Post by Admin on Jan 2, 2021 2:01:14 GMT
Author: Quodamat
Ranking: 1st place
Summary: Six cousins, two kings, a mysterious creature, and imagination running rampant. What could go wrong?
Rating: G
Characters: Éomer, Aragorn, Faramir, Éowyn, Elboron, Elfwine, OCs (Théodwyn and Leoflic, younger children of Éomer and Lothíriel; Faelivrin and Tungol, younger children of Faramir and Éowyn)
Warnings: Non-graphic depiction of minor accidental injury
I own nothing in this story, and I have no desire to profit from it. My only intention is to honour Prof. Tolkien's work and contribute to the community of imagination he inspired.
* * *
It was, their parents would reflect later that evening, just the kind of thing one should expect when six clever and vigorous cousins 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 adults in the room all felt the weight of the moment.
The children, on the other hand, were still trying to decide 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…
* * *
“Elboron, what's a wingfoot?”
The Steward's older son kept his eyes fixed on the game board in front of him, hoping he had his cousin in his sights at last.
“What's a what?” he murmured.
“What's a wingfoot?” Tungol repeated, bouncing slightly 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 merely laughed at her brother’s affront.
“Two games against Leoflic! Yes, very impressive. He is a mere nine years younger than you!”
At that point, Leoflic himself burst into the room.
“Mama doesn't know what's a wingfoot,” he announced to the room at large as he skidded to a halt across the game table 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 both nodded, 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, stared at the board, and finally threw up his hands in dismay.
“It's hopeless!” he groaned.
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!” Leoflic protested. “I beat you three times last month, Elfwine, and you know it!”
“Only because I taught you, “ Théodwyn smirked.
“What's this about a big mystery?” Elfwine interjected hastily.
“A wingfoot is coming!” Leoflic exclaimed, his brewing affront at his sister's claim of credit for his glorious victories fading before more pressing matters.
“And no one will tell us what it is,” Faelivrin said.
“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 very 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 had recently begun lessons in court etiquette and was less discriminating in their application than she might be.
“—Uncle Éomer King,” Tungol continued 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, all 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 they would be called a paddlefoot!” Leoflic said.
“I think,” Faelivrin began slowly, “I think Unc—I mean, Éomer King—didn’t say ‘a.’ He didn’t say ‘a wingfoot is coming, he just said ‘wingfoot is coming.’ Like a name.”
“Ah, that makes much more sense,” Théodwyn said, smiling at her cousin. Faelivrin stood up a bit straighter.
“You said you were near the stables,” Elboron mused. “Wingfoot could be the name of a horse.”
“That would be an excellent name for 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 lit up at that. “I bet it is a horse with wings on its feet!”
Leoflic’s mouth fell open. “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 the best surprise!” Tungol said, his enthusiasm growing.
Elfwine laughed. “I think it’s just the name of the horse. Not a description!”
“Why would they call it that then?” Leoflic retorted.
Elboron and Théodwyn exchanged knowing looks, united in longsuffering recognition of the literal-mindedness of youth.
“It is just a name,” Elfwine said patiently. “Like the pony you met, Starfire. She wasn’t a star, or on fire, was she?”
“She has a red coat and a mark like a white star on her head,” Tungol said. “So she looks starry and fiery.”
“See?” said Leoflic, clearly feeling vindicated.
Elfwine rolled his eyes. “I suppose Wingfoot could be a horse with markings that look like wings near her legs.”
“No, real wings!” Leoflic insisted.
“And then she could fly!” Tungol exclaimed.
“Yes!”
“That’s silly,” Faelivrin retorted, eyes on her older cousins. “Horses can’t fly.”
“I heard a story about a flying horse once,” Théodwyn said. “It would be lovely, wouldn't it? A beautiful white horse, flying among the stars?”
“It could race Eärendil across the sky,” Elfwine added, mimicking his sister’s dreamy tone.
Théodwyn snorted, but Tungol’s eyes lit up.
“But the flying horse isn’t a real story...” Faelivrin ventured. “Is it?”
“Perhaps not,” Théodwyn conceded. “But it's hard to be sure.”
“It could be a real story,” Tungol said eagerly. “Eärendil is a real story. Lady Arwen is related to him!”
“I think that’s different,” Elboron began. “He’s a person, not an animal, and—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Tungol insisted, warming to his theme. “The flying horse could be like Huan!”
