AN : English is not my native language : don't hesitate to point my mistakes or blunders out, I would even appreciate it. I could have found a better title but well... Some lines in the dialogue sound like the movie because I had one particular scene in mind when I wrote this, and could not avoid to refer to it ^^ It could also be interesting to know this one-shot takes place four years or so before the movie. Having said this, have a nice reading !
Disclaimer : I own nothing, not even some kind of Mary Sueish character.
"I can't wait to leave this island. If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy."
Insomnia
It was pouring outside, and the echoes of the raging storm recalled him some ghostly battle cries or the pounding of his warhorse's hooves. They were lucky to have found refuge for the night in some village south of the Wall as soon as the first heavy drops had begun to fall.
He was used to falling asleep anywhere and any time : you had to when you led such a life, a soldier's life. Yet he could not find any rest. He would have liked to : when he slept he could at least dream of going home, where you could touch the stars and dance with the wind.
He was not alone ; there was Gareth dozing off not far away, and he could discern the outlines of Dagonet's bulk close to the silent but aware shadow of Tristan. Some were sleeping, others were wide-awake ; but none was speaking. For once, he would have gladly listened to Percival's playful banter, Lancelot's sarcastic mocking or even Galahad's incessant complaining. Actually he would have listened to anything to distract him from his gloomy thoughts, to anything but the rain.
She had loved to listen to the rain, and had even borne its name.
Nonetheless the rain and the fog represented everything he loathed on this forsaken island. But the rain and the fog were not that much different.
He could not deny that the countryside was green and lush and alive thanks to the rain. Nor could he deny the beauty of a faint morning mist lingering on a peaceful lake or clinging to the trunks of some great trees. Yet all he could sometimes see was death. The death brought by an eery horn echoing in the fog before a skirmish against the Woads, or the death that sticked to his skin on the battlefield as much as sweat and blood and tears.
"Bloody rain..." he mumbled.
"At least for once we are not under it..." Bors tiredly remarked.
Startled out of his grim musings, Gawain looked behind him. It was indeed Bors who had spoken. Later, Gawain would scold himself for having been surprised that Bors had been awake. When he slept, you heard him : how many times had Vanora complained about his snores ?
Gawain nodded. "Can't sleep with that storm" he answered.
"Too much noise ?"
"Nah... it's so... depressing."
Bors shrugged. "I don't mind it" he said. "Vanora would say it erases all the bad things. The earth smells fresh and new after a good rain."
Did rain really 'erase all the bad things' ? It surely washed the blood away on a battlefield or on warrior's hands... but it could not make the guilt vanish... nor could it wipe away the pain and the anger... Not liking that path of thoughts, Gawain spoke again.
"Do you really think mud smells 'fresh and new' ?"
"Always better than a rotting corpse." Bors chuckled.
Gawain snorted. Anything smelled better than a rotting corpse.
"And you... why can't you sleep ?"
" Not even been trying. But I've been thinking..."
"Thinking ?" Gawain asked when his fellow knight fell silent.
"I can think, thank you very much !" Bors defensively growled.
"I never said anything otherwise. I'm not Lancelot."
Bors quickly sobered. "About this and that" he eventually explained. "My little bastards, what I will do when all that is over and done with... Never hurts to think about these things, it gives us something to look forward to."
"I surely look forward to leaving all this rain, fog, snow... !"
Gawain winced inwardly. He hoped he did not sound too much like Galahad...
Bors grinned. "It rains back home too, you know."
"But here... it's different."
"Different as in 'there's no Rain back home' ?"
Gawain tensed. Bors surely could not mean...
"You were smitten with her, huh ?" Bors added.
No. Gawain had not misunderstood.
Rain. He had met her three years into his service. He had been young, and still full of illusions.
Rain. She had been no great lady or sweet girl. She had actually been a tavern wench among others. But she had been pretty : he still remembered her dainty face framed by russet curls or her big brown eyes that had reminded him so much of his mother's.
Rain. Olwen had been her real name, but everyone had quickly called her Rain as a rainy day had always seemed to lift her spirits, although her smiles had been sparse.
Rain. He had fancied her and she had not ignored him despite the fact that she had been a few years older than him. He had spent his savings for her ; and she had held him, listened to him and comforted him when he had needed. He had even looked forward to rainy days because they made her gaze soften, when before rain had always irked him.
Rain. He had believed she was different, he had believed she had been his in a way and had been proud of it.
But one day he had discovered her in the arms of Lancelot, and it had hurt. His mistake, he mused, had been that they had never really spoken to each other.
A few years later she had fallen ill and had passed away, but he had already mourned her loss by then. Nonetheless there remained scars on his mended pride, and he had always disliked to think about her. And a pouring rain tended to remind him of her.
"I guess..." Gawain finally conceded.
"Look at me : you've got to do like me. Look forward, kid. Looking forward is the key, living in the past is a trap you must avoid."
"Galahad looks forward to going home, it doesn't make him a happy man..."
"Galahad doesn't look forward, he lives in a dream !" Bors exclaimed.
Gawain laughed but did not answer, not knowing what to do with this new understanding and perceptive side of Bors.
He thought however about the big knight's last words, which somehow lifted his spirits. Even on this forsaken island and despite all the Romans and the Woads living on it, he would always be able to look forward. And looking forward gave him something to think about, even when it rained.
He looked forward to the next day. Because on the morrow, his fellow knights would be as infuriating and noisy as usual. Because he would have to rein in his temper around Lancelot, or soothe Galahad's youthful fervour. Because he would be busy.
And, he mused, before nightfall the next day they would be back to the fort. And he would be able to drown himself in ale and then lose himself in the arms of some faceless woman as he often did these days...
He looked forward to forgetting the rain.