The air around him was turning colder. He smelled the storm before he heard the first long, slow growl of thunder. He heaved himself to his feet and moved to the high, barred window. Standing in the center of the cell, he could see the troubled sky. He waited.
The sky was cushioned by soft gray clouds, which seemed to sink lower as he watched. Suddenly one flashed golden, and minutes later another answered. Thunder responded with another distant groan.
The rain was slow at first, but at last it became a constant rattle against the bars, pouring down thicker than the sky.
And then the beautiful cracks opened in the heavens, illuminating the darkening cell with an ethereal blue light that vanished before he could remember it. He raised one hand, as though he would touch the lightning, but let it fall to his side again.
Another flash, this one strong enough to light him brilliantly white, and he held his breath for the canonfire that would follow. None came—only a low grumble from all around, but he sensed it growing stronger. He knew that soon thunder would rattle the bars and lightning would steal his breath away, all tempered by the steady whispering clatter of constant rain. It would be a good storm.
When the door behind him opened, both his hands were raised toward the gray sky. The soldiers led him away, the tips of their bayonets glinting in the half-light.
They were outside when the full ecstasy of the storm seized him. A few swings of his powerful arms and they slid in the rain, throwing their hands forward to catch themselves, prisoner forgotten for the brief moment he needed. He began to run, his head thrown back and arms flung wide, drinking the storm, embracing it.
Another explosion, thunder and lightning at once, in his back, and he fell, splashing into a puddle, rain pounding at his body.
The soldier, grim-faced, lowered his gun.
