Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune.

Host: The night was damp and restless, a soft fog crawling over the harbor, veiling the lamps in a trembling halo of amber light. Waves struck the pier with a tired rhythm, like an old drunkard whispering confessions to the sea. Inside a dim tavern, the air hung thick with the scent of wine, salt, and forgotten songs.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes reflecting the swaying flame of a candle, a half-empty glass before him. Jeeny sat across the table, her hair damp from the mist, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup with slow, deliberate care. The quote had hung between them for minutes, like a shadow neither could ignore.

Jeeny: “Thomas Fuller said, ‘Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune.’ Do you see the irony, Jack? The god of wine kills more than the god of the sea. It’s not the waves that destroy us—it’s what we pour into ourselves.”

Jack: (a low chuckle) “A poet’s exaggeration, Jeeny. People like to blame gods for what they choose to do. It’s not Bacchus who drowns them. It’s weakness, choice, escape. If a man drinks himself to death, the fault isn’t divine—it’s human.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. The candle’s flame flickered, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across their faces. The silence that followed was heavy, as though the tavern walls themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see, Jack? That’s the point. Neptune takes us by accident—a storm, a shipwreck, a cruel chance. But Bacchus… he seduces. He smiles, he whispers, he offers comfort in a cup. People don’t fall into the sea because they want to—they fall into wine because they need to.”

Jack: “Need? Or crave? There’s a difference. Craving is a disease of the mind, not a cry of the soul. People drink because they can’t face their truth. That’s not the fault of a god—that’s a failure of courage.”

Host: Rain began to fall, softly at first, then heavier, tapping against the roof like a thousand small regrets. The bartender moved in the background, his motions slow, his eyes dull—another soul who had likely bargained too often with Bacchus.

Jeeny: “You call it a failure, but what if it’s just human? To seek numbness, to run from pain—isn’t that as natural as breathing? We all have our oceans, Jack. Some are made of water, some of wine, some of memory.”

Jack: (his jaw tightening) “That’s just romantic dressing for self-destruction. You can paint it with poetry, but at the end of it, a drowned man is a drowned man. Whether it’s Neptune’s waves or Bacchus’s bottle, it’s still death.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight, a mixture of defiance and sorrow. She leaned forward, her voice softer, but sharper.

Jeeny: “You think death is the only measure, don’t you? But maybe it’s not about who dies. Maybe it’s about how we live before we drown. The sea takes us without reason—but Bacchus gives us one, however false. Maybe the lie of comfort is better than the truth of emptiness.”

Jack: “You’d rather live a lie than face the void? That’s not living, Jeeny—that’s dissolving. Drowning slowly in illusion.”

Host: The rain became a roar, washing the windows in liquid silver. A ship’s horn echoed from the harbor, a lonely sound swallowed by the wind. Jack’s fingers trembled as he lifted his glass, but he didn’t drink. The wine caught the candlelight, like blood in a chalice.

Jeeny: “You talk like a philosopher, but your eyes, Jack—they betray you. You’ve met Bacchus, haven’t you? You’ve tasted his mercy.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Once. A long time ago. When I thought the world could be silenced by forgetting. But the world doesn’t go quiet—it just blurs. The pain remains, it just changes shape.”

Host: A moment of truth hung between them, fragile and trembling, like a string pulled too tight. The flame steadied, casting their faces in warm gold.

Jeeny: “Then you understand. You just won’t admit it. We all have our cup, Jack. Some drink to forget, some to remember, some because they can’t bear to do either. Bacchus isn’t the enemy—he’s a mirror.”

Jack: “A mirror that distorts. Look into it too long, and you won’t know your own face. I’ve seen what it does—the slow drowning, the smile that hides the suffocation. It’s not beauty, Jeeny. It’s surrender.”

Host: Thunder rolled distantly, a low growl over the sea. The flame fluttered, and for a moment, the light on Jack’s face revealed not anger, but fear—a memory resurfacing, perhaps, of a night when he had almost let go.

Jeeny: (softly) “And yet you sit here, with a glass before you.”

Jack: (quietly) “Because it reminds me of the edge. Of what I’ve escaped, and what I still want. That’s the cruelty of it. Bacchus doesn’t drown you in one wave. He teaches you to float—until you forget how to swim.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. It was a small gesture, but it broke something in the air—a wall, a distance built from pride and pain.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson, Jack. Neptune kills with force, but Bacchus kills with temptation. Both are forms of power. The difference is—one takes, the other asks. And that makes Bacchus more dangerous, because he lets you believe it’s your choice.”

Jack: “So you think we’re all doomed to choose our own poison?”

Jeeny: “Not doomed—just human. The tragedy isn’t that we drink, Jack. It’s that we need to. To feel, to forget, to forgive ourselves. Maybe the ocean outside is just a metaphor for what’s inside us.”

Host: The storm had calmed to a whisper, the rain thinning to a drizzle. Jeeny’s voice fell into a gentle cadence, like a prayer half-remembered.

Jeeny: “Maybe we all have a Neptune and a Bacchus inside us—the part that pulls us under and the part that promises escape. And maybe the secret is not to hate either, but to learn how to swim between them.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Swim between gods, huh? That’s a dangerous art, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “So is living.”

Host: Jack smiled, the first real smile of the night—a small, tired thing, but real. The candle burned low, the harbor quieted, and the fog began to lift from the streets.

The two sat in silence, watching the window, the reflections of raindrops like tiny souls falling and disappearing into light.

Host: And so, between Bacchus’s cup and Neptune’s tide, they found a truth neither could deny—that it is not the gods who drown us, but the depths we carry within ourselves.

The sea outside breathed, and the candle finally died, leaving only the sound of waves—soft, endless, forgiving.