‘Come to the stable, Vanwe. To my quarters. You can see to my ankle there if you wish. I’ve no desire to have it be a topic of general conversation in the Inn tonight.’
Derufin sighed, if nothing else she could wrap his ankle tightly as Cook had done, perhaps put a poultice on it. He could feel his boot getting tighter by the minute as the offending joint swelled up and pushed against its confinement.
‘Do me a favor, if you will. Cook is just parceling out her apple crisp. Bring me a dish, with some clotted cream to spoon on it, and I’ll let you heal both my ankles if you wish.’ He winked at her with a half smile. ‘You can tell Cook it’s for you – that should garner a few points with her.’
He smiled widely at his joke, his small attempt at humour meeting only the reserved assessment of her clear grey eyes. ‘Just playing, little bird,’ he said gently, his grey eyes playing over the solemn features of her face. He shifted his weight, easing the pressure on his left leg. ‘Seriously, though, I have a certain desire for some sweets.’ He reached forward unconsciously and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, letting his hand fall when he realized the liberty he’d taken.
Derufin stepped back, his brow furrowed, collecting himself. ‘The stable, then, if you will, Vanwe . . . when you have time . . .’ He turned and made for the door, slowly, the thump . . . thump of his walking stick sounding loud in his ears.
[ July 24, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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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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