Author’s Note: This is a pseudo-songfic. The lyrics–“Winter” by Tori Amos–are embedded in the narrative, so you can only tell it’s song-inspired if you already know the song. Naturally, everything belongs to Professor Tolkien and Tori Amos.
Old English (Rohirric) Glossary:
Fæder = Father
Lýtling = Little One
Hrið = snow

*******

Éowyn slipped out of the white doors, and stood silently in the garden. It was swiftly being covered by a soft blanket of white snow. The Ithilien air, usually so warm and fragrant, was now a delightfully cool breath. The arrival of winter brought a little warm in her heart. As the delicate, swift-falling snowflakes touched her upturned face, she thought of home. Emyn Arnen most recently, Edoras, yes, but the Eastfold foremost, and the short, happy years of her childhood with her parents. Not that she felt a need to leave her husband and new home in Emyn Arnen, but the presence of snow bore a plethora of memories of Yuletide holidays and youth to the Lady of Ithilien.

She pulled her deep blue mantle closer, reminded of her husband, whom she had left sleeping this morning. Thoughts of Faramir always brought a pang of sweetness as she thought of how she loved him. He was weary from affairs of state, and she knew he deserved his rest this morning.

Éowyn looked down at the object in her hand. It was a large, worn leather glove, lined with wool. She smiled softly; even now, her hand felt small when she put it in the old glove.

***

She was six years old, dressed in her brother’s outgrown castoffs: riding breeches, a long wool tunic, her warmest cloak; and new boots just given last night as a Yule gift. Today, Éomund had taken his daughter out onto the snow-carpeted plains as the sun rose. She had run off to where the drifts grew deeper. There, she quickly built up fat snow busts, and attacked them with a wooden practice sword. Since her brother had outgrown that one, Éowyn had begged Éomer for it. When the ten-year-old boy refused, his sister had run crying to their father.

“You must learn to stand up for yourself, daughter. I can’t always be around.” These words, spoken the night before, now rang harsh in the ears of the Third Marshal. Théodwyn had told him to be more forgiving with his daughter; she was still very young.

Under the morning light, she dropped her wet, wooden sword, and tried to catch her breath. She looked up at him, eyes shining with pride. “Did you see me, Fæder? I vanquished all those orcs! I can fight as good as Éomer. I want you to be proud of me,” she finished. “I want to be a valiant Rider of the Mark, just like you, Fæder.”

When are you going to love yourself as much as I do? Éomund thought, watching his youngest child wipe her nose on her tunic sleeve, standing among destroyed mounds of snow. “Very good, Éowyn! Those snow-orcs didn’t stand a chance. But wouldn’t you rather be a shieldmaiden?”

“Why?”

“Shieldmaidens are as valiant as the great Riders, daughter. They take joy in the songs of slaying and vie with the éoreds for glory. You could win such renown that way …” Éomund bit his tongue. He was saying the wrong thing again. He had wanted to tell her that being a Rider of the Mark was too dangerous, and she should stay safe, but he didn’t want to hurt her.

But Éowyn only listened with the graveness of a child, and replied, “Maybe.”

“Things are going to change, so fast …” He looked at his daughter, already a bright little girl, with cold-reddened cheeks and unruly golden hair. Yes, she was growing up very quickly. No more a swaddled infant nor a toddling child struggling to speak and walk. Éomund sighed. Too quickly. Soon she would be a woman.

“Fæder?” Éowyn asked, tugging at his cloak and looking up at him with big dove grey eyes that were luminous against the bright white of snow, “My hands are cold.”

Éomund flashed his daughter a kindly grin. “Come here, Lýtling.”

He pulled off his old leather gloves, and she held her hands out, giggling. He slipped her small hands into the warm wool lining, then gathered her up in a tight embrace, kissing her cheek.

“Can you take me for a ride, Fæder? On a white horse?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course, Éowyn, but not right this moment.” Disappointment flashed across her small face. He amended his statement by adding in a playful whisper, “All the white horses are still in bed.”

***

“Éowyn?” Faramir’s gentle voice reached her. The brilliant silver-white sky and the clean-smelling air was the same, and so was the snow, but she was not in the Eastfold, she was in Ithilien. She saw that her husband, waving hair mussed, was wrapped in a long cloak, and shivering. She smiled at her dear Man of the South; he was cold.

“I–I was afraid we were too far in the South for hrið,” she murmured, lifting her face again to the sky; a snowflake touched her cheek. Like a tiny kiss. “Every winter we had snowfall, as far back as I can remember …”

” ‘Tis a rarity in Gondor,” Faramir remarked quietly, as he went to her in the gardens. “I can recall few instances of snow in my life.” He paused, carefully drawing a hand through her golden tresses. “Éowyn, I’ll always want you near … but if you wish to return to Rohan, you may, my love. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” He regarded her solemnly.

She gave a light laugh. “Nay, Faramir, I will stay.” She withdrew her hand from her father’s glove and intertwined her fingers with Faramir’s. “Someone once told me thing were going to change, so fast … They changed for the better, love.”