Winter was safe, the cold was a welcome companion. The chill that rattled bones and froze skin and nipped at chapped fingers and hurt anything that was not hardened against its perpetual onslaught was a good, ever present friend.
Or so, it had been for the multitude of years that the Death Guardian had spent in the lands outside of his home during his time away in seek of training. Youth was spent in the barren lands of the Death Island, harsh and unforgiving but majestic in their relentless judgement of its inhabitants. But the glorious time of growth and acceptance of one self, those were spent away, training; pushing his body to the limit with the sole goal of one day laying said body down for the sake of a priestess.
Perhaps that was why Thrain had an easier time pushing down the loss of his home lands within himself. The destruction itself was not something taken lightly, instead placed as a smoldering bit of coal within his heart, something closer and warm and ever present, but long burning and black, a charred bit of rubble that halted any actual growth within himself.
His mother was gone, father and younger brother. Childhood friends, distant relatives, lovers he'd not gotten the chance to meet and elders he'd yet to pledge his allegiance to. Everyone.
Any left over possessions from childhood, the home he'd grown up in, silly memoirs. Clothing, old weapons that had rusted since then and now, letters from far away friends. Everything.
All of it. Every last little piece of what once was, what had been, what could never be again. Gone.

It hadn't mattered that the news had come in the dead of night when the guardian in training was bundled up tight in furs and blankets, counting the hours not frozen as another credit toward his end goal of becoming a full guardian. The arctic chill of the particular post Thrain had chosen was enough to freeze a trainee in place if they did not protect themselves from its bite. But every sensation had ended with the news that the Islands were gone. Everything for the next week had been called off as the elders took turns leaving post to see what they could do only to return with gaunt faces and haunting stories. The younger Horsemen were not allowed to leave, not until things were settled. If they too were lost to the brutality of the Humans, then all would have been in vain.
This was a lesson they had to learn. Kill and protect at all costs. Carve this memory in your soul, turn yourself to steel and sharpen your weapon on your own countenance.
But try as Thrain might, he just could not fully harden himself to what had happened. His family was dead. Everything he knew had been erased and he had not even been there to fight. This was a wound that would not scab over. For the remainder of his time in the freezing winds and snowy lands far away, the young guardian could only bury his anger and hurt and grief over the occurrence in the snow. Each day he packed a new layer over himself, metaphorically freezing his feelings with training and endurance runs and pushing himself to keep from crying. Tears would freeze on his face, damn him to picking ice off his skin and it was easier to just avoid the whole thing with sheer force of will.
If he viewed it as just another exercise to put him closer to his goal, it kept him from crippling under the insurmountable weight of loosing everything he'd once called home.
And finally the day came when he was deemed worthy of being called a Guardian. The freezing winds that had become his home were said goodbye to, the others he had worked so hard with were pledged fond farewells and when no one was looking, Thrain uncovered his heart from the snow. It had not frozen as he had hoped it would, but had instead turned black and firey and small. But it was tucked away, he kept the hurt and left.
Left to a new place, a school of all things. A temporary home full of happy scarelings who thought themselves grown, of people who pitied but didn't understand. It was as maddening as it was laughable. Miraculously, certainly largely in part to the idea of residing next to a school in comparison to his former glorious homelands, Thrain finds he is not more angry than he is. Sure, the anger is there, it is raw and waiting. But it isn't to be used against this place that attempts to help, that wants his people to survive. He knows the anger will wait, will burn endlessly within him and raise its head when the time is appropriate. He can wait for that.


But this new place is cheery despite its dark colors, an odd juxtaposition he is not familiar with. The reserve is called home, has latched onto what remains of the old and hopes to preserve flawlessly with tenacity and new drive. Even the close proximity of the other clans is something normal here. Cooperation and group effort are what moves the days along, the hope that one day they will be able to return home. But that day is far away yet, and this little bit of land next to the school is their current living space.
But it all wrong.
This is not winter.
This is not home.