his divine right had earned him. His tongue was again assaulted by the bitter taste of copper, the wine he washed it away with did not seem so sweet.

            The pitcher slipped from his fingers and shattered against the cold stone of the floor, shattering the silence, shattering the spell that the night had cast over the keep of the Marcher Lord, shattering his stupor. He tried to stand but his legs shook beneath him, he tried to pull himself to his feet but his arms were too weak, tried to save himself but his wounds cried out in defiance. Swooning from the effort he knew that he would not recover, he knew that he would not live to see the morning sun, and he knew that his last memory would be of the dark.

            Against his will his body relaxed back into the chair and his goblet of polished copper fell to the floor, soiled with the blood and wine of royalty.

Reviews

[LaurieAnn]

What can I say, but so very well done. Written like the pro you obviously are.
Your last line a complete sell.

[Silent Kim aka mizmetap..]

Well written, your charathers thoughts were crisp and clear. I was able to feel the darkness around him. I could feel his exhustion and even felt his death as he realized it was to be. I enjoyed. Good write.