Dust Of Snow - ROBERT FROST
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued

DUST OF SNOW

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

The hiss of sliding snow made me turned. As a king upon his throne, a crow sat high among gnarled boughs.

I swore.

Unaffected, wings spread and preening, the crow fixed a beady eye downward with impudent pleasure, and again shook down fine white dust.

‘Snow from the crow brings woe,’ was my uncle’s favoured saying. But he is dead, and I thrust upon his throne.

A fancy I faced a messenger struck; I looked it in the eye. In its bold black stare a reply seemed written.

Faraway, light shards cast from the hidden sky piercing Ered Nimrais recalled bloodless flesh of mortal wounds, shuddering memories of my dying uncle.

‘My lord Éomer!’

I turned, awkward for the stiffened leather. A palfrey was struggling up the slope. Firefoot answered, and tossed his head, resisting his shortened reins.

I drew a cold breath. ‘Here!’ Then remembering decorum, I put away my thoughts and added: ‘My lady.’

I considered the rider on the approaching palfrey. A highborn woman, daughter of the Swan lord, but still one among the many highborn ladies at Gondor’s court.

I dismounted.

‘Your warhorse, he does not run,’ Lothiriel complained. ‘He flies!’

‘It is my fault, I forget Snowflower is not a horse of the Mark.’

She drew abreast. ‘Nor I a daughter born to the saddle.’

Firefoot protested and the cursed crow cawed, a ringing coarse retort seemingly in my stead.

Laughing, she patted Firefoot. ‘What war hero out of the north could resist a run through the snow? I forgive you,’ she said with a curious side-long glance.

As if given the signal in an intricate dance, Snowflower danced away. I laughed: ‘It seems Snowflower thinks otherwise!’

Lothiriel smiled and coaxed her near again. ‘She is merely spirited.’ To me she said, ‘I am glad you found us, but I would like to not get lost again please.’ Another fleeting glance.

Before I was aware, I had grabbed the ungloved hand she was stretching forth with a quick grace. Just as swift, I released her.

Ruefully, she rubbed the reddened mark. ‘Not every shadow brings harm.’ Then, stretching forth again, she dusted the snow off my shoulder with care, and smiled.

What would they make of another foreign queen? I frowned at the irrelevance of that stray thought.

I shook my head and returned her warm regard. ‘Come, the search party is beyond that grove, you will not be lost again today.’

The sun had drawn the veiling clouds. And the crow was gone. Perhaps it would not be such a bad day after all.

 ‘Daydreaming, my lord? Look, the day turns, too fine for fantasies,’ She leaned forward, her warm breath caressing my nape, as a gentle smile curved her lips.

Then loudly, she shouted: ‘We'll race you to the camp!’

Already her laughter was fading.

I leapt onto Firefoot. ‘Fly! Fly or we shall rue this day forever!’

Already in pursuit, he snorted in derision. I laughed into the raising dust of snow.

Also on fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2090696/1/

DUST OF SNOW

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A big "Thank You!" to Aerenka, who first introduced musie and I to the titular inspiration on a fabulous Karl Urban forum. This story was first conceived as a response to the "Dust of Snow" challenge she created in 2004. Never in my wildest imaginations -- a 500word storylet, and fluffy too!

"Dust of Snow" is a poem by Robert Frost (1874- 1963).

As ever, appreciation must go to Avallon for her thoughtful feedback while we distilled and condensed this, our first effort at writing short: always fabulous to have a Tolkienista peeking in on the writing. ;-)

UPDATE 20091002: Edited and revised.