Snow

A/N- Two months ago I asked Mystic Dawn if I could write this as an offshoot of one of her drabbles, entitled I believe 'Snowflakes and Kisses'... And only now am I getting around to typing it up? Oy vey. I should smack myself for taking so long to type up a drabble/one-shot/short type of thingy that I tend to write a lot of.

Anyways. Ahem. The idea that was so cute that I wanted to draw it, but couldn't, because I can't draw Kuro-chan worth beans. So I decided to write it instead, because I can at least do that half-decently...

The clock says one-thirty A.M... guess it's bed for me now...

Disclaimer - Shut up. I still do not own TRC.

-

Poised; the two shapes ahead of him are still, barely moving. Heart pounding with excitement and anticipation, he creeps a few steps closer...

The child pounces, cheering. "All right! It's snowing! Wake up! Father! Mother! It's snowing!"

"Arrrrgh..." the man groans, rolling over in bed and sending his kid sliding off of his stomach on to the floor. "'S far too early in th' mornin... G' back to sleep, son..."

"But Father! It's snowing!"

"Go back... to sleep... wait until breakfast... 'll... play with you then..." the man yawns.

"All right!" Beaming at having extracted such a promise from his parent, the kid runs out of the room and hops back into his own bed. He can't sleep, though. How could one sleep with glorious snow piling up outside one's window? He watches it for a long time, until the falling flakes dizzy him as they float like myriad feathers to the ground; he's wrapped in a blanket for warmth, and wriggling with happy excitement as he plans everything he wants to do when the sun rises, until at last he tilts over, head nodding, and falls asleep once more...

"Wake up, sleepyhead! It snowed in the night! Wake up, son!"

"Gah!" The kid shoots awake, jolted by his father's cheerful yelling.

"All right!" cheers the father, swooping down on his son, locking him in a headlock, and noogieing him furiously.

"Faaaaatheeerrrrrr!" the boy wails, struggling, albeit not very hard. "Stoppit!"

"Aw, come on, if you can't take this little effort, what are you gonna do next time, tough guy?" the father teases.

The boy squirms free."I'm tough! Really!"

"Oh yeah?" the father grins.

"Yeah!"

"Hmmm... we'll see about that... when I take you down in the Ultimate Snowball Match War of Doooom!"

"... Father, you're weird."

"Them's fightin' words! Be outside in five to establish your base, or risk a sneak attack of the snow ninja!" The father jumps up and sweeps out of the room, chuckling madly. The snow brings out the child in him as much as it brings out the child in the child.

In spite of the rude awakening, the kid has regained all the energy and excitement that had woken in him at the sight of new snow. He is dressed and outside in four minutes, still chewing frantically on the last of the riceballs the cook had pressed into his hands with a smile as he sped out the door.

The sky is overcast, a dull, featureless grey-white stretch like well-forged steel. It glows from the force of the sunlight trying to fight its way through to the ground, and it's cold enough that the kid can see his breath puffing away from him in streamers of mist even against the bright white of the snow.

Snow sweeps to the ground in great wet feathery flakes, settling on the child's hair, on his shoulders. He looks up, stretching his arms wide, blinking as the snow hits and sticks to his eyelashes, taking this one moment to revel in the quiet, allowing the anticipation, the joy to settle over him as the snow does. And then he is off, throwing up sparkling trails of snow crystals as he dashes down the hill.

The snow silvers the trees with an etched frozen border, drawing out details normally invisible to the eye. The hills roll out from this spot like a white sea, up until they meet the mountain, growing then into craggy, snow-topped waves frozen forever by the still, chill air.

The kid spies his father attempting to hide behind a stand of bamboo; he's hard to miss, as it gives little cover at this time of the year. He pretends he does not see his father, though he keeps a corner of his eye fixed on him as he dashes by, into the trees, then cuts around behind, pausing only to scoop up a handful of snow. He's right behind his father now; the father, not seeing his son any more, seems to think it's safe to tail him with a double load of snowballs; the kid grins, and flings his own. It explodes across the father's back.

"Got you!" he crows happily, and takes off.

"Ohhh, you sneaky little pint-sized monkey -!"

The woods echo with the sound of the child's cheeky laughter.

It's uncertain, after awhile, whether father or child is winning, but it doesn't really matter. The snowball war degenerates at times into a series of sneak attacks and wrestling in the snow; that does not matter either, and why should it, as long as it's fun? The kid throws off his father long enough to catch him by surprise from on high as he pelts him from the third branch of a tree. When the child runs out of ammunition, he drops out of the tree and tackles his father. And then the father throws the boy into a snowbank.

The boy has always loved days like these, days spent almost exclusively with the father that he loves so dearly. Falling asleep on nights when the father does not return home, having ranged far afield throughout the province dispatching goblins, on those nights when he fears that this is the night the father will not come home ever again, is easier as he spreads out these bright, beautiful, happy memories in his mind. There. There. Silly... someone so vital, so energetic and so truly alive could not possibly die. Of course, it's impossible... people who are so loved never die. And he can sleep, somewhat comforted by his naive logic.

Their snowball war has brought them closer to the yard once more. It is growing shadowy, the silhouettes of the trees stretching acorss the snow-covered grass, criss-crossed with footprints.

The boy and his father are too busy yelling joyfully and avoiding each other's volleys to hear the quiet voice ordering people into position.

They do, however, hear the pleasant, gently amused female voice saying, "Fire."

Father and son are struck by a flurry of snowballs, seemingly from nowhere. The father dives into a snowbank, pulling his son down with him to avoid the relentless snow.

And then it stops. They pull themselves out of the snowbank, wet and bewildered, to stare, shocked, at their smiling assailant.

"Mother?" The boy's jaw drops.

"I win, I think," the mother says with a bright, sweet smile.

"No fair! You gathered up an entire miniature army!" complains the father, shaking himself vigourously to remove the snow that has gone down the back of his shirt.

The household servants, ladies all, giggle behind their hands at the sight of their lord shaking himself like a bedraggled dog.

"What's not fair is keeping us waiting to eat," she says with mock severity. "Come, the two of you should dry off. I'm sure you're hungry. And it's nearly dark."

"Is it?" The father squints at the sky. He does not seem taken aback by the fact that he has wasted a whole day fooling around in the snow. It is rare enough that he gets a chance to spend so much time with his son that does not have to be training. It is rare enough that the boy himself will allow him a day like this.

"Tomorrow?" the boy whispers to his father as they are urged down the corridor towards a hot bath, then a warm meal. His father merely grins; the smile glimmers in the dying light.

A good day; another bright memory frosted with the brilliance of snow.