Gravity Is a Harsh Mistress by Grundy

Turukano frowned.

“Are you sure about this,” he asked his cousins dubiously, eying the nearly finished wings.

“Of course,” Ingo grinned. “And think how much fun it will be to rub it in to your older brother that you did something he didn’t.”

“You don’t have an older brother,” Turukano pointed out.

“I have four, and two of them are insufferable,” Curvo sniffed. “I’m sure. I did the math myself. It will work. But if you don’t want in…”

“I didn’t say that,” Turukano said hastily. “I just don’t want a lecture from your father about how elves can’t fly!”

There was a moment with any new creation where you were unsure if it would work as intended. Curufinwë knew this well. Unfortunately, he was young enough – and as yet inexperienced enough, Atto always stressed that experience was a teacher like any other – that as often as not, he found himself unable to bring his visions to fruition.

This time, though… The wings were a thing of beauty. Making three sets rather than two had been no great bother, particularly not when Turvo helped. He was rather good at carving, though he’d had to be dissuaded from attempting individual feathers.

It had seemed a splendid idea at the time – all three of them should attempt flight at once. After all, they’d all helped, so why should they not all bask in the glory? The ‘first’ would be shared equally among them.

Unfortunately, for all their confidence, it seemed there had been a flaw somewhere. They did not fly like birds. They flew more like rocks, landing in an ignominious and rather painful heap at the base of the largest fig tree in the gardens.  

Ingo groaned as he tried to extricate himself from the tangle of broken wings and cousins.