Derufin grimaced as she asked him this question, and he turned his head, gazing South, for a moment. In a quiet voice he answered. ‘I once dwelt in Ethring, in the Ringló Vale. But now my home is wherever my feet can take me.’ And as far from that place as they will. he thought to himself.
‘You look to be about twenty. Am I right?’ He smiled at her, remembering the carefree exuberance of his youth at that age. ‘It was at your age when I left for last time. I am to be thirty two soon. A scant handful of years that seem a life time ago now.’ He looked at her appraisingly, wondering if she understood that that was how it was when one took up the life of wandering.
He stood up, and surveyed their handywork. The last of the shingles were in place and the stable looked as if it would weather many more storms now. ‘Let’s go down and have something to eat and drink.’ he said, extending a hand up to her. ‘We’ve done a good job, and I could stand something to take care of this parched throat of mine.’
Derufin descended the ladder first and held it for her as she made her way down. He took her hammer and the now empty bag of nails from her. Shouldering the ladder, he waved her off toward the Inn, saying he would join her if she wished when he had put things away.
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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