Strands of hair fall red like blood upon black stone, and Fingon’s hands don’t shake the same way that Maedhros isn’t trembling. Which is to say that neither of them does, but it is a careful, arduous exercise of restraint and bitten tongues.

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In the aftermath of Thangorodrim, not everything falls back into place easily. But Fingon is nothing if not patient, and if giving Maedhros what he needs means silencing his own demons, well—there is no one that Fingon would rather do it for.

The firelight splays golden across them, and he listens to Curufin's breathing

Maitimo had allowed it, his eyes dark and knowing, even as it was a gamble. There is only one person who is known to wear gold in their hair like this; there is only one thing that wearing someone’s token means.

Much the same way that a crown signifies allegiance, Findekáno thinks, as Maitimo kneels in front of their grandfather’s throne.

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The copper circlet Maitimo is crowned with is a work of art. He finds that he likes it much better on another's brow.