July 12th, 1502

Francisco de Bobadilla, Governor of Hispaniola, had had a rough go of it for the last few months. A lost supply fleet, the raising and moving of troops for campaigns against the heathen natives who would not accept the light of God, and new arrivals causing anxiety among the settlers were all causes for concern. There had been issue learning to grow foodstuffs on the island, leaving them more dependent on Castile than usual. But luckily, Queen Isabel would provide.

She would always provide.

Or so they thought.

For on the 12th of July, 1502, a simple letter arrived with an under-stocked Castilan supply vessel. It read:

To the Noble Vassal of Spain, Francisco de Bobadilla

It is with the deepest pain and utmost regret in our heart that we must announce the death of Queen Isabel, our beloved wife and co-monarch.

It is a time of mourning, of hardships, but know that Spain's support for New Spain's colonial endeavours will not falter under Queen Juana's rule, and our regency.

We pray to God that this letter reaches you promptly.

 

Signed, King Ferdinand of Aragon.

Bobadilla, quite literally, could not believe what he had just read. He read it again, then again, and again a fourth time. Three sentences. 64 words. And just like that, she was gone. No explanation, barely a word as to her death, but there it was.

Bobadilla collapsed to the ground, unable to halt the tears flowing down his face. His entire body shook with grief, the wails and tears of a man taken to the brink violently streaming from his face. So enthralled was he in his mourning that he did not, he could not feel the World grieve with him.

The heavens opened up, the winds took on a terrifying roar, and as Bobadilla lay there trapped in his grief, a hurricane of epic proportions bore down upon his simple island. Huts and homes were leveled as gale-force winds lifted man and beast alike into the air. Waves carried the ocean from the shoreline to the edge of the forests, putting a foot of water in even the most inland of structures. Trees collapsed, unable to stand the torrent of water and tearing of winds. Off the shore, boats were thrown viciously into the coastline, sending many to the bottom of the sea.

Bobadilla looked up into the sky, his tear-filled eyes piercing the heavens, looking for answers from the God that has seemed to abandon him in his darkest hours. And as the winds and rains and waves crashed all around him, all he could manage were three words:

"Why God, why?"