He said ..." A pause. He cleared his throat. "He said that pity was the only love I could hope for."
He saw her swallow, blink. "Oh, Akka ..."
Of all the world, only she truly understood. Of all the world.

Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn!

And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.

History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.

Darkness shields as much as it threatens.

There’s faith that knows itself as faith, Proyas, and there’s faith that confuses itself for knowledge. The first embraces uncertainty, acknowledges the mysteriousness of the God. It begets compassion and tolerance. Who can entirely condemn when they’re not entirely certain they’re in the right? But the second, Proyas, the second embraces certainty and only pays lip service to the God’s mystery. It begets intolerance, hatred, violence.