“Huan didn't fly,” Elboron said, confused.
“He talked though,” Tungol replied. “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 with the air of one who has followed logic to its one inescapable conclusion.
“Huan could fly too, if the Valar wanted,” Leoflic added. Tungol nodded solemnly with the air of one who has followed logic to its one inescapable conclusion.
“You’re just making things up,” Faelivrin accused. Elboron winced at the use of her “grown-up” voice—the one that inevitably drove Tungol to distraction. And, 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 between his younger siblings, seized the moment of 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. Faelivrin, 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 curiously.
“I don’t know about wings on its feet,” Théodwyn said. “I think a flying horse would need to have its wings on the sides, like a bird.”
“But its name is Wingfoot, not Wingside,” Leoflic insisted. Elfwine covered his smile with a hand as Théodwyn rolled her eyes.
“Yes, but—”
“But,” Elfwine broke in, “if a horse’s wings were on its feet, then its feet would go up in the air faster than the rest of it, and it would have to fly upside-down!”
As he’d predicted, the younger boys burst into delighted giggles, and spent the next several minutes speculating wildly about an upside-down horse’s speed and gait.
Elboron returned a short time later, empty-handed and perplexed.
“The book wasn’t where I thought it was, 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 bats that swoop down like dragons? And dragons? With huge long teeth and claws and scaly armour, and breathing fire, and missing just one scale so you can shoot them when they fly past and—”
“Yes, Tungol,” Elboron interjected, “that book precisely!”
Tungol shrugged. “I haven’t seen it in a long time.”
* * *
And so, the hunt for the misplaced book began. Elfwine, Eboron, and Théodwyn were quickly absorbed in the search—not least in other books of interest they found while scouring the shelves.
Not surprisingly, the younger boys were soon restless. Even Faelivrin fond her patience waning.u
“Come play, Fael,” Tungol urged, tugging his sister’s sleeve.
“I’m helping look for the book,” Faelivrin said. Her protest was rather weak, however, as she watched Elfwine and Elboron drag a ladder across the room to reach some of the higher shelves.
“You’re too short, like us,” Tungol said. “Come play!”
“Well…”
“We can play Beren and Lúthien,” Tungol wheedled.
“I suppose that’s fine,” Faelivrin said with barely feigned reluctance, her mind already racing ahead to the broader creative possibilities bound to open up without an offer imperious older brother playing a key role.
“What about me?” Leoflic jumped in.
“Oh, you’re Beren,” Tungol said, looking surprised to be asked. “I’m Huan. I’m always Huan.” He dropped to all fours. “Now we have to sneak to Morgoth’s castle!”
* * *
Unfortunately for Faelivrin, Leoflic in the role of Beren proved no more amenable than Elboron in fact, her preferred storyline of “Lúthien guides her hapless beloved through the wastes and decimates Morgoth’s with the power of Elven grace and skill” had devolved precipitously into “Beren and Huan race, scamper, and frolic incongruously through enemy territory while an increasingly huffy Elf-maiden looks on.” Finally, she’d had enough.
“You’re not playing right!” she yelled across the courtyard. “You’re just running around!” With that, she turned on her heel and stomped back to the library. If she was going to be bored, better to be bored with the grown-up cousins than the babies!
Leoflic watched her go, confused. “What did she think the game was?”
Tungol shook his head sorrowfully. “She never likes the good parts.”
“Now what?” Leoflic asked. “We can’t be Beren and Lúthien with no Lúthien.”
Tungol thought for a moment. “We should play Wingfoot!” he exclaimed. “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 said, 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 in to the harbour, and I think the dog wanted to race it! He was barking at it and I saw the captain point to the dog and laugh, and then he saw me and waved, but Elboron said he was waving at someone else, but I saw! “
“I’m Captain Eärendil, and I’ll wave at Huan,” Leoflic said loyally.
“And I will wag my tail at you,” Tungol replied with equal dedication. He paused and flashed a grin. “But I’ll still be faster!”
With that, the race was on. The boys pelted around the courtyard and around the house, filling the and eventually into the house, filling the halls with peals of laughter and, from Huan, an occasional loud bark. All would have been well, if the King of the Reunited Kingdoms had not arrived at the house of his Steward at precisely the same time.
