This is a revised version of a story originally submitted as a one-shot on Teitho, where it was voted first place for the "Five Ingredients II" contest. The five ingredients to be included in the story were (1) a humorous friendship moment, (2) spilled blood, (3) stars, (4) a misplaced book, and (5) a flying creature. In addition to the tagged characters, the story features Elfwine, Elboron, and four younger siblings of my own invention: Théodwyn and Leoflic (younger children of Éomer and Lothíriel), and Faelivrin and Tungol (younger children of Faramir and Éowyn).

I have no desire to claim ownership or profit from this story. My only intention is to honour Prof. Tolkien's work and the community of imagination it has inspired.
 

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It was, their parents would reflect later that evening, just the kind of thing one should expect when six clever and vigorous youngsters gathered during the long summer of a peaceful year. The King of Rohan, having business in Gondor, had brought his family to visit the house of his sister and her lord, much to the delight of all. There in the midst of Ithilien, far from courts and councils and walls of stone, it was only right that young imaginations should take flight along paths unknown. And if a few small mishaps occurred along the way—well, their nations had spent many years and countless lives in pursuit of a world where children would know mere mishaps rather than tragedies. And so, when King Elessar of Gondor toasted the adventurous children of his steward and his brother king, the listening men and women felt the weight of the moment.

The children, on the other hand, were still debating whether a ship, a dog, or a horse would win a race among the stars.

They'd been at it, more or less, since early afternoon.

In addition to the tagged characters, this story features Elfwine, Elboron, and four younger siblings of my own invention: Théodwyn and Leoflic (younger children of Éomer and Lothíriel), and Faelivrin and Tungol (younger children of Faramir and Éowyn).

I have no desire to claim ownership or profit from this story. My only intention is to honour Prof. Tolkien's work and the community of imagination it has inspired.
 

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“Elboron, what's a wingfoot?”

The Steward's eldest son kept his eyes fixed on the game board in front of him.

“What's a what?” he murmured distractedly.

“What's a wingfoot?” Tungol repeated, bouncing on his toes. Receiving no response, he turned to Elboron’s opponent.

“Théodwyn, are you going to beat my brother soon?”

Théodwyn smirked. “Of course, little cousin. But afterward he can play Elfwine, and then Elboron will win for sure.”

“That is quite unfair!” Elfwine exclaimed from his seat across the small library. “I’ll have you know I won two games last month!”

Théodwyn laughed at her brother’s affront.

“Two games against Leoflic! Yes, very impressive. He is a mere nine years younger than you!”

At that moment, Leoflic himself burst into the room.

“Mama doesn't know what's a wingfoot,” he announced, skidding to a halt across from Tungol. “And Auntie 'Wyn doesn't know. She laughed when we asked her.”

“I think she does know,” said Faelivrin, following her younger cousin at a slightly more sedate pace. “She laughed even harder when I asked her if it's a kind of animal, and she said we would have to wait and see. That's what she says when she knows something we don't know but won't tell us.”

Tungol and Elboron nodded sagely, recognizing one of their mother's more frustrating habits.

Leoflic huffed. “You said Elboron would know,” he reminded Tungol.

“He's too busy with the boring game,” Tungol said, casting a baleful gaze at his big brother. “He doesn't care about the”—he raised his voice pointedly—“big mystery!”

Faelivrin perused the board.

“He's going to lose after Théodwyn's next move, so we can ask him then.”

Elboron started, scanned the board with fresh urgency—and slumped.

“She’s right!” he groaned. “This is hopeless!”

Laughing, Elfwine rose and clapped Elboron on the back.

“Come, cousin, leave the board to our sisters. Théodwyn tells me this is a game for shieldmaidens, and I suspect she has the right of it.”

“It isn't for maidens!” Leoflic protested. “I beat you three times last month, Elfwine, and you know it!”

Théodwyn smirked. “Only because I taught you how!”

“What's this about a big mystery?” Elfwine interjected hastily.

“A wingfoot is coming!” Leoflic exclaimed, brewing affront fading before more pressing matters.

“And no one will tell us what it is,” added Faelivrin.

“We better have the whole story then,” Elfwine said, settling comfortably back in his chair. “How did you hear about this mysterious winged foot?

“Wingfoot, not winged foot,” Tungol corrected. “That's what Uncle said. We were walking back from the stables—we went to see the ponies—Elfwine, have you met Starfire? She came right over to us—she likes it when I pet her on the nose—and Mama says she has a fine gait even though she is very short, and she snuffled at Leoflic and—”

“That sounds splendid, Tungol,” Elfwine interrupted, “but you said you heard something from Father?”

