elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

"He is where I laid my heart. Since I can't go back. I don't want to hurt him, Uncle."

"To evil end will all things turn" Maglor murmurs softly. "France is in enough trouble without its personification dealing with a Feanorion."

France wrapped both arms back around him and found he couldn't deny him this. Nor was he surprised by it.

"When you return to him, I will go with you. I'll tell him then."

The murmured reminder of those painful words struck him silent again, and his eyes closed. "That...None of that is your fault. I will not let you take blame."

"I only just left. He will think something is terribly wrong" A flash of that old wry humor.

"And if it is my fault? It usually is, you know. It's why once Arthur was old enough I seldom lingered in England long."

He couldn't help a quiet little chuckle and gave the elf a playful nudge. "There is no hurry to go. But, if it will ease your mind, when I see him next I will speak with him." Whether the idiot wanted to be cornered or not.

France brought a hand back up to tug gently on a lock of dark hair. "Then do not linger long. Just a few days at a time. Enough for a visit. I will content myself with that."

He hesitates, even as he leans a little into the tug.

You should not. You know what happens when you get involved. warns Maedhros

I don't think we've ever caused the downfall of a Nation before says Curufin cheerfully

Well we didn't bring England's destruction? offers the Ambarussa

England isn't related to us snaps Caranthir Or did you forget that bit?

By treason of kin wasn't it? murmurs Celegorm.

"I... should not..." But he so clearly wants to.

France held his tongue, letting Maglor think. Now that he was calmer, it was not necessary to restrain him. Hold him, now that was something he simply wanted to do.

"Be selfish. Do what you wish, and let yourself visit what is left of your family here."

The longer France holds him and does not reject him, slowly but surely Maglor relaxes into that hold.

".........you will not mind?"

Unasked is the true question that Maglor will never voice You are not angry with me? You forgive me?

Maglor didn't have to voice that question for it to be heard. France leaned his cheek against the top of Maglor's head again.

"I would not fight and argue so much for you to visit if I minded."

Forgiveness had happened an age before. Anger had faded even before then, though it had left a heartache that had never fully recovered for all the loss that had been dealt.

Finally he nods. "Alright. Promise me that if I become dangerous you will stop me."

By whatever means necessary

Edited 2015-03-17 11:15 (UTC)

He didn't like it. Of course he didn't like it.

But for his people...

France sighed and pulled back, fingers moving to tilt Maglor's face up to him so their gazes might meet.

"I will not let you harm my people. If it comes to it, I will stop you." His words were weighed with what he was. Every soul was represented in the French personification's words. He didn't need to raise his voice to put the promise and fierce determination in his tone.

Maglor meets his eyes without flinching, holding that gaze until France gives his word and then he nods and drops his eyes (clear and bright still in his eyes, the light of Valinor shines, but beneath that, clearer still, is the depths of Maglor's madness - the flame of the Silmaril that tore into him and never left, the chains of his father's Oath, the bone deep ache of the call of the Sea)

"Good enough."

He does not ask for an Oath. Such things have never ended well for their family.

Finarfin could not promise to kill Maglor. And at that moment, France was very close to that ancient part of himself. Close enough he could not make such an Oath even if he wanted to.

That light, of Valinor, of the Trees, was lost to the nation. He was still old. Still powerful. But that brilliant light was gone. Seeing it in Maglor's eyes thouh brought back the ache of what had been, for all that he tried to tamp down on it.

But the rest of what he saw in the elf's eyes bothered him, for all that he understood the outlines of the cause.

Instead, after the acceptance of his words, France nodded slightly, once, and nudged Maglor up. "Come. Let's get you cleaned up."

A blink and Maglor nods, docile now that he has assurance that he cannot do more harm.

"I only really have this set of clothes" He admits. "I left most of what Arthur insists on buying behind. There isn't room for much on the road."

A docility that bothered him, but there wasn't much he could do just then. And it served a purpose, for all that it worried him. France smiled as he got off the bed, hand reaching for him in invitation.

"I think I can find some clothes that will fit while you're here." If only in this, France felt his heart melt just a little towards England.

...He was still an irritating nation though.