* * *
Eager to stretch his legs, Aragorn swung down from his horse and handed the reins to a rather overawed young servant. With a few kind words for steed and stable boy alike, he signaled his intention to go on alone while the handful of guards who had accompanied him settled in. He had informed Faramir and Éomer of his forthcoming arrival by letter, but he had made good time and arrived well before the predicted evening hour. Glad for the chance to dispense with courtly formalities so far from the White City and eager to see his friends, he waved away all who made ready to proclaim his presence and strolled toward the house unannounced, gazing at the idyllic landscape and humming softly to himself.
The peaceful moment came to an abrupt end as he emerged through a hedge gate into the courtyard. There, without warning, a small body careened into him, nearly knocking him off balance with the force of collision. Aragorn kept his feet, but the other was not so lucky, flying backward and landing hard with a startled “oomph!”
And so, the king found himself staring down into the rather dazed eyes of a small boy. He had barely begun to register what had happened when another child came hurtling toward them, just managing to skid to a halt before adding a third party to the pile-up.
“Leoflic!” he cried, springing toward his friend.
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 his hands to his face.
In an instant, Aragorn was on the ground beside the injured boy, 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 and his anxious friend.
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!”
“Tungol, Leoflic, what were you doing?” Faramir asked, crouching beside his son as Aragorn held a handkerchief to Leoflic's nose. “We talked about being careful!”
“We were being careful, Ada,” Tungol said earnestly. “We just didn't see Uncle Aragorn King coming around the corner.”
“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--remember, the one that was racing ship with the captain that waved to me, even if Elboron said he didn’t? 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, gave a small sigh, and turned to Aragorn with an apologetic shrug.
“Well, based on the count of injuries, it's better than Hobbits and Dragons. Or Legolas and the Oliphaunt.” A gleam appeared in Faramir’s eye. “Or Thorongil and the Corsairs, for that matter.” Aragorn looked momentarily abashed.
At that moment Éomer strode into the courtyard, trailed by the older children, who had begun to wonder at their little brothers’ prolonged absence.
“Aragorn!” Éomer cried gladly, striding toward the huddled group. “And Leoflic … ah … I see there is a story to be told here.”
“Uncle Éomer!” Tungol scrambled to his feet. “King,” he added quickly, catching a glimpse of Faelivrin, already drawing breath to correct him. “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 from one of the stories back home,” Théodwyn said. “Elboron could have heard it from Aunt Eowyn.”
Tungol turned back to Éomer. “But when is Wingfoot coming? Will he give us a ride?”
Éomer blinked. “Will he what?”
Tungol breathed a long-suffering sigh. “Give us a ride,” he repeated.
“We want to ride the flying horse!” Leoflic called, his voice muffled by Aragorn’s ongoing anti-nosebleed efforts.
“The flying—” Éomer paused abruptly, then burst suddenly into raucous laughter.
“Wingfoot!” he gasped between chortles—and, suddenly, Aragorn was laughing nearly as hard. Faramir and the cousin could only stand by helplessly, thoroughly confused by the strange display.
“Ah, my lads!” Éomer finally managed to exclaim. “I think we both have stories to tell. Come, Leoflic, let us make sure you are well, and then I will tell you all the tale of Wingfoot.”
* * *
Some minutes later, Éomer, Faramir, their children, and the King of Gondor sat in an uneven circle on a small grass sward just outside the courtyard. (“The most appropriate setting for my tale,” Éomer had explained.)
“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 across many long leagues. The older children, at least, were familiar with the story, but they had never heard it told in full. Slowly, and with great relish, Éomer described his first meeting with Aragorn, Gimli the Dwarf, and Legolas the Wood-Elf. The identity of Wingfoot, however, he guarded until the last possible moment.
“And so,” he at last concluded, “even as my men and I rode off across the plains, we wondered at the marvellous 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 he was indeed swift and sure, as if his feet scarcely touched the ground beneath. And so I was proved right in my words at our first meeting. ‘Wingfoot I name you!’ I said to him that day.”
Éomer looked on with satisfaction as the six youngsters turned, mouths agape, to stare at Aragorn.
“But Wingfoot is a flying horse!” Tungol blurted out.
Aragorn laughed merrily. “Nothing near so grand, I fear,” he returned. “Merely a running Man! Lord Éomer spoke pretty poetry, but my feet remain earthbound.”
