Summary: Aragorn reflects on the name Eomer gave him.
Wingfoot, Éomer calls me, would that I indeed had winged feet! My limbs are sore weary and aching, while even my Elven made boots cannot prevent every painful blister.
My heart pounds and my lungs feel as if they might burst. Every muscle and sinew throbs and aches.
Nothing would I like better than to lie down, sleep, and give my body the rest it craves, but I must run onward weary mile after weary mile. While any glimmer of hope remains, I must follow the trail until its ending.
I cannot abandon Merry and Pippin to torture and death.