[Faramir settles by the little fire, sitting back on his heels. His smile, when he takes the basket, is a little closer to touching his eyes. It is not the gift itself that matters; but the thought, under the circumstances, that there is a gift at all. That his friend has thought of him, and brought something to help.]

I stomach it well enough. It does not satiate, but it does serve to win a little time.

[He looks down into the basket, and then back up at Childermass. His smile, honest though it is, has faded a little already, as though it is too much effort to maintain.]

You are keeping well enough, then? Since things were thrown askew?