Chapter Text
Her greatest shame was not that she looked weak to them. Weak, she, who had slain the Witch King of Angmar and five hundred orcs to save Minas Tirith! Despite her best attempts to ignore it, she could sense the pity in their eyes as she limped past, her arm bound uselessly to her chest. It did not burn her as much as knowing they were right. Despite her heroism, she was broken, left behind, and denied the glory of facing the armies of the Black Gate against all odds. Most of all, she hated how he knew, the Steward of Gondor, and how they recognized each other as kindred spirits of weakness.
She spent her days staring across the plain, hoping to see troops straggle home, dreading to see troops swarm forth. Often, she would walk through the gardens of the House of Healing, seeking for hidden viewpoints where she would not be found. After spending two weeks there, she had discovered three or four which she used sporadically, taking care to enter and exit unobserved so as to preserve the sanctity of her private spaces.
So it was a great shock when, one spring morning with a chilling dew sparkling on the white stone, she brushed aside errant branches of a bush to slip into the cavity beyond and found the Steward, already seated on a bench—her bench—staring off to the East. Their eyes met and immediately she looked away into a curtsey, not desiring to see his pity or his familiarity. "Steward Faramir, my apologies."
"Wait—"
She stopped, half-turned to leave, frozen by his urgent whisper and the passing of nearby voices.
As the voices faded, he spoke again. "I desire to keep these spaces secret as much as you, my lady." It occurred to her that she had never heard his voice before. It was a gentle tenor, wavering and marred by the horrors of war and leadership. Despite her bitterness, she felt an unwilling stirring of pity herself.
"I appreciate your sincerity, Steward." Unfortunately, her voice was not as harsh as she hoped it would be. It could almost be taken as genuine.
The Steward was intelligent enough to see both her ruse and her unintentional sympathy. He inclined his head slightly, gracing her with a smile that reached his mouth only. She could not help but wonder what it would be like to see a smile to reach his eyes before hastily bringing her attention back to his words. "—not wish to disturb you. I have been at this post for quite some time, and would welcome relief to watch Mordor for me. You must only promise to appraise me of any news you see."
"Of course." She dipped into another curtsey, and when she raised her eyes, he had stood from the bench. Their eyes met for a long moment before she realized she was standing in front of the exit. Hastily, she backpedalled, allowing him to pass by her, away deeper into the garden. As the air settled around her and the brush of his robes faded from her skin, she sank onto the bench, eyes unfaithfully straying away from Mordor, back towards the House of Healing.