

”…Consider myself such things? I don’t think those’d be the first two
adjectives I associate with who I am, no. Though I have been told as
much before, they seem to be a judgement passed upon me on a far
more superficial level, just the observations of a first encounter.
Let me ask you this: do you believe ice is graceful and elegant?
Surely, you’ve seen an ice sculpture before, perhaps at a wedding;
an impressive, fleeting, temporary Swanna carved beautifully into
crystal-clear ice. But that ice sculpture is a lie, a fabrication.
It’s been treated. Manipulated by the artist to that state of transparency.
In truth, natural ice is almost opaque, never akin to glass, of all things.
If you want to see the true nature of ice, I’d urge you to visit somewhere
far to the north, perhaps the island my ancestors inhabited. It’s damn
cold there, so I wouldn’t blame you if you’d pass on a visit. I would, too.”

“—-But I’ll give you the short story, what you’d realize if you
stood atop an ancient glacier: graceful and elegant as it may
seem from afar, true ice is never these things up close. It’s
ferocious. Deadly, unforgiving, and cruel. It wishes nothing
but to conquer every challenger in its path:
the earth beneath its front, the sky above, the puny
human being who dares traverse its fields. It wants
to force you to submit to its will. And ice knows
it’s capable of doing such a thing, with great patience
and slow undermining of your every strength. If you
underestimate the power and lethality of ice for even
a moment, that’s when it gets you,
when it takes you down.”
“So…No.
I don’t consider myself graceful and elegant.
What I consider myself is ‘not to be fucked with’.
And I sincerely hope you’ll take that to heart.”