elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

Again that flicker of confusion, of almost recognition, there and gone again and Maglor shrugs deferentially, every inch the vagrant on the street, surprised by the kindness of a stranger.

"Thank you sir, but only if you are certain. Most places probably won't accept a person like me. I really don't mind if you only spare a bit of cash."

Almost. Not quite.

France waved a hand, almost negligently. "I am. Unless you would prefer a hot shower and new clothes, I believe we may be near enough in size that you would fit some of my old clothes."

England would quite possibly throw a fit, if he learned of this generosity to one of his citizens. All the more reason to do it. "Consider it a gift of the day - for it is a beautiful day, yes?"

Maglor does not have to fake the confusion at that.

"Oh no, sir! I could never impose that way!"

Almost without noticing his English accent slips, ever so slightly, in his surprise, sliding to something much, much older.

"Your kindness does you credit, sir, but I would not wish to impose."

His heart clenched at the accent. So very, painfully familiar to that ever older self. France's own mask slipped for a second, letting Arafinwe peek through in ears and eyes. A hint of pointed ears peeked out beneath blond hair, blue eyes changing just a little, growing just a little paler before he regained his current self.

"It is no imposition," he managed, though the tone was no least earnest. He tilted his head a little, another smile thrown Maglor's way. "Sing me another song, if you wish to repay me, though I feel your company would be gift enough."

Again very real confusion, Maglor reacting as much to the glimpse of something other, a brush of something familiar as anything, and perhaps it is that which makes him nod slowly in agreement.

"I... I can do that. It seems a small enough payment sir. What do you wish to hear? I do know most of the more popular tunes on the radio."

France took a half step closer, relief mingling with the pleasure at the acceptance. He shook his head, smile stretching a little. "I'll decide later, if that is alright." Because what that older part of him desperately wishe to hear...should not be so lightly sung in his streets.

He ducked his head a little, a soft chuckle escaping before he swept a hand out in the direction he'd been walking before he'd heard that voice call to him. "This way."

Confusion hidden behind deference, and Maglor nods, still hesitant but almost instinctively trying to work out what it is that makes him want to follow, packing up his things and gathering the change he gained.

"Thank you again sir."

France waited patiently, suspicting the other would prefer being the only one to touch his possessions. And that was alright. Perhaps he was foolish to give in to the old ache, it would just make things harder later. But he couldn't help himself, and certainly wouldn't turn back now that he'd gained the other's cooperation.

It really wasn't even about England at all, though he expected he'd bring it up with the other nation later. Flaunt it in their usual bickering way.

When Maglor was ready, and those words of gratitude again expressed, he simply smiled again and shook his head before starting to lead the way. "There is no need. A voice like yours deserves to be cherished, be it English or non."

A little slip was forgiveable, right?

The slip back into French brings that flash of confusion again before Maglor can bury it. The Song is confusing about this one. Nation. Yes. But... And he follows without thinking, almost, needing to know why the Song also tells him familiar, familiar, safe, known, home.

"You flatter me, sir. I am no one special."

His hands swung back to clasp behind his back, and he walked with his head turned just enough so he could watch his new companion. France decided it was worth a little ache that would last a while. He'd lived with worse for longer, and if he could nail down without a doubt why his old self was peeking in again, he felt he might be able to rest a little easier again. Perhaps.

If he could breathe. "I am an excellent judge of the arts - I know a talent when I witness it." No hint of doubt touched his voice. That was simply how he'd become. More like his older self's half brother than what he'd been.

Maglor is a very good actor, and he has had a long time to practice. Normally he walks, and talks, exactly like a human, but he is off balance, confused by the conflicting messages the Song is giving him, and there are gaps in his act right now, slips where momentarily there is something of an Older world in his eyes, in his stance.

"Even so. It has been a long time since any told me that." Longer than you could know

A mask to protect and hide that France understood all too well. And the more he watched, the more he saw, the more he ached to ask for a name. But he didn't dare while they were still out among prying eyes.

Still, the smile turned a little wistful as age also crept into his gaze. "Too long," he murmured. Fortunately for both their nerves, the town house he maintained in the city where he stayed when he didn't want to go all the way to his manor was just around the corner. He led the way up the stairs, and opened the door with a playful little flourish to usher the other inside. "Welcome to my home away from home." Not quite right. Anywhere in France was his home, the core of his new self.

The outside might be plain to look at, melding in with the rest, but the inside held a bit of his heart, though nothing from his older self. Aside from very subtle hints that only those who had known him then would see.