“We were coming back from the stables, and we saw Uncle Éomer—”

“Éomer King,” chided Faelivrin, who was less discriminating than enthusiastic in her application of newly-learned rules of court etiquette.

“—and we saw Uncle Éomer King,” Tungol repeated agreeably. “And he said it was a good day because a wingfoot was coming. And we asked him, ‘What’s a wingfoot?’ And he laughed and said it was a surprise! And I told him that we would find out, and he laughed again and said he would be proud of us if we solved the mystery. And that is why we need to find out what a wingfoot is!”

Elboron, Elfwine, and Théodwyn exchanged thoughtful looks, willing enough to indulge their younger companions.

“It could be a kind of bird,” Théodwyn suggested. “With very big feet?”

“Swans have big feet,” Tungol observed. “For paddling with.”

“But then it would be called a paddlefoot!” Leoflic said.

“I think,” Faelivrin began slowly, “I think Unc—I think Éomer King didn’t say ‘a.’ He didn’t say ‘a wingfoot is coming,’ he just said ‘Wingfoot is coming.’ Like a name.”

“Ah, very clever!” Théodwyn said, smiling at her cousin. Faelivrin beamed and stood up a bit straighter.

“You said you were near the stables,” Elboron mused. “Wingfoot could be a horse.”

“That would be an excellent name to give a horse,” Elfwine agreed. “It sounds like a very noble steed.”

“It sounds like a horse with wings on its feet!” Leoflic giggled.

Tungol’s eyes widened. “What if it is a horse with wings on its feet?”

Leoflic’s eyes widened in turn. “That’s why Father said it’s a surprise! I would be surprised if I saw a horse with wings on its feet.”

“A horse with wings on its feet would be a splendidsurprise!” Tungol said, his enthusiasm growing.

Elfwine laughed. “We just meant Father might know a horse called Wingfoot. Not a horse with winged feet!”

“Why would he be called Wingfoot then?” Leoflic retorted.

Elboron and Théodwyn exchanged long-suffering looks, united in recognition of the literal-mindedness of youth.

“It’s just a name,” Elfwine said patiently. “Like the pony you met, Starfire. She wasn’t a star, or on fire, was she?”

“Her coat is red and she has a mark like a star on her head,” Tungol said. “So she looks starry and fiery.”

“See?”

Elfwine rolled his eyes. “I suppose Wingfoot could be a horse with markings that look like wings near his feet.”

“No, real wings!”

“And then he could fly!” Tungol exclaimed.

“Yes!”

“That’s silly,” Faelivrin said. “Everyone knows horses can’t fly.”

“You’re silly!” Tungol shot back. “You don’t know—”

“I heard a story about a flying horse once,” Théodwyn broke in. “That would be a wonderful sight, wouldn't it? A great white horse, beautiful and majestic, flying among the stars?”

“Soaring through the heavens,” Elfwine rhapsodized, imitating his sister’s dreamy tone. “Racing Ëarendil across the sky . . .”

“A flying horse would be a good story,” Faelivrin said. “But it’s not a real story . . . is it?”

“Perhaps not,” Théodwyn conceded. “It's hard to be sure.”

“It could be a real story,” Tungol said eagerly. “Eärendil is a real story. I know, because Lady Arwen is related to him!”

“That’s different,” Elboron began. “Eärendil is a person, not an animal, and—”

“That doesn’t matter!” Tungol was quickly warming to his theme. “The flying horse could be like Huan!”

“Huan didn't fly,” Elboron said, confused.

“He talked though. It's the same. Dogs mostly don't talk, and horses mostly don't fly. But Huan talked, because he was friends with the Valar. So Wingfoot the horse could fly, if the Valar wanted.” Tungol nodded decisively, his air that of a scholar who has followed logic to its one inescapable conclusion.

“Huan could fly too, if the Valar wanted,” Leoflic added.

Faelivrin sniffed disdainfully. “You two are just making things up.”

Elboron winced at the introduction of Faelivrin’s “grown-up” voice, which inevitably drove their little brother to distraction. Just as he predicted—

“We are not! You just want everyone to be boring! Huan is a real story! He’s in the same story as Lúthien, and Lúthien is a real story because Lady Arwen is related to her too!”

“Lady Arwen is related to everyone!” Leoflic exclaimed, duly impressed.

Elboron, eager to avoid a loud and embarrassing fight, seized the momentary distraction.

“I remember a story about a flying horse too,” he announced. “I think it was in the book from the Shire—the one Sir Peregrin sent us, with the pictures. I had it in my room. Fael, come help me look.”

