Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
A/N: A tad short this time, and I'm sorry, but the actual plot will get going again soon.
She was watching him; or at least, Éowyn had decided to take up temporary residence in the tent where he was being held. To all intents and purposes she was ignoring him, focused on a rather shabby-looking book and fiddling with a ring on a chain around her neck, but every now and again he saw her eyes flick sideways.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, then?" His throat was dry, and his voice, correspondingly, sounded as if he was a hundred years old and taken with the ague, to boot.
Her head turned fractionally towards him. "This is my camp. I may go where I like." She stood, swiftly, eyes narrowing as she watched him, but she did nothing but offer him a drink of water, holding the waterskin to his lips as he drank rather than letting him have the use of his hands. "You are not as all as I expected you to be."
Such a strange comment that was coming from his captor that he could not think of a response for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged, saying "I hate to have disappointed you. What were you expecting?"
Another pause, while she stared at something behind his head. "I was expecting someone who would be easier to hate."
It was an oddly honest answer, and he felt compelled to ask "Why?" After a moment, he added "Hate is not necessary here. Or do the Rohirrim not fight against those they only mildly dislike?"
"When my father died, they buried him on the battlefield." Her eyes were half-closed, her voice soft. "They brought back only his sword and shield. The sword was given to Éomer – though at the time he could barely lift it. The shield was given to me."
"An old Rohirric custom?" he asked, wondering exactly how old she had been at the time – perhaps as young as he had been when he lost his mother.
"No." She bowed her head, her voice rich and dark and full of sorrow, and not for the first time Faramir thought that if things had been different, he might have called her beautiful. "A relatively new one. The point being, princeling, that I have sworn to protect my people, and I will. You are merely the means to an end, nothing more."
"Then there is no need to hate me." he said softly, and she drew back as if his words burned.
"Perhaps not." She stood, and by her tone of voice Faramir guess that she considered the conversation over; the lamp she'd brought with her to aid her reading flickering and sending shadows dancing across her skin as she shifted, preparing to go. In that moment Faramir changed his mind, although nothing, he supposed, would come of it – she was not beautiful like Lothíriel was, or as he remembered his mother being; but she was beautiful. "Still," she added, interrupting his contemplations, "I think it would be easier if I hated you."