If the denizens of Ice are the friendly Tundras, then why is Ice known as cold and closed and distinctly not?
Well, you see, Tundras forget. The others that live among them are the stony ones, because they have to be. Because Tundras forget, and the others don’t, but Tundras forget, and they never told anyone why.
On the surface it seems simple. They forget faces, and names. They forget voices and words and friends that they once had.
It makes it easier to forget the ones they have to lock away.
They forget the fear in the eyes of the guilty as the ice closes over them. They forget the begging and the pleading and the snouts that used to press into their fur. It’s easier.
Tundras forget everything except the scent.
Friend. Enemy.
Warden. Prisoner.
A Tundra exists in the moment. There is no future, only the now. There is no past, no history, nothing to remember so they can’t ever go looking for the ones they shouldn’t be looking for.
There are other reasons that they forget, the reasons themselves forgotten.
Those reasons prowl in the deepest caves of ice with gleaming white eyes, their minds swirling out beyond them like a blizzard.
How many crimes does the mind commit when it dwells on the past? All the should haves and could haves and what ifs. And how many crimes are thought of in the future? All the wants, the wants and the daydreams and fantasies and dreadful ideas. How many crimes does the mind commit? How many does it take for them to be enough to doom you?
Tundras forget, because they should not remember what they used to be.
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