elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

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."

Elves heal, they do not scar. Not unless the wound is grievious... or the injury is more to spirit than to flesh. (Maglor's case is both) His right is the worse, and it is a wonder he can play at all the way the contractures run across his hand, thick and ropy. He barely seems to feel the scratches from earlier, already fading, and he lets France stop his worrying docilely.

"You were always too kind, Uncle. But if you are sure..."

He'd been around mortals and other nations far too long for scars to bother him. Scars were memories now. Even he had his share of them, scattered over his body.

France gently threads their fingers together and nodded without hesitation. "I am positive."

He should not. He knows it. It is not safe, especially not with Arafinwe, blood kin as close as he is. But he is so very tired...

Slowly, his hands close around France's and he nods

"Alright."

France knew. That was simply how their family was. How it had become. But sometimes the spirit needed rest. Sometimes longer than others.

He smiled and gave Maglor's hands a squeeze, glad to have that much at least.

"Thank you."

Pulling away again, he started putting together their plates.

He watches and tips his head in query. "Can I help?"

"If you want tea, you are welcome to brew us some. I'm certain you know how," playful little tease. "The loose leaf I keep when Arthur comes around is the far left cupboard from the stove."

Because England could be a priss, but he did love him. In some ways more than others.

Maglor brightens at the thought of tea (that habit predates England and goes right back to his time being forcibly adopted by the formidable hobbit goodwife whose husband ran the Bird and Baby Inn in Michael Delving) and promptly gets up to do so.

"For you, as well?"

He hums happily to see that it is English Breakfast.

Have a much put upon sight, seeing the change at just mentioning tea. But not at all real. France didn't know everything that had happened to his nephew.

"Please."

Damn soft spot for stubborn people.

Maglor smiles back, and Arafinwe might recognise the precise way he sets about making tea is at once very English and also very much older than that, right down to the way he sets out the tea things (hobbits are surprisingly quite picky about such things you see)

"Here, uncle. Thank you for the meal."

After a moment, he does. He hadn't spent as much time with the few hobbits that came over as others had. What he did recognize immediately were the English bits. But when the rest hit... France couldn't help the grin as he watched a moment longer before finishing, setting their plates down.

"Thank you, nephew." And more than just for the tea.

Maglor blinks back at him and ducks his head with a pleased smile.

"I think it is I who should be saying that."

His eyes light to recognise the meal as one of the simpler ones from days lit by Trees instead of sun, from simpler times, when family were not yet at each other's throats.

Aaah, he saw that! France chuckled quietly and waited for Maglor to sit before claiming his own.

And seeing that look just made it all the more worthwhile, softening the grin to a pleased smile. Far simpler a time in their lives.

"You already have. Please, enjoy."

Maglor eats neatly, for all that this is quite possibly the first meal he has had in a while, but quietly too, not the chatter of the child of long ago, or the more somber adult, he eats efficiently, wasting nothing, the beggar who is not certain when he will get more.

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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

>3

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