Elfwine and Théodwyn exchanged amused looks as Elboron bustled the protesting Faelivrin out of the library and away from the brewing discord.

“Will the book have pictures of the horse with wings on its feet?” Leoflic asked.

“I don’t know about wings on its feet,” Théodwyn said. “I think a flying horse would have its wings on its sides, like a bird.”

“But its name is Wingfoot, not Wingside,” said Leoflic.

“Yes, but—”

“But,” Elfwine broke in, “if a horse’s wings were on its feet, then its feet would rise in the air faster than the rest of it, and it would have to fly upside-down!”

As he’d intended, Leoflic and Tungol burst into delighted giggles at the thought. They spent the next several minutes discussing said horse’s speed and gait, occasionally modelling their theories with much gusto, if little plausibility.

Elboron returned a short time later, empty-handed and perplexed.

“The book wasn’t where I thought I left it, and it wasn’t with Faelivrin’s thing’s either. Tungol, have you been looking at the Shire book recently?”

“The one with the pictures of creatures from the north? With the wolves that ran across the frozen river?”

Elboron nodded.

“And snow bears? And mountain trolls and bog walkers? And the big man who turns into a bear? And giant bees? And giant bat ladies that swoop down like dragons? And dragons? With huge long teeth and claws and scaly armour, and breathing fire, and missing a scale so you can shoot them when they fly past and—”

“Yes, Tungol, that book precisely!”

“I haven’t seen it for a long time.”

And so, the hunt for the misplaced book began. Elfwine, Eboron, and Théodwyn quickly found themselves absorbed in the search—and in various rare and exciting books encountered while scouring the shelves.

Just as quickly, the younger boys grew restless. Even Faelivrin soon found her patience waning.

“Come play, Fael,” Tungol urged, tugging her sleeve.

“I’m helping look for the book,” Faelivrin protested weakly, watching Elfwine and Elboron drag a ladder across the room to reach the higher shelves.

“You’re too short, like us,” Leoflic said. “Come play!”

“Well . . .”

“We can play Beren and Lúthien,” Tungol offered.

“Hmm . . . I suppose that’s fine,” Faelivrin said, her reluctance dissolving rapidly. With Elboron safely occupied, the opportunity to steer a familiar game in more congenial directions was too good to pass by.

“What about me?” Leoflic asked.

“Oh,” said Tungol, surprised. “You’re Beren, of course. I’m Huan. I’m always Huan.”

Tungol dropped to all fours. “Now we sneak to Morgoth’s castle!”

Unfortunately for Faelivrin, it quickly became clear that casting Leoflic as Beren did nothing to advance her creative vision. In fact, her preferred storyline—“Lúthien guides her hapless beloved through the wastes with consummate Elven grace”—had devolved precipitously into “Beren and Huan frolic incongruously through enemy territory while an increasingly huffy Elf-maiden looks on.” Finally, she’d had enough.

“You’re not playing right!” she shouted across the courtyard. “You’re just . . . running around!”

With that, she turned on her heel and stomped back to the library. If nobody was willing to actually have fun, better to be bored with the grown-up cousins than bored with the babies!

Leoflic and Tungol looked at each other, nonplussed.

“But . . . what did she think the game was for?” Leoflic asked.

Tungol shook his head sorrowfully. “She never likes the good parts.”

It soon became obvious to the boys that Faelivrin had no plans to return.

“Now what?” Leoflic asked. “We can’t be Beren and Lúthien with no Lúthien.”

Tungol didn't have to think for long.

“We should play Wingfoot! He can race in the sky, like Elfwine said! You can be Wingfoot, and I’ll be Huan, but now Huan can fly, and they can race! And Wingfoot has to fly upside-down, so he’s slow, so Huan has to win, and—”

“I don’t want to fly slow and upside-down!” Leoflic looked dismayed. “I want to fly fast and . . . and not upside-down!”

Tungol snorted. “Me too. Fael should be Wingfoot. She’d like being slow! But you . . . you can be Eärendil! Then we can really race! When we went to see Uncle by the sea, I saw a dog, and he was splashing in the waves, and he was running, and there was a swan ship coming into the harbour, and I think the dog wanted to race it! He was barking at it and I saw the captain point at the dog and laugh, and then he saw me and waved at me! Elboron said he was waving at someone else, but I saw!”

“I am Captain Eärendil, and I’ll wave at you,” Leoflic said loyally.

“And I will wag my tail at you,” Tungol replied. “But I’ll still be faster!”