“You are Wingfoot?” Leoflic looked suspiciously between the two kings, both of whom were grinning. “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 faux whisper.
Leoflic looked affronted. “But Wingfoot should be a horse!”
Tungol patted his friend’s shoulder sympathetically.
“Yes, Wingfoot should be a horse. But,” he continued, pointing to Aragorn, “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 laughed again and clapped Faramir on the back. “Your son has inherited your gift for logical argument, my friend!”
“So his mother tells me often, or something near enough,” Faramir said wryly.
Éomer burst out laughing at that. “Near enough, but not exact! I can only imagine. I know my sister!” He ruffled Tungol’s hair as he clambered to his feet. “A fine mind, young Tungol 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. He thought for a moment, then his eyes lit up.
“Now we can play Wingfoot for real!” he exclaimed. 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.”
“Now 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 … I will be Gimli the Dwarf!”
With this announcement, Tungol sprang into what was clearly intended to be 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.
“Anduril!” Leoflic cried, looking to Aragorn for confirmation as he slashed erratically but enthusiastically through the air. Aragorn applauded, laughing.
Even Faelivrin was caught up in the moment, much to Tungol’s delight. While no Wood-Elf battle cries sprang to her mind, she deftly mimed shooting several arrows in rapid fire at a distant target. Tungol and Leoflic cheered.
“Alas!” Théodwyn said theatrically. “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, doing his best to sound grand.
“What about me?” Elfwine cried, unable to hide his grin beneath his feigned afront. “Why shouldn’t I, the eldest, take my father’s spot?”
“That’s silly,” Leoflic said dismissively before Tungol could reply. “You’re the biggest, so you have to be Arod. He has to carry Gimli and Legolas!”
Elfwine’s jaw dropped. Elboron, meanwhile, had a feeling what was coming next.
“Perhaps I should go tidy up the library…” he murmured, backing away.
“No, come back, El!” Tungol called after him. “We need you to be Hasufel!”
Elboron cast a rueful look toward his father and the two kings, but followed his brother gamely enough. Aragorn smiled approvingly after him.
“Be of good cheer, Elboron,” he called. “You have Wingfoot as your rider! Perhaps he can teach you to fly!”
The End.
Ranking: 1st place
Summary: Six cousins, two kings, a mysterious creature, and imagination running rampant. What could go wrong?
Rating: G
Characters: Éomer, Aragorn, Faramir, Éowyn, Elboron, Elfwine, OCs (Théodwyn and Leoflic, younger children of Éomer and Lothíriel; Faelivrin and Tungol, younger children of Faramir and Éowyn)
Warnings: Non-graphic depiction of minor accidental injury
I own nothing in this story, and I have no desire to profit from it. My only intention is to honour Prof. Tolkien's work and contribute to the community of imagination he inspired.
* * *
It was, their parents would reflect later that evening, just the kind of thing one should expect when six clever and vigorous cousins 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 adults in the room all felt the weight of the moment.
The children, on the other hand, were still trying to decide 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…
* * *
“Elboron, what's a wingfoot?”
The Steward's older son kept his eyes fixed on the game board in front of him, hoping he had his cousin in his sights at last.
“What's a what?” he murmured.
“What's a wingfoot?” Tungol repeated, bouncing slightly 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 merely laughed at her brother’s affront.
“Two games against Leoflic! Yes, very impressive. He is a mere nine years younger than you!”
At that point, Leoflic himself burst into the room.
“Mama doesn't know what's a wingfoot,” he announced to the room at large as he skidded to a halt across the game table 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 both nodded, 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, stared at the board, and finally threw up his hands in dismay.
“It's hopeless!” he groaned.
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!” Leoflic protested. “I beat you three times last month, Elfwine, and you know it!”
“Only because I taught you, “ Théodwyn smirked.
“What's this about a big mystery?” Elfwine interjected hastily.
“A wingfoot is coming!” Leoflic exclaimed, his brewing affront at his sister's claim of credit for his glorious victories fading before more pressing matters.
“And no one will tell us what it is,” Faelivrin said.
“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 very 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 had recently begun lessons in court etiquette and was less discriminating in their application than she might be.
“—Uncle Éomer King,” Tungol continued 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, all 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 they would be called a paddlefoot!” Leoflic said.
