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.”