A mask that shatters, blown to pieces when he steps in, shyly hesitant and slightly suspicious the way it would be proper for a homeless man being brought into someone's home, vanishing in an instant when he sees the painting on the wall.

A white city with a tall tower rising against the mountain in the background.

It could be any fantasy city, the image abstract enough to be anything and anywhere, but oh Maglor knows that tower, he knows the shape of that city, he knows that mountain, and the Music crests triumphantly HOME.

It isn't right, it can't be right, England is his home now, it is where he laid his heart, he can't go back, he can never go back, that road is closed to him forever and he is content here, he is!.

A stumbling step forward before he can master himself, pulling shattered masks firmly about himself, France can't know, it must be a trick of his eyes, that's all, it's nothing, it's nothing.

"I... I should. I should go. I... such a place is... is not fit for such as I"