Some time had passed since their encounter in the catacombs, and while Gilraen had sworn she wouldn't speak to Eomer in a personal capacity again, she found herself lingering by his door, delaying the act of actually knocking for as long as she could. It had been almost two months, and their conversations had been entirely limited. As few words as possible as quickly as possible, anything that meant they could get away from each other. This time, though, it wasn't going to be that simple.

Paralysed with anxiety, she knew she only had moments to knock and enter before she was discovered by a servant – but the anxiety was nothing compared to what would happen if she wasn't to speak to Eomer. She raised her knuckles to the door, knocking lightly, hoping in the back of her mind that he wouldn't hear her. Then she could pretend he was not there, go back to her quarters and crawl into bed to feel miserable for the rest of the day. She wasn't so lucky, however. "Enter," his voice called from the other side. Gilraen took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to find some kind of composure before finally opening the door and entering.

Eomer looked up from his writing desk, his face turning from pleasant to disappointed almost immediately. She didn't know who she was expecting, but it obviously wasn't her. "What is it?" He asked, looking back to his work. So this was how that felt, she thought. It wasn't nice at all. At least now she knew for sure that she'd succeeded in hurting whatever feelings he may have had those two months ago.

"There's..." she paused, trying desperately to keep her usual air about her, despite the way she was wringing her hands. "I need to tell you something."

"And you are here," he replied, his voice blunt. "So make it quick, I have many letters to write."

Gilraen clenched her jaw. She was hoping that would make it clear the subject wasn't official business, but apparently she'd failed in that. It wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to her that day, though. "I've been doing some counting of the days," she began trying her best to stall for time as she could. She still had no idea how to tell him what she'd come to discover.

He grunted. "Counting the days until you take your leave from here, I assume. If you're here to ask I write for your reassignment, I would be pleased to oblige."

"...No," she said, feeling the sting of his jibe particularly sharply. "I've been doing some counting of the moon."

"That's wonderful. It changes month to month. Don't tell me this is news to you."

Squeezing her eyes shut, Gilraen silently cursed him for not understanding her hint. He'd left her with no choice. There was no easy way for her to say this now. "When I say the moon, I mean..." she paused, trying to think of the least painful choice of words. "...I mean to say I've been counting the days of my moon's cycle and..." she felt her voice quiver and her breath catch when she noticed he'd stopped writing. Now he was listening. "...I haven't... it... it hasn't..."

Slowly, he turned in his seat to face her, and the look of fear on his face struck so much terror into her that she couldn't help but to choke on her own composure, tears welling in her eyes. Not tears of joy, mind you. Tears of shame, of embarrassment. "...Gilraen..." he mumbled, his eye wide as she stood there, wringing her hands desperately, tears escaping down her face. She wasn't a pretty woman when she cried, her lips went all red and puffy and her face was so translucent that whenever she went red you could see the veins in her cheeks.

"...I'm with child." She was so unsure how he'd react that she was visibly shaking where she stood. Her mind leapt to the worst possible conclusion: he was going to throw her out and on to the street, deny the child, deny even knowing her, probably. She'd be expelled from the Scholars – there was no way they'd excuse this – and she'd have nothing. Her entire life was in the hands of the man who sat across from her, the man who she didn't even want a child with in the first place, who was staring at her in what could have been terror. She wondered if this was the first time it had happened to him, or at least the first time he'd been confronted with the possibility of a bastard child.

He stood from his chair, striding to her so suddenly that she instinctively stepped back, but not before he could take hold of her wrist. She'd opened her mouth to scream, but Eomer pulled her to his chest before he could. He was... embracing her. Her head against his chest, his hand stroking her hair. Eomer held her closely, and it was this that made her crumble in to him. All her dignity was gone now anyway, as far as she was concerned. What harm could crying on a King's shirt possibly do?

"I'm sorry," she wept. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault."

"Don't be sorry," he replied, glad she couldn't see the uncertainty and fear in his eyes from where her head rested. He was as scared as she was right now, the only difference being that he'd had a whole lifetime of practice at hiding it. There was so much to consider now.

"I don't know what to do," she whimpered. "I didn't even want to tell you, but I can't exactly hide it for long."

"Shhh," he leant down and kissed the top of her head as options rushed his mind. He could send her away and into hiding until the child was born. There'd surely be a farmer in his lands that could take her and not ask questions. Then they could both come out of this with unscathed reputations. If she hadn't been so dedicated to her life as a Scholar, this would have been much easier. He could have had her married to one of his men. Pass off the child as theirs. He could, realistically, have married her himself. No. No he couldn't. Not to her. She wouldn't want him, anyway. He could, of course, deny the child...

She gave a shudder in his arms. No. He couldn't do that. They may not have been entirely amicable, but she was going to be the mother of his child, no matter how he went about it. He couldn't deny her. No matter how badly he'd wanted revenge for his own bruised pride at times, he couldn't bring himself to that cruelty. "We'll find a way to get through this," he assured her.

Having calmed down, she sat on the edge of his bed beside him, her eyes still red and puffy. Eomer gave a long exhale. "And I cannot entice you into marrying one of my men?" he asked her. "You'll be taken care of, the child will have their mother in their life. They'll be legitimate as far as everyone else is concerned."

"No," she shook her head. "I cannot marry if I wish to remain a Scholar... I don't know how I'll hide this from them."

"We can always hide you," he suggested. "Send you somewhere in my lands. Somewhere safe. You can have the child in secret. You won't have to leave Rohan, so the Scholars would never find out. Of course, that leaves us with the question of what to do with the child..."

She nodded. "Someone could arrange for it to be adopted," she offered. "It is not uncommon."

"We can't guarantee they'll go somewhere... gentle, though."

"Any life is better than the life of a bastard born to two parents who weren't... ready. It would be best for everyone concerned, I suppose."

Eomer gave a nod. "Then I will make arrangements."

Gilraen quickly glanced to him, her tone taking a turn for the urgent. "But don't tell them the child is yours. Say it's someone else's. Anyone else's." He watched her in silence for a moment. While, in truth, it would be best if no one knew the King was expecting a bastard, he couldn't help but wonder if that was the only contributing factor. If he were to be honest, had Gilraen been any other woman, he would have tried to marry her there and then. He may have even been excited. He was always fond of the idea of fatherhood, but in better circumstances.

But she wasn't any other woman. She was a stubborn, frustrating Scholar – an apparently fertile one. "And you would not marry me? Not even for the sake of the child?" He wasn't surprised by Gilraen's response: a cold, unimpressed glare. "...I thought not." Not that he'd ever actually ask her, but it was still his child and he couldn't help but entertain the idea of fatherhood. Would that have been so bad? He wouldn't have to love Gilraen to take her as a wife. There were mistresses for that. And the idea of a child of his own, a family? It would almost be worth marrying such a dull person. But Gilraen would never agree to that.

"I..." she exhaled, standing from her bed. "I should go. If anyone notices I've been here this long, they'll start talking."

"Of course." He gave a nod. "If you need anything..." Eomer stopped himself short. She could ask him for anything now, of course. This situation permitted that. But it was a half hearted gesture, and an obvious one at that. There was little he could offer her to make it any better, and even if there was, she was far too proud to ask him.

Gilraen gave a nod. "Of course." Moving to the door, she paused, her hand resting on the handle. "...Thank you for your kindness."

"I'm as responsible as you," he replied, although part of him didn't want to believe that, no matter how true it was. His pride insisted she'd lured him, seduced him – but this wasn't the time to listen to that. "Did you expect otherwise?"

"...I don't know."

How to ruin your character's life in one chapter.