elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

A voice on the wind that he'd always thought pure memory whenever he'd heard it. Now he knew better.

France would reluctantly, and only to a very select few, admit that England's tea was fair. But that wasn't cooking, so nyah.

A challenge very happily met! France let himself move with the song as he added his own practiced frill to the melody. Stirred the pot, then checked the meat without pause, delighting in that added difficulty of keeping up with the cooking while singing.

England's tea is the best tea. And it is a form of cooking so nyah to you too.

A whisper of a memory a bit more solid than thought.

A shy child's delight and challenge is answered with challenge, Maglor twisting the melody ever more and more elaborate.

Not near as good as French cuisine, though. His cooking is far more complex.

...Like this damn song. France sent a mock annoyed look at his nephew, but really, the laughter in his eyes didn't dim as he tried to meet the challenge, and failed. He just wasn't the bard Maglor was, and even less so now.

And where France would have sulked and thrown fits because he was bested ~~again~~, the part of him that remained Finarfin took joy in Maglor's powerful talent used in play, rather than despair. And that was the part that shone through, tamping down any irritation with his lesser skill.

Besides. He'd find more ways to tease Maglor, and draw out the old light he remembered from before all the pain and suffering that had torn their family apart.

More fiddly, England says.

A shy, pleased grin in return, Maglor always pleased to know that his music brought joy, even in defeat. In placating offer instead he tips his head and sings the French National Anthem. In Quenya. ~~because occasionally he is a show off~~

Shut it, Caterpillar. As England would say.

France froze, breath catching at the Anthem. Words that tugged at both of him and had him unable to do more than watch and listen, voice falling silent. Only when it was over did he stretch out a hand to Maglor, throat tight with emotion. It took a moment before he could speak again, if a bit breathless.

"That is a gift beyond any I could have asked for." Because it bridged both of him, easily, neatly, effortlessly.

...Even if it did scream out Feanorian to those whom that word still meant anything. Showy. And rightly so.

Humility has never been a trait that any of Feanor's seven sons, or indeed, Feanor himself, ever had in abundance. Maglor has learnt it, over the years, but he is still his father's son, and he smiles a little smugly at his uncle's response. This is what he was always good at, at manipulating the emotions of his audience, at knowing exactly what it was they needed to hear. If he had wanted it, he would have been a terrifying High King, but that was never what he wished for.

"Then take it as a gift uncle, in thanks"

That was just part of what had been missing. For all that it could and did tend to drive him to distraction, it was good to see Maglor hadn't lost it. France was able to laugh again and ignored his cooking for the moment it took to step close and wraps his arms around his nephew in a hug.

But his words were no less earnest. "It is a gift I will remember and carry with me always."

...Even if he did feel rather short. Stupid elves, too tall for their own good.

Easier to lean into the hug, this time. Maglor still freezes, wary and surprised, but it takes less time for him to unbend.

"Forever is a very long time, uncle." A soft, shy tease.

"So short" He mumbles under his breath, eyes dancing.

Less time. He was chipping away, and making fair progress. It was enough. And Maglor even teased! France played up the pout, though knew without doubt the laughter in his eyes was not dimmed in the slightest.

"A nation lives a long time," generally. He knew it wasn't impossible to destroy a nation. Or cause one to die, to be replaced by a newer, younger one. And France was already rather old. Not the oldest of those currently in existence, but still old.

...And the short comment earned a huff, and France pulled back, reaching up to tug on a lock of still damp hair. "Imp!" The first word he'd really spoken in French since they'd retreated to Quenya. But it suited the situation.

A flicker of sadness.

"But not forever" No. Almost certainly, even fading as he is, Maglor will outlive Arafinwe.

Tears unceasing shall we shed reminds Maedhros softly

Everyone who loves us dies agrees Celegorm

But he smiles for his uncle when he tugs his hair and nods obediently. "So I am"

In a way, Maglor already had. What had once been the elf was now but a small, nearly insignificant part of a nation. Only influential in France's actions when they truely agreed. The rest of the time, France was far more like Maglor's father on bad days.

The fingers tugging Maglor's hair gentle and France cups his nephew's cheek again. Affectionate and caring.

"I will stay as long as I can." That was a promise he could make, and did so gladly. "If I fade, perhaps memories will bring me back with your song." Like the Roman Empire, who'd vanished, but just kept coming back at the strangest times.