With that, the race was on. The gardens rang with peals of laughter as the boys pelted across the large courtyard, around corners, and along winding flagstone pathways.

All would have been well if the King of the Reunited Kingdoms had not arrived at the house of his Steward at precisely that time.
 

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Note: "Lord of the Rings Online" players may recognize some of the more exotic creatures Tungol recalls seeing in Sir Peregrin's book of beasts. I couldn't resist.

Eager to stretch his legs, Aragorn swung down from his horse and handed the reins to a nearby rider. After making good time and arriving well before the predicted hour, he was determined to seize this rare opportunity to avoid a tedious formal arrival. Quickly guessing his intention, the knights of his personal guard easily commanded the attention of the stable hands who came to meet them, allowing their lord—who just happened to be wearing the plain outer gear of a middle-ranking officer—to slip the net of hospitality and make his own way toward the house. Far from the courtly confines of the White City, Aragorn delighted in the chance to play the sly ranger of his younger years, if only for a moment. Well content with the world, he strolled ahead, humming softly as he surveyed the idyllic landscape.

This momentary peace came to an abrupt end as Aragorn emerged through a hedge gate into the courtyard. There, without warning, something careened into him with nearly enough force to knock him off balance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small body fly backward and land hard on the ground with a startled “oomph!” The next instant, he was staring down into the dazed eyes of a small, fair-haired boy.

Aragorn had barely begun to absorb the situation when another child came hurtling forward, barely managing to skid to a halt before imitating the recent collision.

“Leoflic!” he cried, springing forward.

This seemed to shake Aragorn’s small assailant out of his momentary shock: tears began to pool in his eyes as he whimpered and clutched at his face.

Aragorn was on the ground in seconds, slipping effortlessly into the role of healer. Thus the Steward of Gondor found his liege-lord, rummaging in his pack for a clean cloth while keeping up a soothing stream of reassurance to a teary, bloody-nosed little boy.

Aragorn greeted his friend with a genuine, if slightly sardonic, smile.

“Faramir! It is a joy to see you, but I fear I must apologize: I arrived but moments ago, and already I have spilled blood!”

Faramir took stock of the scene and sighed, crouching beside his son as Aragorn held a handkerchief to Leoflic's nose.

“Tungol, Leoflic, what were you doing? We talked about being careful!”

“We were being careful, Ada,” Tungol said earnestly. “We just didn't see Uncle Aragorn King coming out from the bushes.”

“We were just playing Huan and Eärendil!” Leoflic wailed, squirming under Aragorn's ministrations.

“Huan and . . .” Faramir stared at his nephew, bemused, as Aragorn struggled mightily not to laugh.

“And Eärendil,” Tungol supplied. “Because Faelivrin wouldn't be Lúthien anymore, and Huan wanted to fly like the horse, and race, like Elfwine said, but Leoflic didn’t want to be upside-down and slow, so I said he could be Eärendil, and it was just like the dog at Dol Amroth, the one that was racing the ship with the captain that waved to me, no matter what Elboron says. And so we were racing! And that's why we were—”

“—playing Huan and Eärendil,” Faramir concluded as Tungol paused for breath. He shook his head and turned to Aragorn with an apologetic shrug.

“Well, based on the current injury count, it's better than Hobbits and Dragons. Or Legolas and the Oliphaunt.” His expression turned mischievous. “Or Thorongil and the Corsairs, for that matter.”

Aragorn looked abashed.

Éomer arrived just moments later, trailed by the older children.

“Aragorn!” he cried gladly, striding toward the huddled group. “And—ah. Leoflic. I see there is a story to be told here.”

“Uncle Éomer King!” Tungol scrambled to his feet. “When is Wingfoot coming? Is he fast? Is he upside-down? Elboron, did you find Sir Pippin’s book?”

“We found it, but it didn’t have a flying horse after all,” Elboron replied.

“It must be a story from back home,” Théodwyn said. “Maybe you heard it from Auntie Éowyn, Elboron.”

Tungol plucked impatiently at Éomer’s sleeve. “When is Wingfoot coming? Will he give us a ride?”

Éomer blinked. “Will he what?”

Tungol heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Give us a ride,” he repeated.

“We want to ride the flying horse!” Leoflic managed to add, voice muffled by Aragorn’s ongoing attempts at treatment.

“The flying—” Éomer paused abruptly, then burst into raucous laughter.

“Wingfoot!” he gasped between chortles.

Then, suddenly, Aragorn was laughing nearly as hard. Faramir and the young cousins could only watch helplessly, thoroughly confused by the strange display.

