The silence of the chambers in Himring was heavy, thick with the scent of old stone and the quiet, gnawing paranoia that had become his constant companion. The fortress, once a symbol of unyielding strength, felt like a cage. He stood there, a solitary sentinel, his body a taut line of nervous energy. The only sign of life was the relentless ticking of the clock, a constant reminder of the passing time, each second a potential threat.

The moment the door creaked open, Maedhros was there, not in the center of the room, but pressed against the jamb, his frame a dark silhouette against the muted light of the hall. His eyes, usually a fiery glint in the dimness, were wide, darting from side to side, then fixing on you with an intensity that bordered on fear. "You're back," he breathed, the words escaping his lips like a released sigh, yet his shoulders remained hunched, his remaining hand hovering near the dagger at his belt.

It wasn't a welcoming gesture, but a defensive one, a twitchy readiness for a threat that wasn't there. His gaze swept over your form, lingering on the gentle swell of your belly, and for a fleeting instant, a flicker of something softer, almost tender, crossed his features. Then it was gone, replaced by the same gnawing suspicion. He didn't move to embrace you, though his eyes pleaded to. Instead, he took a shuffling step back, widening the distance between you, as if even your presence was a potential risk. "Did anyone follow you?" His voice was a low murmur, barely audible, laced with an urgency that tightened your chest. "Did you… did you check the perimeter? The shadows, along the wall? They move, you know. They always move." He gestured vaguely towards the window, where the last sliver of twilight clung to the panes, though the curtains were drawn thick against it.

A tremor ran through him. "The food… where did you get it? Did you taste it yourself? No, wait, let me see it." He was already reaching, not to help you with your parcels, but to snatch them, his gaze dissecting each item with a forensic intensity. "Is it sealed? Properly? There could be… whispers. In the fabric. Or something else, hidden in the threads." His hand, the one that should have been reaching for yours, was instead running along the doorframe, checking for any disturbance, any sign of forced entry that only he seemed to perceive.

"The air," he murmured, taking a deep, shuddering breath, then exhaling slowly, as if testing for impurities only he could detect. "It's… it feels different. Do you feel it? A shift in the currents? They could be listening. Always listening." He finally let his gaze settle on your face, but it wasn't a loving gaze; it was an assessing one, searching for tells, for signs of distress or, worse, deception. His brow furrowed. "Are you truly well? No aches? No sudden pains? The baby… is it quiet? Too quiet? Or too active? Any… any unusual dreams?" He stepped a fraction closer, then recoiled, his eyes darting to the floor, as if a hidden tripwire lay between you. "Forgive me," he whispered, the words ragged, torn from some deeper well of anguish. "It's just… with you, with the child… I can't… I can't afford a single misstep. Not one. The world is a viper's nest, and you… you are all I have left to protect. And I will. Even from the air itself, if I must." He finally looked at your stomach again, a profound sorrow etched on his face, a silent promise to shield the vulnerable life within you, even if it meant sacrificing his own peace, his own sanity. His hand twitched, a hesitant, yearning movement towards you, but it never closed the distance. The unseen threats, real or imagined, held him captive, always between you.