In the cage where they rest before they battle, they're provided grapes, clean bandages, and wine. Cloud normally relies on potions and the such; today he's almost out.
He has half a potion left and a gaping wound on his thigh. The damage has been done; when he peels away his pants, sticky with blood, he finds it's deeper than he expected. The potion will maybe seal up the wound, but not do much else.
Survival instincts kick in; Cloud cuts out a piece of his cloak, bites down on it, and dumps half the flagon of wine over his wound. Fire rips through his entire leg and his teeth come close to shredding the fabric from his cloak. He throws back the potion and is pleased to see the wound seal itself up, despite the fact that the entire leg feels numb to him.
To get the clinical taste of the medicine from his mouth, he takes a swig of the wine. Rather than sliding down his throat, it burns. The taste left is vaguely fruity and bitter, nothing at all like the champagne he'd been allowed to sip back at home.
That was years ago, though, and the memory is nothing but a faint glimpse at the back of his mind. He stands shakily, leaning on his good leg. (He makes a note to keep that leg protected for a time; having the wound reopen would not be pleasant.) He draws his sword from its latch on his back and uses it as a cane, the point in the dirt; he doesn't have any more matches today, which is something of a relief.
He takes the wine with him before he leaves. It leaves a pleasant buzz that seems to mask the conscience in the depths of his mind.
up next: "They crash and churn sporadically, whereas the Bastion was alive with the constant dripping."