All signs of how the volcano's fire had eaten away at his robes, his flesh, his hair had been erased. He was as he had been that day when he stood on the very brink of death and despair. His robes were worn, but clean, and his fiery hair was free to catch the wind wildly save for two small braids that joined at the back of his head. He had a sword at his hip and sparse pieces of jewelry - a ring on his only hand - and necklace hidden under his robes.

Maglor's eyes were not deceiving him, though it might seem so as Maedhros faltered, unsure if he should approach; if he should speak.

"...yes." he could not stop staring at his brother, "I thought no more than a day had passed since I -" he swallowed reflexively, mouth dry, "But you have aged."