‘So, the sleeper awakes at last. Fortunate for you, you chose ‘Falmar’s stall. Her mistress is Elven, too.’ His grey eyes flickered with pleasant memories.
Derufin kept the patter going, soft phrases, soothing tones. He half expected her to bolt like a wild filly as she stood there before him, one hand clasping the wrist of the other. Her dress was rumpled, travel stained, and worn. Bits of straw clung to it. In the tangles of her hair were pieces of grey threads from the horse blanket he had placed over her.
‘May I be of some small service to you? I have some small skill with healing.’ He reached for her right hand gently, bringing it close for inspection. ‘You’re wrist, m’lady, have you injured it?’
He let it go, feeling her hesitancy at his touch . . .
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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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