Éomer recovered first.

“Ah, lads,” he chuckled, “I admit I owe you a story. Come, let us make sure Leoflic is well, and then I will tell you the tale of Wingfoot.”

Éomer, Faramir, their children, and the King of Gondor sat in an uneven circle on a small grass sward just beyond the courtyard. (“The appropriate setting for my tale,” according to Éomer.)

“The tale of Wingfoot begins on the day after a great battle,” Éomer began, his voice falling easily into a storyteller’s cadence. “The men of my éored had destroyed a band of marauding orcs . . .”

Aragorn looked on fondly as Éomer told the story of the Three Hunters and their pursuit of two captive hobbits. The older children, at least, were familiar with the events, but they had never heard the story told in such detail. Slowly, and with great relish, Éomer described his first meeting with Aragorn the Ranger, Gimli the Dwarf, and Legolas the Wood-Elf. The identity of Wingfoot, however, he guarded until the last possible moment.

“And so, even as my men and I rode off across the plains, we wondered at the marvelous swiftness of the Heir of Elendil and his hardy friends. And when I heard the full tale of their journey many days later, I knew Lord Aragorn was swift and sure indeed, as if his feet scarcely touched the ground beneath. ‘Wingfoot I name you!’ I told him when first we met, and from that day forward, his speed has ever proved my wisdom.”

Éomer looked on with satisfaction as the six youngsters turned to stare, mouths agape, at Aragorn.

“But Wingfoot is a flying horse!” blurted Tungol.

Aragorn laughed merrily. “Nothing near so grand, I fear,” he said. “Merely a running Man! Lord Éomer spoke pretty poetry, but my feet remain earthbound.”

“You are Wingfoot?” Leoflic looked suspiciously between the two kings. “Because Father named you that?” Aragorn nodded. “But he didn’t tell us who you were!”

“I think Father was playing trick on you,” Elfwine said in a loud whisper.

“But Wingfoot should be a horse!”

Tungol patted Leoflic’s shoulder sympathetically.

“Yes, Wingfoot should be a horse,” he agreed “But to be proper you have to say Wingfoot King. And that’s a name for a Man.”

“Oh.” Leoflic considered this for a moment. “All right.”

Aragorn chuckled and clapped Faramir on the back. “Your son has inherited your gift for argumentation, my friend!”

“So his mother tells me often, or something near enough,” Faramir said wryly.

Éomer grinned at that. “Near enough, but somewhat sharper, I wager. I know my sister!” He ruffled Tungol’s hair as he clambered to his feet. “A fine mind, this lad has, and a fleet tongue. He has the makings of a fine storyteller of the Mark, for all his dark Gondorian locks!”

“I like stories,” Tungol confirmed. “And now that we know the story, we can play Wingfoot for real!”

He grabbed Leoflic and Faelivrin’s hands and began pulling them to their feet.

“We can be the Three Hunters! Fael, you can be Legolas. He has the prettiest hair.”

“I want to be Wingfoot!” Leoflic said. Tungol hesitated for just a moment, but then smiled.

“Yes, you should be Wingfoot now,” he said generously. “And I will be Gimli the Dwarf!”

With that, Tungol sprang into a battle-ready stance, both hands gripping a hefty, albeit imaginary, weapon.

“The axes of the Dwarves!” he crowed, giving said weapon a mighty swing.

“Andúril!” Leoflic cried, slashing his invisible blade erratically but enthusiastically through the air.

Even Faelivrin was caught up in the moment. While no Wood-Elf battle cries sprang to mind, she mimed shooting a fearsome volley of arrows. Tungol and Leoflic cheered.

“Alas!” Théodwyn said theatrically, looking on. “The parts of the Hunters have been taken! Am I to be an orc or a hobbit?”

“You can be Uncle Éomer Not-Yet-King,” Tungol replied grandly.

“What’s this?” Elfwine exclaimed, feigning affront. “Am I not my father’s eldest son and heir? Why should I not take his part?”

“That’s silly,” Leoflic said dismissively before Tungol could reply. “You’re the biggest. You have to be Arod, for he carries Gimli and Legolas both!”

Elfwine’s jaw dropped. Elboron, meanwhile, began to back away.

“Perhaps I should tidy the library . . .”

“Don’t go!” cried Tungol before his brother could escape. “You have to be Hasufel!”

Elboron cast a rueful look toward his father and the two kings, then shrugged, smiled, and followed his brother across the sward.

“Be of good cheer, Elboron!” Aragorn called after him. “You will have Wingfoot as your rider—perhaps he can teach you to fly!”