The hunters have killed a boar. It is a skinny, pathetic creature, its ribs showing through matted fur. It has scarcely enough meat on its bones to feed two people, let alone hundreds. Yet it is the first creature we have seen, here on the ice. The hope it has given us nourishes us more than the meat will.

They roughly throw the carcass into the snow. I cannot help but pity the animal. After all, we know what it is like to be alone, numb from cold and pain. But only the strong survive here. There can be no guilt on the ice.

They begin to cut the pig open, and I kneel down to help. Beads of blood dot the snow now, crimson blotches that I find oddly beautiful. The blood is warm still, and the ice begins to melt beneath them, forming small pools of red liquid.

I stare, transfixed. So blood triumphs over ice. We are stronger than the ice. We will endure.