“I think,” Faelivrin began slowly, “I think Unc—I mean, Éomer King—didn’t say ‘a.’ He didn’t say ‘a wingfoot is coming, he just said ‘wingfoot is coming.’ Like a name.”
“Ah, that makes much more sense,” Théodwyn said, smiling at her cousin. Faelivrin stood up a bit straighter.
“You said you were near the stables,” Elboron mused. “Wingfoot could be the name of a horse.”
“That would be an excellent name for 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 lit up at that. “I bet it is a horse with wings on its feet!”
Leoflic’s mouth fell open. “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 the best surprise!” Tungol said, his enthusiasm growing.
Elfwine laughed. “I think it’s just the name of the horse. Not a description!”
“Why would they call it that then?” Leoflic retorted.
Elboron and Théodwyn exchanged knowing looks, united in longsuffering recognition of the literal-mindedness of youth.
“It is just a name,” Elfwine said patiently. “Like the pony you met, Starfire. She wasn’t a star, or on fire, was she?”
“She has a red coat and a mark like a white star on her head,” Tungol said. “So she looks starry and fiery.”
“See?” said Leoflic, clearly feeling vindicated.
Elfwine rolled his eyes. “I suppose Wingfoot could be a horse with markings that look like wings near her legs.”
“No, real wings!” Leoflic insisted.
“And then she could fly!” Tungol exclaimed.
“Yes!”
“That’s silly,” Faelivrin retorted, eyes on her older cousins. “Horses can’t fly.”
“I heard a story about a flying horse once,” Théodwyn said. “It would be lovely, wouldn't it? A beautiful white horse, flying among the stars?”
“It could race Eärendil across the sky,” Elfwine added, mimicking his sister’s dreamy tone.
Théodwyn snorted, but Tungol’s eyes lit up.
“But the flying horse isn’t a real story...” Faelivrin ventured. “Is it?”
“Perhaps not,” Théodwyn conceded. “But it's hard to be sure.”
“It could be a real story,” Tungol said eagerly. “Eärendil is a real story. Lady Arwen is related to him!”
“I think that’s different,” Elboron began. “He’s a person, not an animal, and—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Tungol insisted, warming to his theme. “The flying horse could be like Huan!”
“Huan didn't fly,” Elboron said, confused.
“He talked though,” Tungol replied. “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 with the air of one who has followed logic to its one inescapable conclusion.
“Huan could fly too, if the Valar wanted,” Leoflic added. Tungol nodded solemnly with the air of one who has followed logic to its one inescapable conclusion.
“You’re just making things up,” Faelivrin accused. Elboron winced at the use of her “grown-up” voice—the one that inevitably drove Tungol to distraction. And, 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 between his younger siblings, seized the moment of 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. Faelivrin, 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 curiously.
“I don’t know about wings on its feet,” Théodwyn said. “I think a flying horse would need to have its wings on the sides, like a bird.”
“But its name is Wingfoot, not Wingside,” Leoflic insisted. Elfwine covered his smile with a hand as Théodwyn rolled her eyes.
“Yes, but—”
“But,” Elfwine broke in, “if a horse’s wings were on its feet, then its feet would go up in the air faster than the rest of it, and it would have to fly upside-down!”
As he’d predicted, the younger boys burst into delighted giggles, and spent the next several minutes speculating wildly about an upside-down horse’s speed and gait.
Elboron returned a short time later, empty-handed and perplexed.
“The book wasn’t where I thought it was, 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 bats that swoop down like dragons? And dragons? With huge long teeth and claws and scaly armour, and breathing fire, and missing just one scale so you can shoot them when they fly past and—”
“Yes, Tungol,” Elboron interjected, “that book precisely!”
Tungol shrugged. “I haven’t seen it in a long time.”
* * *
And so, the hunt for the misplaced book began. Elfwine, Eboron, and Théodwyn were quickly absorbed in the search—not least in other books of interest they found while scouring the shelves.
Not surprisingly, the younger boys were soon restless. Even Faelivrin fond her patience waning.u
“Come play, Fael,” Tungol urged, tugging his sister’s sleeve.
“I’m helping look for the book,” Faelivrin said. Her protest was rather weak, however, as she watched Elfwine and Elboron drag a ladder across the room to reach some of the higher shelves.
“You’re too short, like us,” Tungol said. “Come play!”
