driftfleet | Open, Fleetwise, 001

Entry tags:

Open, Fleetwise, 001

Who: Fëanor and YOU!
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: HS Marsiva
When: Morning

[A hand reaches out to grasp a mechanical limb before grey eyes even blink open to stare suspiciously. Fëanor feels rested, energized even, despite the most recent long hours spent over the forge's fires working on his masterpiece.]

Who dares...?

[Awareness flickers through him and the elf pauses. He sits up from the bed, though doesn't immediately move to get off, nor release the robot's 'arm'. An impatient hand reaches up and shoves a lock of black hair that had gotten free of the loose braid back behind a pointed ear and he studies the robot a bit more closely.]

Do you have a name? Are you a thinking creature? [A pause and he absently hums, head tilting a little in thought.] I think not in the ways of Arda.

['Bot, be glad he has no tools on him.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

(He is ghostly pale, which makes his hair and freckles stand out all the more.)

...Father? (Where does he even begin? Scowling, he tries to change the transmission to...something else. Anything other than video. He doesn't want Fëanor to see him.

Yet he knows it's too late.)

[Unfortunately for Maedhros, just enough of a glimpse is caught to make the elf frown in confusion. The mechanical arm is finally released in favor of reaching for the communicator.]

Nelyafinwë? What has been done to you here to alter you so?

[Who must he kill for harming his firstborn?]

(He is not keen with technology, especially when stressed. Thus he puts the communicator a short distance away and turns his head.)

You look...young, Atar. Time fools us all by taking us from different...moments. I am over four thousand.

[The frown darkens.]

Do not turn from me.

[His Nelyo wouldn't. His firstborn was always the first he turned to if he needed something done when he was too busy to do it himself.]

I am as I am. There is no other way I can be.

Answer my question, Nelyo. I wish to know.

(He is ashamed of his scars - his burns. But he cannot deny Fëanor anything, truly. Slowly, he turns his head and reveals a face that has withstood torture and healed...as best as it could.)

I am sorry.

(His father needs him. He will need him more. Maedhros will be there for him - unquestioningly.)

There have been battles. I was captured by the Enemy and he did with my body as he pleased.

[His breath hisses out and fingertips touch the screen. Fury flares through him, burning hot and fierce.

Someone had hurt his child.]

...You survived.

[He hopes Maedhros did at least. Words which he intends to imply that is no small feat against any strong enough to catch and hold an elf.

His fingers slowly withdraw to clench in his lap.]

Has he been made to pay for what he did?

(That fury; that rage. He lets himself feel it. They share that flame and it is strange that Maedhros finds comfort in it.

But it is Fëanor. His father.)

Through that, yes. (He chooses his phrasing carefully.) He is one of the Valar. His brother has imprisoned him in the Void. Belatedly.

[Were he a dragon, not an elf, fire would be breathed and leaking from nose and ears. His eyes are pale with his fury and he nearly snarls.

One of the Valar had hurt his son.

A remembered rumor eases the tide of fury back, allowing intelligence to step in.]

The first of them? Melkor? He should have remained there until the end of days. [Yes. Just for what's been done to one elf ~~that he knows about~~. And?]

(There is love in those fierce words and Maedhros's ears color.)

We call him Morgoth for his foul deeds. He has an apprentice too - a Maiar that has been given many monikers for his deeds as well.

(Both of them toyed with him, scarred him, stripped away his grace and dignity. The Maedhros who entered Angband was not the Maedhros who was rescued on an Eagle's back.)

I agree. Many have died because of his deeds.

[Finrod's first line of thought is roughly- "Oh shit." There is a very high probability that this will result in chaos and he's completely aware of that. Still, family is family and, despite everything, he does still hold some amount of respect for Fëanor.

So, somewhat cautiously:]

Uncle?

[Yes, hello. Down here, on the communicator you are ignoring in favor of poking at poor innocent robots.]

Atroma knows not what they have brought upon themselves, I think.

[Simply put, Fëanor loved his sons with all that he was. He just goes overboard sometimes...

A scoff meets Maedhros' words and he folds his arms against his chest, legs bending comfortably at the knees and crossing, back stiffly straight.]

They deserve no names. I would go to Manwë and tell him to not release that darkness again. [But he can't, can he?]

