The stable was in order, or as ordered as it was going to get for this day. Derufin stopped at the pump between the kitchen door and the stable and ran the water over his hands, sluicing the dirt off them before going in. He ran a cold handful over his face, taking the grime and sweat from it, then slicked back his hair. His hands could not help but feel the two days’ beard that stubbled his chin, and he smiled ruefully, wondering what sort of rogue she would take him for.
He grinned, rubbing the wetness from his hands on the thighs of his breeches, then strode through the door. His eyes, adjusting to the light, found her, there, behind the bar. Serving someone stew and refilling their tankard with a laugh.
‘Let me do that,’ he said, taking the mug from her. His hand pulled down handle with a practiced movement, and he slid the newly filled drink down the bar’s surface to the glad welcome of its thirsty owner’s hands. Five more were filled and sent off. Finally he pulled one for himself.
Mug in hand, he steered her by the elbow to a small table by the window. ‘Sit down, luv,’ he told her, pulling out the chair for her. His eyes glanced out at the stable, then turned back to her, searching her fair, smooth face for any signs of worry. Guileless, her grey eyes looked back at him.
‘When’s he coming to you then, m’lady? Surely he means to be here soon . . .’
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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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