“Well…”
“We can play Beren and Lúthien,” Tungol wheedled.
“I suppose that’s fine,” Faelivrin said with barely feigned reluctance, her mind already racing ahead to the broader creative possibilities bound to open up without an offer imperious older brother playing a key role.
“What about me?” Leoflic jumped in.
“Oh, you’re Beren,” Tungol said, looking surprised to be asked. “I’m Huan. I’m always Huan.” He dropped to all fours. “Now we have to sneak to Morgoth’s castle!”
* * *
Unfortunately for Faelivrin, Leoflic in the role of Beren proved no more amenable than Elboron in fact, her preferred storyline of “Lúthien guides her hapless beloved through the wastes and decimates Morgoth’s with the power of Elven grace and skill” had devolved precipitously into “Beren and Huan race, scamper, and frolic incongruously through enemy territory while an increasingly huffy Elf-maiden looks on.” Finally, she’d had enough.
“You’re not playing right!” she yelled across the courtyard. “You’re just running around!” With that, she turned on her heel and stomped back to the library. If she was going to be bored, better to be bored with the grown-up cousins than the babies!
Leoflic watched her go, confused. “What did she think the game was?”
Tungol shook his head sorrowfully. “She never likes the good parts.”
“Now what?” Leoflic asked. “We can’t be Beren and Lúthien with no Lúthien.”
Tungol thought for a moment. “We should play Wingfoot!” he exclaimed. “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 said, 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 in to the harbour, and I think the dog wanted to race it! He was barking at it and I saw the captain point to the dog and laugh, and then he saw me and waved, but Elboron said he was waving at someone else, but I saw! “
“I’m Captain Eärendil, and I’ll wave at Huan,” Leoflic said loyally.
“And I will wag my tail at you,” Tungol replied with equal dedication. He paused and flashed a grin. “But I’ll still be faster!”
With that, the race was on. The boys pelted around the courtyard and around the house, filling the and eventually into the house, filling the halls with peals of laughter and, from Huan, an occasional loud bark. All would have been well, if the King of the Reunited Kingdoms had not arrived at the house of his Steward at precisely the same time.
* * *
Eager to stretch his legs, Aragorn swung down from his horse and handed the reins to a rather overawed young servant. With a few kind words for steed and stable boy alike, he signaled his intention to go on alone while the handful of guards who had accompanied him settled in. He had informed Faramir and Éomer of his forthcoming arrival by letter, but he had made good time and arrived well before the predicted evening hour. Glad for the chance to dispense with courtly formalities so far from the White City and eager to see his friends, he waved away all who made ready to proclaim his presence and strolled toward the house unannounced, gazing at the idyllic landscape and humming softly to himself.
The peaceful moment came to an abrupt end as he emerged through a hedge gate into the courtyard. There, without warning, a small body careened into him, nearly knocking him off balance with the force of collision. Aragorn kept his feet, but the other was not so lucky, flying backward and landing hard with a startled “oomph!”
And so, the king found himself staring down into the rather dazed eyes of a small boy. He had barely begun to register what had happened when another child came hurtling toward them, just managing to skid to a halt before adding a third party to the pile-up.
“Leoflic!” he cried, springing toward his friend.
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 his hands to his face.
In an instant, Aragorn was on the ground beside the injured boy, 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 and his anxious friend.
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!”
“Tungol, Leoflic, what were you doing?” Faramir asked, crouching beside his son as Aragorn held a handkerchief to Leoflic's nose. “We talked about being careful!”
“We were being careful, Ada,” Tungol said earnestly. “We just didn't see Uncle Aragorn King coming around the corner.”
“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--remember, the one that was racing ship with the captain that waved to me, even if Elboron said he didn’t? 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, gave a small sigh, and turned to Aragorn with an apologetic shrug.
“Well, based on the count of injuries, it's better than Hobbits and Dragons. Or Legolas and the Oliphaunt.” A gleam appeared in Faramir’s eye. “Or Thorongil and the Corsairs, for that matter.” Aragorn looked momentarily abashed.
At that moment Éomer strode into the courtyard, trailed by the older children, who had begun to wonder at their little brothers’ prolonged absence.
“Aragorn!” Éomer cried gladly, striding toward the huddled group. “And Leoflic … ah … I see there is a story to be told here.”
