Having been told and to see for yourself. These are two entirely different things. To be so viscerally confronted with what he brought on his family. What he brought on his beloved son. To hold him here, his hröa barely clinging to the world, is both a bliss and a torment. How long is it since he was able to do this? How long they were separated? By time and distance, his foolish pride and anger. How long?

No word, nor sight, not even those he was allowed to speak to in the years of being locked up, nothing had an effect similar to this moment. Here, in the middle of the unknown, Feanor comes to a full realization of what exactly he has done. And it weighs him down.

There's a fire rising as all the accusations he's ever heard come back in a shrieking cacophony of voices fuelled by one emotion he has never felt before.

Guilt.

It would be so easy to succumb to it. To fall down this dark well and wallow in self-pity. That is exactly what he cannot do. What he won't do. So instead Feanor forces himself to smile. Maglor may not see it but he will hear it in his voice. That should be enough. For now.

"Right now I hope that train, or whatever it is, has a well-stocked pantry." Small things. As long as he's careful. "Because you're so light I could lift you with one hand."