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The rain on his skin is like coming home. It has been years– he has been through the forest, the cottage, the castle, the town, and the forest again– and his skin has been dry as a carafe of wine after a feast. It cracks under his touch; he aches with want for bedewing.
This is why he smiles when thunder shakes the earth, so undeniably powerful and deserving; this is why he smiles when lightning conquers those murky clouds and shines as his guiding light, just like those stray droplets which manage to sneak through the roof of his hastily constructed shelter. He blinks at each touch. It is exactly what he needed.
There is a roar, then, cutting through the howling of the storm, and he remembers: his lion is without a safe haven, is still stood next to the pristine fountain, is being pelted by the ever-thickening downpour.
It is an undeserving fate for his close companion of all these years, and thus he rushes out even through the rain, wading through the thorned underbrush and striking down obstructing branches until he can catch a glimpse of that wine-stained mane. All these spurs manage only tickle him, so he swings his sword and laughs as he runs.
The rain seems to have thickened; the liquid he brushes off his shoulders is sludge-like and crusts on his hands as it dries, but the knight is uncaring: he will find his lion. He must.
And it does not take long; none will refute that he is an experience knight with many won tourneys under his belt and well-honed skill from years of dedication. Soon enough he sees his lion in full, tangled in vines which prick and sting and strike and shower him in more– too much– of that cold rain. But no– it is not rain. With wide eyes, he watches the rainwater soaking his lion be blessed– he watches it become wine.
It is, of course, an entirely merited blessing for one who has accompanied him faithfully all these years, but the vines take precedence, almost beckoning at him to attack. So he jumps into the fray, hacking and slashing at the devilish snakes, and he knows he is going to win this battle.
It goes well. He strikes down one, two, three men and before he knows it all those adversaries are lying clumped at his feet. He is victorious. He is victorious and he leans down to accept a favour from his lord, even in his tacky and sweating state, for it befits his status as champion of this tournament. He grins, of course. What else is there to do?
But then a great beast appears from those dark thickets and lunges for him. It yowls, a horrific facsimile of a war cry which shakes him more than thunder and urges him to prostrate himself in fear. Ah, God! What of his vulnerable lion?
So the knight is uncaring of the terror struck through his heart by the beast– he must be uncaring, for he must save his lion. Thus he stands, still engulfed in that familiar deluge of rain. The sword in his hand is like coming home; he has never been a flashy fighter, and so he bides his time– he dodges and dodges that mindless pawing from the damned beast– until that one perfect instant for his swing, when he stares the beast in his face– ah, God– and tries to redirect his blow, to soften it, anything but this– and it strikes true, of course it strikes true, it had to it will it must– so Ywain watches himself cleave his closest companion in two. His lion falls and he screams, he screams, he screams until his throat is raw and aching with the force of it, but the spread of corpses under his knees do not listen. How could they?
None will refute that he is an experienced knight, at least, with too many battles and years lost under his belt. Ah, God.
For a while, he sits in silence. No one has heard, he knows, because no one will come looking for him after so many years. And regardless of that, the storm has drowned everything out. Blood, grief, and memory wash away in his tears.
When the rain stops falling and his fingertips are still stained wine-red, he retreats. He retreats to that cottage, in that forest– to the castle of his rural town– and he lays the felled beast at his benefactor’s door. There will be a reward for him, and it will be rich for he who is such a loyal knight to his liege lord.
A day later, there is bread on the windowsill for him. It is as dry as a carafe of wine after a feast.