“Uncle Éomer!” Tungol scrambled to his feet. “King,” he added quickly, catching a glimpse of Faelivrin, already drawing breath to correct him. “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 from one of the stories back home,” Théodwyn said. “Elboron could have heard it from Aunt Eowyn.”
Tungol turned back to Éomer. “But when is Wingfoot coming? Will he give us a ride?”
Éomer blinked. “Will he what?”
Tungol breathed a long-suffering sigh. “Give us a ride,” he repeated.
“We want to ride the flying horse!” Leoflic called, his voice muffled by Aragorn’s ongoing anti-nosebleed efforts.
“The flying—” Éomer paused abruptly, then burst suddenly into raucous laughter.
“Wingfoot!” he gasped between chortles—and, suddenly, Aragorn was laughing nearly as hard. Faramir and the cousin could only stand by helplessly, thoroughly confused by the strange display.
“Ah, my lads!” Éomer finally managed to exclaim. “I think we both have stories to tell. Come, Leoflic, let us make sure you are well, and then I will tell you all the tale of Wingfoot.”
* * *
Some minutes later, Éomer, Faramir, their children, and the King of Gondor sat in an uneven circle on a small grass sward just outside the courtyard. (“The most appropriate setting for my tale,” Éomer had explained.)
“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 across many long leagues. The older children, at least, were familiar with the story, but they had never heard it told in full. Slowly, and with great relish, Éomer described his first meeting with Aragorn, Gimli the Dwarf, and Legolas the Wood-Elf. The identity of Wingfoot, however, he guarded until the last possible moment.
“And so,” he at last concluded, “even as my men and I rode off across the plains, we wondered at the marvellous 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 he was indeed swift and sure, as if his feet scarcely touched the ground beneath. And so I was proved right in my words at our first meeting. ‘Wingfoot I name you!’ I said to him that day.”
Éomer looked on with satisfaction as the six youngsters turned, mouths agape, to stare at Aragorn.
“But Wingfoot is a flying horse!” Tungol blurted out.
Aragorn laughed merrily. “Nothing near so grand, I fear,” he returned. “Merely a running Man! Lord Éomer spoke pretty poetry, but my feet remain earthbound.”
“You are Wingfoot?” Leoflic looked suspiciously between the two kings, both of whom were grinning. “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 faux whisper.
Leoflic looked affronted. “But Wingfoot should be a horse!”
Tungol patted his friend’s shoulder sympathetically.
“Yes, Wingfoot should be a horse. But,” he continued, pointing to Aragorn, “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 laughed again and clapped Faramir on the back. “Your son has inherited your gift for logical argument, my friend!”
“So his mother tells me often, or something near enough,” Faramir said wryly.
Éomer burst out laughing at that. “Near enough, but not exact! I can only imagine. I know my sister!” He ruffled Tungol’s hair as he clambered to his feet. “A fine mind, young Tungol 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. He thought for a moment, then his eyes lit up.
“Now we can play Wingfoot for real!” he exclaimed. 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.”
“Now 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 … I will be Gimli the Dwarf!”
With this announcement, Tungol sprang into what was clearly intended to be 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.
“Anduril!” Leoflic cried, looking to Aragorn for confirmation as he slashed erratically but enthusiastically through the air. Aragorn applauded, laughing.
Even Faelivrin was caught up in the moment, much to Tungol’s delight. While no Wood-Elf battle cries sprang to her mind, she deftly mimed shooting several arrows in rapid fire at a distant target. Tungol and Leoflic cheered.
“Alas!” Théodwyn said theatrically. “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, doing his best to sound grand.
“What about me?” Elfwine cried, unable to hide his grin beneath his feigned afront. “Why shouldn’t I, the eldest, take my father’s spot?”
“That’s silly,” Leoflic said dismissively before Tungol could reply. “You’re the biggest, so you have to be Arod. He has to carry Gimli and Legolas!”
Elfwine’s jaw dropped. Elboron, meanwhile, had a feeling what was coming next.
“Perhaps I should go tidy up the library…” he murmured, backing away.
“No, come back, El!” Tungol called after him. “We need you to be Hasufel!”
Elboron cast a rueful look toward his father and the two kings, but followed his brother gamely enough. Aragorn smiled approvingly after him.
“Be of good cheer, Elboron,” he called. “You have Wingfoot as your rider! Perhaps he can teach you to fly!”
The End.