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!”