She stood before him, pale and trembling, and fighting hard not to show it. As the wizened old man spoke, he watched her eyes instead, grey as rain on the sea. The pale sunspots on her sharp nose stood out against her bloodless skin. Her chin was held high like the prow of a mighty craft, proud but unhaughty. She had refused to bend. Tell me, little bird, is it better to bend, or to break? Her eyes flashed, lightning over the sea, as if she had read the thought in his. He understood pride—as well he understood his brother—though he did not afford the luxury. To coax the wounded eagle to hand, the falconer must respect and show it veneration, not pity the predator torn from the skies. He smiled at her. She blinked, and he saw her jaw tighten, as if bighting back instinct or riposte.
"Do not misunderstand him, lord," she solicited stiffly. "It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer… for those who desire to be healed." A true member of the royal class, she defended the honour of her envoy, however ungratefully. A queen who would rule for the good of her people, each person, as Théoden had, as his father had once, long ago before the Shadow claimed his mind and devoured his hope. Her pale lips parted once more, and tortured words escaped, brutal in their honesty, and he could see just how much each word cost her pride, a hidden grimace etched behind her face. "But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged." And here her voice nearly broke, and she took the measure of a breath to steel it. "I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on."
So proud, little bird, to let the wind batter you down rather than bend your course for its whims. Her face was cold and hard, shielded—if nothing was hoped for, in turn there could be no disappointment, nor betrayal. She wished for death, the only thing promised any mortal, and yet it had refused her. Death may take you when it will, may take us all, soon enough. When power has been stolen from you, would you extinguish your very life, to grasp again for a moment the only semblance of power that is yours to command? You were born to fly free. He sent the Warden back to his post, leaving the two of them, a sun-bronzed second-son of Steward's blood, a death-pale Shieldmaiden, daughter of a line of prideful kings. She was bleeding, he could see, if it could be said that souls had blood. In one of lesser stature, she might have been screaming. Certainly, she should be dead, could not see why she should linger in a world that shunned all she was, had stolen everything she had ever cared to love from her. Faramir knew despair all too well, watched as it filled his footprints, a dark beast stalking prey, a black shadow never seen. He had kept its all-devouring clutches at bay, just barely, because there was no one else. So, too, had she been the only one, the veil between the guttering candle and the rampant night. But he did not begrudge her her overthrow, if so it could be called. Others than she had collapsed far sooner, with far less provocation. It in no way diminished her in his eyes, to see her white aura tinged with the greys and blacks of desolation and hopelessness. For were there truly, truly any without the stain of Shadow on their soul? Mithrandir, perhaps. But this wounded eagle was no wizard, unearthly protector. Of earth she was, the shield of those without, but she was battered now, broken down in the defence of others. He would heal her if he could.