It had been several weeks since Derufin had been at the Inn. His wanderings had taken him to the Emyn Beraid and a bit beyond, to Mithlond. But the White Towers were deserted and only looked out to an empty sea. And at the Havens, no fair ships were docked nor none seen coming or going from the Gulf of Lhun.
It was a melancholy journey, doing nothing to lift the sadness pushed safe behind his calm grey eyes. And now here he was, walking back up the same dusty path to the great green doors of the Dragon. He paused, hand on the handle, and thinking better of it, went back down the steps and turned his steps toward the stable.
A brief rest, and a wash up, then he would brave the cheerful atmosphere of the inn.
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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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