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.