Derufin smiled as he watched her in the familiar surroundings of the Inn. The way she seemed the center of that which swirled about her. She was so much at ease in her skin and bones, effortless in her actions. He was captured by her grace once again.
Guileless, Piosenniel grinned at him when she saw him. Her grey eyes glinting with the old mischief, daring him to step close to her. He groaned, both dreading and desiring this moment. She had come back . . . but not to him . . . as he had imagined a thousand times in a thousand different ways. She had come back as his friend, as she would always be.
He must remember that.
‘About your horse, Mistress Piosenniel,’ he began, putting an expression of chagrin and contrition on his face. She stopped his mock confession with a laugh and held out her hands to him.
‘Come, say hello to Mithadan again,’ she urged him, her hand light on his arm as they walked to where he stood, speaking with Beren. A few pleasantries, and then she was drawing him over to where a slender, dark-haired woman stood, speaking with Aman . . .
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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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