Their backs were turned to him as he approached with quiet steps. She was bent over a piece of paper on the table before her, and her sure quick hand kept time to the rhythm of her voice as she sketched and talked quietly to the boy beside her. He could see how the young boy focused on her drawings and how he often turned to watch her face, as the story spilled from her lips to the waiting paper.
Clear light from a window on the western wall fell softly on the curling cascades of her long black hair. It caught the fine ridge of her cheek, and the smooth plane of her brow as she turned briefly to regard the boy. Derufin’s breath caught in his throat at her grace and at the quiet dignity of her countenance.
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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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