elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

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."

Wrapping one arm firmly around Maglor's waist to keep him close, he reached up to thread fingers through dark hair, a proud smile tugging at his lips at the intelligence in those words.

Heh. Oh he'd be having words with that caterpillar later. "Ever a vibrant flame," he murmured with a sigh. "Stronger than I could hope to be."

France gave a slight shake of his head. "If you still doubt who I was in a month's time, then it must be so. Will you stay here with me until you are satisfied?"

Ever since he was young, the one thing that has settled him outside of music has always been someone doing his hair, and emotionally wrung dry as he is, gentle fingers combing through dark strands now is enough to drop him half-way to dreaming, eyes drooping even as he fights it, leaning heavier on France.

"Can't stay. Supposed to stay away. Keep you all safe. I'm supposed to be alone."

France didn't hesitate to support Maglor though, arm tightening a little more around him. But he also didn't stop the gentle fingers soothing his nephew to much needed rest. Something he'd forgotten until then, pure instinct had had him act.

"Rest now. We will have plenty of time to argue later." A fond note had snuck into his voice, and he started walking them to his guest room before changing his mind and heading for his own room. Selfish, but he wanted to keep Maglor close. Even for a day...his heart ached to keep hearing that loved voice.

Half-dreaming, half-awake, he follows much more docilely then he might have, otherwise.

"There is no rest" He murmurs. "Not for me. Uncle? Can't be here. Should be home."

He barely managed not to chuckle at the barely intelligible words and just kept them moving until he had Maglor stretched out on his bed and sat beside him. It didn't matter just then how dirty his clothes and body were, just that he was safe for the moment. He'd tackle the challenge of getting Maglor cleaned up, fed, and armed with new clothes later. When he'd let himself dream of better, brighter days.

While he needed sleep as a nation now, he could go for days without much. Not something he liked doing, as he'd learned the folly of letting his new self get run down to the point of uselessness when he was needed at his peak. "This is my home now. Dream, nephew. Your body requires the rest."

"Not." Petulant in his sleepiness. "Home is with Aunt Earwen. With Galadriel. With the cousins."

Softer. "Not with me"

He sleeps, but not even the comfort of Arafinwe's presence can ease the nightmares, not for long, and he wakes with a stifled scream, the noise of one who cannot, must not make a sound but who has to anyway. He wakes with his brother's name on his lips.

"Nyelo!"

Such simple words, but they cut deep into his heart. France bit hard at his lip to keep the sob back as he curled protectively around the emotionally wounded elf. Unable to sleep at that point even if he'd wanted to. He found himself remembering his family, replaying memories.

Until Maglor's nightmares woke the elf, and bought his focus back to the present with a hint of a sigh as he cupped Maglor's cheek gently. "Hush. You are safe." No one would touch his nephew while he was around.

Half-asleep he turns immediately to the source of warmth and comfort with a soft keen, hands coming up to latch on instinctively, burying his face against a familiar heartbeat.

"Why does everyone always leave me alone?!?"

No prizes for guessing what he was dreaming.

France wrapped his arms around him, leaning his head against Maglor's as he hugged him close.

The prize would be lousy anyway :/

He didn't need to guess to know, even without the cry and the ache in that question. Why.

"I will not leave you. Not while I draw breath." And as he would live as long as France lived, that would be quite some time.

Maglor keens softly, curling close, not truly awake, but no longer sleeping.

"Everyone goes. Everyone leaves me. Cano is a terrible person."

He'd never been able to handle the tears of those he loved. Now was no exception and he could feel his heart ache just that much fiercer.

"Not this time. Not me. We have each done terrible things. Made mistakes. How do you live now? How have you lived for centuries?"

Slowly, he settles, pressed up against a familiar heartbeat, a familiar (not familiar) song, and the dissonance is enough to bring him to full wakefullness (which also means he pulls back, almost flinches, when he realises what he's doing)

"Uncle?"

Not Uncle, France. But Arafinwe?

He just kept up those reassuring words until Maglor settled, then pulled back. But Maglor seemed better, so France let him, though he kept one arm looped around him. Not tight enought to trap, yet.

"Yes. And no, all at once," it was complicated. But he wouldn't lie, not to this one person who saw him.

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