Ice
Atlanta does not stop grinning like a fool, even some time after we left the infirmary. I look foolish, I suppose, hence her grinning whenever she glances at me, which is more often than before, perhaps fearing another relapse. But strangely, I do not feel laughed at.
A boon for me, really, because it is indeed hard, surprisingly, to stop relishing in the taste of the “ice cream” that she gave me long after it was finished, however silly I might look while doing so. The taste itself was not that good; there was a sharp, not-food-like residue left after each swallow of the semi-solid thing; but the food itself was made from ice! How do the mortals achieve such feat in a place this hot? Is there any other ice-based food that I might encounter and try?
`Ice….` Did a jötun once come here and teach them? But why would any of those war-mongering brutes teach the mortals that they sought to invade centuries ago? Let alone anything as mundane as what Atlanta claimed as “just a small dessert.” But, if not….
“What are you thinking?” Atlanta interrupts, nudging me on the side.
“I-C-E,” I sign back, smiling reluctantly.