(His lips twitch into the faintest of smiles.)

He has seen the truth of his brother. (Surely that is enough? Famous last words.) Father, what do you recall? What is your last memory?

[...Well he isn't wrong.

Robots are fascinating! They can move on their own and-

Fëanor glances down, finally letting go of the poor mechanical thing. Of all the nephews that could be here, of course he gets Finrod. He can think of less favored relatives, at least?]

Or perhaps they needed me so dear they finally acted.

[...Come on. This is Fëanor. He's special this way.]

[Congrats, Mae! You have mollified your father...a little. Which is A Feat.]

As long as the lesson is not forgotten. [He's watching you, Manwë.]

I have been spending some time in the forge of late. [too much time? naaaaaah.] I am sure I am close to success of my greatest work.

(Fire to temper fire? Who knew that could work?! Though, in Maedhros's case, his words are affectionate - not fiery. There are times he can find his calm in Fëanor's presence.)

Ah... (There is pain and he closes his eyes.) The...Silmarils?

Asleep or awake, he knows that voice, and with Maedhros here, he knows that the impossible no longer remains so. But even so his voice is so very small.

"Atarinya?"

[His gaze softens a little in wonder, followed by an abrupt little grin.]

Is that what they come to be called? [The light vanishes just as quickly when Maedhros' pain comes clear. Puzzled.]

...They have caused you grief. They were meant to bring light and joy...

Any child of Fëanor would know his voice in an instant. Regardless of when or how long it had been.

But why was his second son's voice so tiny now? Affection and concern touch the fire that was Fëanáro and he frowned at the communicator.

"I am here, little one." He had some parental skills. Sometimes. And monikers just slipped out sometimes, when his sons sounded like they needed them.

He hasn't been called that in.... he doesn't remember. He'd almost forgotten that Feanor could be gentle, and he cannot suppress the sob before he masters himself, turning the video on.

(He looks old, does Maglor, worn to the bone, the edges of madness and desperation lurking in the edges of his eyes, the faintest of silver at his temples)

"You...you are truly here?"

The sob seared him all the way through his heart.

Fëanor studied what he could see of his second son, worried frown clear. Silver of age. Old and exhausted. Those eyes had seen much suffering. Picking up the communicator, he slipped from the bed, suddenly restless.

"Yes. Where are you?" Touch was one sure way to prove he was real. Nothing else mattered.

Old habits, and obediently he reports (a military report, although Feanor asked as a father, not his commander)

"The Huntress, that is where I was assigned. Mae... Nelyafinwe and Findarato are here, they are on the Bishop. You will be on the Marsiva - in a few days, they will assign you to one of the fleet ships, wherever our kidnappers deem suitable. When they do, we will be able to visit with each other, perhaps ask to be assigned together."

His eyes glittered a little, listening and hearing but not entirely understanding. And that frustrated him. He stood still, not immediately giving in to the urge to pace helplessly. He can't get to his sons when they need him.

It gnawed at him.

"A few days." A promise. Once they were able to visit, he would find both of his sons, and his nephew perhaps. But his sons took priority.

"Yes." Maglor nods.

"There...you can trust the Lady Beverly, James Kirk, Apollo, the Lady Misty and the Lady Syeira. Young Alphonse is ... he is his world's equivalent of a loremaster, you will like him. Anyone from the Huntress - my shipmates are good people. And... if Syeira speaks to you... be kind?"

He nearly responded harshly before, for once, catching himself. There was something terribly fragile about Maglor. Old and mad and lonely and he found he could listen.

There were more important things than being told to be kind and being insulted by the insinuation he wasn't. That he could trust strangers.

So while his eyes remained narrow, there was a sense of restraint in the huff of a breath and shift of weight from one foot to the other. "You trust them... and think highly of them."

Maglor nods, willing his father to understand, not quite pleading. "Syeira...she's been hurt. I do not know her full tale, but... she hurts, and it was close kin who hurt her. She... she has been kind to me. She might... be angry at you. Please, she does not mean anything by it, if she is."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 8

Open, Fleetwise, 001

(Video)

(Video?)

(Video)

(Video)

(Video)

(Video)

(Video)

(Video)

(Video)

video

(Video)

(Video)

video

(Video)

(Video)

no subject

(Video)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject