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By day, Maedhros blazes like a white flame, as though the crucible of Thangorodrim burned him not only without but within as well. Allies tremble before him and orcs flee at the sight of his face. His right hand is severed, in pursuit of preserving his life, but his left hand wields his sword twice as fiercely as the former ever did. Fire is the purifier of gold, the refiner of silver, the temperer of iron, and in the eyes of Beleriand, Russandol has emerged from his trials with all impurities stripped away and forged anew: flawless as polished steel.
By night, Fingon alone sees him for what he is: no burnished mirror, but a patchwork of flayed and wretched skin. Whip-lashes line his thighs and calves like grim tally marks. Chain-gashes bracelet his ankles and remaining wrist. Morgoth’s bite marks and brands adorn the arc of his collarbone. Burns, pink and shiny and puckered, stretch along the curves of his hips and rib cage. In light’s absence, Maitimo knows himself no incandescent blaze, only ashes. But Finno kisses every inch of discolorated flesh, his head bowed in worship, and in the dark, his hair-ribbons glow golden, like molten embers.