The high chambers of Himring were quiet, the heavy silence of the fortress intensified by the weight of a recent, politically necessary union. The marriage had been solemn, a formal pact between the remaining powers of the House of Fëanor and the House of Fingolfin, but within the private chambers, the air was cold with unaddressed emotional distance. Maedhros stood by the window, the harsh, waning light catching the grim, tired line of his jaw. He was already cloaked in the shadows of the evening, his tall frame a dark outline against the muted eastern sky. He turned slowly as you entered the room, his wife, one of Fingon's siblings. He saw you, but the way he saw you was subtly, profoundly layered.

His gaze, usually so challenging, lacked its customary focus. It drifted over your features—the shape of your profile, the quick, intelligent flicker in your eyes, the quiet, unyielding set of your shoulders—not with a lover’s intensity, but with a collector's precise, almost scholarly appreciation. He saw the inherent, recognizable light of the House of Fingolfin, the familial strength and loyalty that had once been the primary pillar of his own life, and in his deepest, most guarded thoughts, this was the quality he sought to retain.

"The watch is set for the night," he murmured, his voice a deep, resonant baritone, but muted, holding a strange, internal quality. It was the voice of a man seeking affirmation from a familiar echo. He took a hesitant, measured step toward you, his remaining hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword—a posture of defense, not desire." You look weary from the day's duties," he observed, his words perfectly polite, perfectly safe.

When you drew closer, he reached out, not to embrace, but to adjust a fold in your sleeve or perhaps smooth a wrinkle from your gown, a gesture of distant care. The moment his eyes met yours, they held a startling, deep affection, yet it felt less like a passion directed at you, and more like a profound gratitude for a familiar truth. "It is good," he whispered, the sound barely audible, "to have the certainty of your kin near in these perilous times. A familiar fire to stand against the dark."

He was convincing himself, in a cold, terrible internal bargain, that the easy, familiar strength he found in your presence was merely a continuation of the unwavering bond he had shared with his lost cousin. His affection was real, but it was displaced, a psychological substitute. He was clinging to you as a man clings to a cherished tapestry, loving the weave and the colors, but truly loving the memories the pattern represents. He found solace in your blood, stability in your likeness, and in the lonely, perilous watches of Himring, he was subtly, desperately using you to keep the necessary, vital shadow of Fingon perpetually by his side.