Derufin’s nose crinkled as he looked down at this tunic. ‘Yes, a bath, most definitely! I shall have to look into that . . . later.’ He took another drink of his ale. ‘From Gondor, you say.’ he said, picking up their conversation. ‘I have traveled through that country many times, beautiful in its diversity, don’t you think? What part are you from?’ The two talked on, pleasant conversation to pass a winter’s evening.
His gaze roamed the room at times, watching the interplay of people there. Mostly his eyes followed the figure of the Innkeeper as she moved about, speaking to this one and to that. He smiled to see her gather the sleeping child in her arms, her head bent low, her lips moving with some quiet words for him.
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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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