"What is it with you Númenoreans and snow?" Círdan asked, smiling, as they watched the delight of the men in their camp.
"You would call this snow?" Elendil retorted, but he, too, was smiling.
In truth this wet slush was barely worth the name, Elendil thought, but he doubted Mordor would oblige by giving them a perfect fall of dense, not quite dry, flakes that were the best for making snowb… Curse it, now he was doing it.
In Imladris, before the armies marched, he had helped young Valandil make a snowman. He missed his adoptive home and its winter.
Originally written for Aruthir's Birthday, January 2013