"What?" Èowyn asks with a moment's delay, bewildered. Not by the question, but the thought that any of Faramir's actions could be seen as encroaching in any way. Certainly not in a way comparable to Wormtongue's vileness. The mere idea is preposterous, and she draws in a quiet but sharp breath, squeezing his hand with hers as tight as she dares. "No. Béma, no. Faramir, I would never think that. You couldn't."

But soon, she thinks she must speak with complete honesty. Even so, she never once thinks of the kiss to her brow last night, nor any of the ones to her hand-- she can only think of one thing from the early days, and even that is negligible. "When we met, I was short with you. My discontentment was not of your making, but you spoke to me of my beauty that day the Warden brought me to see you, and I... grew wary that maybe that was all you saw. It was unjust of me to think so even for a moment, and you disabused me of such fool notion swiftly. You have never disrespected me in such manner, and I know you will not. Pray, be at peace."