"Mm" Maglor nods, sad and tired and accepting.

"I won't forget." That is, after all, why he lingers so long (or at least, why he tells himself that he does) - to remember, when everyone else forgets (because his victims and his brothers do not deserve to be forgotten, because someone needs to count the lives stolen by the Oath, because someone needs to remember)

One step forward, one step back.

Forever stubborn. But, even in that, in memory, they were so very alike. France nodded slowly, understanding clear in his gaze before he finally pulls back and mutely returns to cooking. Just a little longer, and they'd have their meal.

Part of a nation's duty was to remember. Every painful little detail, no matter how joyous or heart breaking they ended. And if Maglor ever visited his mansion, and saw his storage rooms, he'd know. Rooms that no one went into but France.

Paintings of faces and scenes that did not belong to the world of the present. But that Maglor would know.

Quietly, without needing to be told, Maglor sets the table, movements long practiced, even if he has has no cause to use them in years.

Memory is one thing they still have in common, of course, but Maglor carries his in his eyes and in the train of his ghosts whispering ceaselessly in his ears, in the star-of-feanor pin that he never removes, in the scars on his hands (in his soul), in the gleaming blade that never rusts that hides in his guitar case... and always, always, in the song that falls from his lips.

"I can't stay, you know. Not for long. People will notice."

He was aware of what Maglor did next, listening to the quiet movements. It was nice, to have company again. Company that knew him. The other nations knewe him only as a nation, which was nice enough. Most of the time it was enough.

But when it wasn't? Those were the days he either got himself 'lost' on the streets, walk stretches of beaches that weren't travelled that often, or holed himself away, refusing to speak to anyone at all.

"I know. Do not expect me to forget your promise to visit though." Because if Maglor tried, now that France knew he had never Sailed or fully faded, there was very little that could stop him from finding him again.

"Mm. When I pass this way, I will look for you." Maglor nods, obediently.

Shyly. "You said... the payment for this stay was a song. What do you want to hear, uncle?"

"And...when I visit England, I will ask after you." Now that he knew. And he'd have words with Osse about keeping that silent. ~~He'd yell at England too, but that would be for fun.~~

The smile France sent over his shoulder at Maglor was fond. "You already gave me a song. One I could never have even asked for, and yet you gave." His Anthem in Quenya.

"I am not often there." He warns. "I wander, a lot. But England knows how to find me, if you want." A country normally cannot track a citizen that accurately, but Maglor and England have a weird relationship to start off with anyway.

A pleased hum. "And that was a gift uncle, not payment."

England might not thank Maglor for telling France that. And that flicker of a smirk just might give that away before he nodded. "I will keep that in mind."

France finally pulled out the meat to rest while the rest finished cooking. A gift. His throat grew tight again so he kept his face turned, bent to his work. When he could speak again without sounding pathetic, he let out a soft chuckle. "I am not yet ready to accept payment, then."

Probably not, but Arthur underdtands family, too.

Maglor wwaits quietly and makes no comment on France's state, only humming softly in acknowledgement.

"Alright. Whenever you wish."

Yes. But then there's the simple fact France does not usually act like Arafinwe. And the two were vastly different in an every day, one on one way. England might just have a heart attack if he saw the difference.

If he believed it, that is.

France smiled up at him. "A few days." Because he did understand the fear his nephew felt that he'd hurt France. But in this, he decided to be a little selfish, while he kept a close eye on things to make sure everything continued as it had been.

England is made of sterner stuff than that. Maglor fostered him, after all.

Maglor wavers a little at that, and then nods.

"Alright. I can do that."

France knew England was tough - he'd been both allies and enemies with the other nation for plenty long enough.

"You should know I get daily, sometimes hourly reports," he murmured gently. "And that I know even without that if something is wrong." Maybe not in time to stop whatever it was, but he could generally do something.

"I know" Maglor nods jerkily and keeps his eyes down, fiddling with the sleeves on his shirt and rubbing at his scars.

"I just. Worry."

"We all do," what else could he say? It was true.

France turned away from the counter, wiping his hands carefully as he walked to Maglor's side, then reached out to take his hands. Ignoring the scars. "However, I will take what I can get and enjoy this time with you."

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and then a silmaril washes up on a beach in france somewhere and everything goes to pot the end

ajsdlfkjad That happens and France RUNS LIKE HELL

SMART MAN XD

sob