Nicholas has always been fond of rain. He is always baffled when Normals and Twilights alike would cringe at the flashes of lightning which would transiently rend the sky, like a crack on the perimeters of heaven, and sprint for cover as if being pursued. From the rumbling aftermath which he can feel in his stomach, it must be related to the thunder which invariably follows - apparently it lives up to its namesake sound-wise. Yet one advantage of being deaf is that Nicolas can only feel the galvanizing chill of the accelerating air currents, mercenaries from somewhere cold and far away that shatters the stronghold of the stagnant afternoon warmth and allows the fragrant mustiness of grass to infiltrate and tickle his senses. His baggy clothes prove to be no match against the wind, and he relishes its cool, gentle caresses on his wounds like a mother whom he never knew.
For all its lulling benevolence, the tender premonitions of rain is misleading, like a talented temptress pacifying its prey before the delivering fatal blow. Yet Nicolas does not bow to oppositions which leaves him breathing, and having survived his first thunderstorm in the open field, when the rain assaulted him like a mob of brass knuckles, pelting from an almost horizontal angle in the mighty gust, and it took a teeth-grinding effort to simply remain grounded against the wind that threatened to carry him heavenward, he learned the exhilaration of confronting such a violent force of nature head-on. The surrounding trees may bend and tremble like candle flames on the birthday cake of a desperate wisher, the small flags adorning the mansion's minarets may snap in the wind like a whip in the hand of an ill-tempered coachman, the wrought-iron gates may clang as if possessed by a vengeful spirit, but he, Nicolas Brown, remains unfazed. From birth, his Twilight compensation have imprisoned him within a muted, solitary world detached from the cacophony and turbulence, but also the vitality and thrill, of the real. He sees the maniacal explosions of laughter, the visceral cringes of pain, the deranged eruptions of rage from on soldiers in his squadron, and wonders what it is like to feel so vividly.
But the extraordinary tumult of thunderstorms provides him with a clue - for once the world is of consequence, immediate, irrefutable even with his eyes closed. He feels alive and human. In a turbulent, violent world, yes, but one that nevertheless sheds a streak of vitality and color to the monochrome bleakness, the empty unfeeling solitude, that is his inner tundra.