Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings. All aspects of it belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema Productions respectively.
A/N: This was inspired by the first snowfall of the season, which occurred today. Each year at wintertime, I'm driven to do something involving snow, whether it's writing, drawing, playing in it… Ithilien, if you're reading this, I want you to know that I didn't purposely neglect you in my replies to "A New Form of Torture", it was simply an accident. I love that you like it so much! And to anyone wondering, I've a bit of a fascination with Glorfindel recently. Don't worry, it will pass.
Glorfindel sat at his window, his face resting in his arms, gazing out at the swiftly falling snow. How he loved snow; the way it settled on the branches of skeletal trees, the way it coated the usually lush grass of Rivendell with a white blanket. It was as if someone had dumped a bag of sugar over everything, or had washed the forest with pure starlight.
Suddenly, someone seized him around the waist in a tight hug. He looked down in surprise at a small, dark head buried in his chest. He smiled and drew the elfling closer, then pulled the young Arwen Undomiel onto his knee.
"Why are you here, when you could be out there, playing in the snow?" he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Snow?" Arwen asked, one brow furrowed in confusion. "You mean they're not tiny white feathers?"
Glorfindel suppressed the urge to burst into laughter. "Is that what you thought they were?" he asked, grinning. "No, Lady Undomiel, they're not feathers."
"Well, then, what are they?"
"Snowflakes," he replied. "They're like…" he trailed off, looking for the right words. "Like little pieces of ice." It wasn't the greatest explanation, but it was the best he could do.
"Ice?" Arwen questioned cynically. "How can ice fall from the sky?"
"You don't believe me?" Glorfindel said reproachfully.
Arwen simply scowled defiantly.
"Fine," he said, setting her on the ground. "Go put on your cloak and we'll test my theory."
Arwen looked out the window once more, then hurried from the room. Glorfindel allowed himself a few chuckles once she was out of earshot.
Arwen returned soon, her fur-trimmed hood pulled over her head. "I'm ready, Glorfy," she said.
The Elf-Lord had already put on his own dark cloak, and so he took her hand and they went out into the whiteness.
"Well?" she asked expectantly. "It still doesn't look like ice."
"Hold out your hand and catch one," Glorfindel commanded. She did, and the large snowflake that landed in her small hand melted instantly.
"It's gone!" she squeaked.
"I told you it was ice," Glorfindel said triumphantly. The little elfling simply giggled, and Glorfindel reached down and swept her up into his arms and wrapped her in a fierce hug. "Now let's see if we can't coax your father into a snowball fight," he whispered.
He lowered her back to the ground, and after a brief (and slightly frustrating) course on how to make snowballs, they built an arsenal of them. Swift and silent, the duo pelted Lord Elrond and his chief advisor Erestor with the snowy missiles. Of course, the two Elves retaliated, and there was a huge battle. Celebrian later called a ceasefire, and the wet – but happy – Elves went in to dry off. As Glorfindel helped Arwen out of her cloak, she smiled at him and said, "Those surely weren't tiny white feathers! I've never touched a feather that hit so hard!"
Elrond, Celebrian, and Erestor all looked at Glorfindel, who simply walked away, laughing.
A/N: Hope you liked! Little Arwen is about the human equivalent of four years here. Silly, hopefully sweet, and short, but hey, I had to write it!