Aging, even for an elf, wasn't an easy thing. Much less showing it. And Maedhros hadn't aged a bit, though he seemed...whole again. Maglor saw the two hands, the lack of scars he'd come to know as well as his own. Better.

But that voice was the same. Just as battered and brittle and painfully familiar. He drew himself up, scarred hand curling self-consciously in on itself, and he took a few uncertain steps closer, leaving his sword forgotten on the ground.

"...Yes." What was left of him.