Meaning no one he spent any time with. But that may change. And he watched his guest closely for signs of recognition. A curl in the wood. A scent in the air. A painting that wasn't quite of the New, but near enough no one knew to question - or commented on the imagination of the painter. Not aware it was France himself who had done the works.

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"

Edited 2015-03-16 00:02 (UTC)

The reaction was more than he could have hoped for, even as a lump settled in his throat as he made use of the other man's stumble forward to close the door behind them. And click the lock shut quietly.

Safe enough, though he found himself leaning against the sturdy door, heart and mind racing and yet thoughts still. A name. The fingers of a hand curled, straining to maintain his composure as he looked back at his companion. Still searching as he listened to the protests, weak and almost a panic to the voice.

"What...is your name?"

Not English. Not French. A language far older than either combined. The language his old self had grown up with. But he couldn't help that question in that language. Not now. When it was painful to wait for a reply.

Maglor spins at the sound of the door locking, and there is something wild and dangerous in him, masks still too scattered for him to pull together.

His sword, where? No, it's still in the guitar case. No, it's France, Nations don't normally interfere but then why, why why is he so familiar?

And then France speaks in a language he has heard only in his dreams (even his ghosts mostly speak to him in English now, and Maglor never noticed the switch) and he reels backwards, away, with a sob, the answer coming automatically in the same.

"Who are you? Why do you know that language? This isn't funny, I want to wake up!"

Everything ached then. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but it was far from easy. France gave a bittersweet little smile, head leaning back against the door behind him. Needing it's support just to stay upright.

It hurt to speak that language again. Tore at him in a way he'd never have expected. Just as it hurt to hear it spoken back.

"Who I am now is not who I once was. I..." Could he say it? His former name? He gave himself a hard shake and straightened his shoulders, stood straight in a force of will that was more akin to his old self.

"When I lived in the Blessed Realm... I was known as Finarfin. Arafinwë."

His expression firmed, though remained somewhat gentle as he stared at the other. "Your name."

"Dreaming" Maglor chokes out, backing and backing and backing away.

"Can't be you. Uncle is beyond my reach. Just like everyone else. The road is closed, I'm alone. This is a dream. I want to wake up!"

His hand goes to claw at the scars on his right, digging in deep enough to draw blood.

"Uncle would know who I am!"

'Uncle.' His breath caught again and he shuddered.

It had to be... France shook his head again and stumbled forward after him, hands moving to reach for the other.

"Makalaure... Do not run from me," the plea was barely stronger than a whisper. "I... I thought it..." Sense was gone. But it hardly mattered, as long as he reached his nephew and stopped those fingers from drawing more blood.

No one has called him that in years (even Osse, on the rare times he shows, calls him his little fireling, and usually uses Maglor if he is going to use his name at all) and it is only that that pulls him up short and stops him retreating further, although he continues to claw at himself in distress, shaking his head.

"Makalaure is dead, he's dead, it can't be you, it can't"

Osse, who had told him nothing of his nephew still walking these lands. Despite their occasional meetings. Few, far between. France was hardly recognizable as the elf he'd been before, and that was how it had to be.

He reached for those clawing hands again, aching to stop him. Grabbing hold finally, he did his best to drag him close with all the strength a nation could use.

"Stop! I cannot bear for you to harm yourself so!"

"I need to wake up, why can't I wake up?" Maglor fights the hold, almost viciously, pulling and twisting, but a Nation is far stronger than even one of the Firstborn, and Maglor cannot break his hold, not without resorting to things far more violent than he seems willing to turn to.

"Let me go!"

"Because you are awake," the ache in his voice couldn't be denied. But France did his best to maintain his hold while not hurting him further. Just as unwilling to bring harm, though bruises were to be expected. He wouldn't be surprised to find some on himself later, for how the elf fought.

"I will not. I...I cannot beart it, not again. Not here and now." He'd made the mistake of letting him go before. Fault or not, he felt he should have been able to stay at his family's side.

Exhausted, Maglor stops fighting, although he's still crying, silent tears, and he will pull away if France gives him the slightest opportunity.

"I can't be awake. You can't be here, you can't be him. The Song is lying. You're all gone."

Opportunity he didn't give, for while the hold gentled, it gave no indication of pulling away. He sighed quietly and leaned his forehead against Maglor's, eyes half closing wearily.

"The Song does not lie. I am, and am not your uncle. I think... you know what I am now."

"You are France" No hesitation whatsoever. "Just like Arthur is England. But you can't be Arafinwe you can't."

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