[Video] Voidtrecker's history

[tinkerheart]

From: Storage.
To: All train.

[Fëanor has changed into regular Voidtrecker uniform but somehow it doesn't make him look less regal when he starts his address.]

Fellow Voidtreckers!

This Fëanor. I need to speak to all of you on the matter that is both dire and urgent. Each platform leaves us with our numbers growing and diminishing at the same time. Each time some come and some go. And yet we have no record of it. No way of remembering those that were here once but are no longer.

[Fëanor pauses, he looks straight into the camera for a few moments before continuing.]

I say we change that.
I say it matters that we are here.
I say it mattered that those that left were here too. They made a difference, they deserve being remembered. So do we.

We know there were Voidtreckers before us and yet there is no trace of them besides one personal log with no context. As if they never existed.

I say We deserve better.

It’s not even difficult. All we need is will and a little effort. We have a working printer and at least one working camera. We can take pictures of everyone who is on the train now. We have artists who can draw those that are no longer here. We can write their names and their stories so they won’t be lost to obscurity.

Comments

[utulien_aure]

[Fingon does not respond. He doesn't trust himself to do so.

A few hours later, though, a series of sketches appear at Feanor and Nerdanel's cabin door. Maedhros and Maglor, from their youth in Valinor through to the fifth century of the First Age, with a final few which must be modeled on their time on the train.

Attached is a note.

I have no interest in offering myself to your project. But I have loved these two all my life, and whatever else I may say of you I know you love them as well.

If these assist, I am content. If not, throw them aside; it will not hurt their subjects either way.]

[tinkerheart]

[When Fëanor picks up the neatly folded pieces of paper with a note attached he suspects nothing. Least of all what they are. When finds out, he leaves the cabin. Only to return when he is forced to by the train's own system of teleporting people back to their own cabins in the early morning. Whoever wants to find him before that, they will be unsuccessful.

It was obvious that of all present it would be his nephew to see through his polished sentences and correctly identify what this whole charade is all about. And yet he still did not see it coming ...

He should have spoken to him. There were millions of occasions. Though he's certain that Fingon wouldn't want to talk to him. Yet it still feels wrong that he at least didn't try. He should have done something. But then what would he was supposed to say? That he's sorry? Of course, he is but how it does even matter? "I'm sorry I left you to die. I didn't mean to." That's not only the weakest apology in existence it's also a blatant lie. He meant to. He left them on purpose. A wrong, cruel and vile purpose. How does one even begin to make amends for that?

And yet he cannot simply do nothing now. For in that Fingon was right, he loves his sons. He always had, even if now it's a little too late to realize he's rarely shown it enough and for all the suffering he caused then it's not difficult to get quite the opposite impression. That he valued some things more than them. Now that he had a second chance, here in this strangest of places, he still feels he hasn't done enough.

So in the late morning, a note appears on the door of Fingon's cabin, addressed to him and containing a single sentence.

Thank you.]