His skin is pale and smooth. I know every inch, for I've felt it under my fingers and under my lips - every inch that is not covered over by the metal that replaced certain portions of it. Like the metal, it never changes, no matter how many times it is torn or pierced or burned away. The Dark restores him, and leaves behind no trace of any distress.
He bears but one scar over his body, despite all the injuries that have been inflicted upon him, and it is only a small, rough mark upon the bottom of his chin; a mark left over from the years when the Dark did not yet run through him, I can only assume. Perhaps it was from his childhood - an accident while playing outside on rocky ground, or even an unwelcome souvenir from the days when a little boy was first learning to walk. It is strange, if only for being so ordinary.
My own marks are numerous, gathered in battles throughout the years, but I don't expect that he will let me see another, for he uses the same power that keeps his flesh from corruption to mend mine. He has taught me to do the same, though I am not so good at it as he. Marks upon the flesh, however, are not the only scars a man can bear, and I imagine that with each stinging word, sharp as the edge of a blade, I gather scars still.
As for him, I can only wonder what injuries drew him so tight around his soul, and left his eyes so impenetrable.