Maglor was never docile, and perhaps that is the trouble. He was the quiet one of the seven, but although no Feanorion could ever be called docile, he is now; a quiet, subdued presence, like a wild horse whose spirit has been thoroughly broken, even as he nods and follows.

(He is dying. Slowly, by tiny, incremental degrees. So slow that the centuries pass without anyone noticing any change. But his spirit was broken, long ago, and it isn't healing. That he has held on so long is something of a miracle, a testament, perhaps, to those who have loved him enough to try and fight for him to stay, but the Feanorions were also, always, very stubborn)

"You were always taller than me Uncle. It seems strange for you to be so... short."

Edited 2015-03-17 13:14 (UTC)

And part of France recognized that, and what was going on. What was happening. He'd be working on it, as best he could. If anything could be done, he'd find it.

If nothing could be done to heal his nephew's spirit, then... he'd keep him company for as long as he could. Whenever Maglor let him and time permitted.

France huffed, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Maglor. "That was no choice of mine." But there was no real heat in his words as he lead Maglor to the bathroom and set out what the elf would need while he went clothes hunting.

A shy smile and a duck of his head in response and Maglor slips into the shower with a sigh of contentment. Hot running water is one of this favourite inventions. He is quite content to live by the skin of his teeth, but he remembers what it was like to have plenty, also, and a hot shower is an indulgence he is all too willing to take, making sure to wash his hair out as well.

If he spoiled the elf a ~~lot~~ little when he visited, well it was just a natural reaction to the homeless from some. France waited until he heard the water running before leaving in search of clothes he hoped would fit the tall man. He'd be much better prepared the next time Maglor came by.

And if the meal he was planning was reminiscent of a quiet meal while they'd been growing up... Well. They were both reliving the past a little, weren't they? He hoped Maglor would take his time and enjoy the hot water.

But soon enough France was back, and he set the new clothes just outside the bathroom door to be found before he went to the kitchen and set about making them food.

Maglor takes his time, making sure all the tangles are out of his hair, and scrubs down until the water runs clean. And then he takes a moment to cry softly, muffled in the water, for he never thought he would see any of his family again, and had thought himself long resigned to that.

(He's going to kick Osse in the shins, the next time he visits)

He dresses and shyly pads out, looking for France.

Osse would get a similar treatment the next time France saw him.

The quiet humming from the kitchen might be a clue as to his whereabouts. An ancient song. Maybe he wasn't as good a singer as Maglor was, but he wasn't bad. Even now, some of that old skill had been lost with what he'd become, but he'd come to accept all the changes. He'd had to.

But cooking - ha, that had become a specialty. It helped him relax during stressful times. Even if the apron he wore just then was... a little ridiculous as it had been more of a gag gift from America. But it was precisely because it was from America that he kept it.

'Kiss the cook' indeed. Hmph. At least it was an attractive blue.

Shyly, Maglor's voice twines around his uncle's, picking up the counter-melody as he peeks in the kitchen. He does blink a bit at the apron, but he's seen far worse over the years. 'Kiss the Cook' is pretty innocuous, really.

It had been far too long since any voice had joined his, at least in this song. France looked over with a smile, pausing just barely before continuing. Voice welcoming the counter.

Oh he saw that blink and rolled his eyes in answer before bending back to his work, a flicker of laughter joining the joy of the song. He trusted Maglor would find something to do to help.

When France rolls his eyes back he smiles shyly in answer and comes into the kitchen proper, watching for a bit before trotting over to be useful. (It makes a nice change from when he stays with England, when he has to forcibly put his fosterling outside lest he burn something)

When that song ends, he offers another, still shy and more docile than he should be, but at least he chooses one of the happier songs of his childhood, rather than the laments of his adult life.

He'd spent more than enough time among humans to know precisely how to immitate them. It came naturally now, for all that he still was no human, nor mortal. But then, he was not the only one in the house at that moment with that experience, was he? The main difference was that he was still very deeply involved in politics and had his hand in everything.

France knew England's...skill in the kitchen. Namely in making charcoal. How America ate that was beyond him. But it was one thing even the younger nation let him take the lead in when it was just them. But Maglor was not England, and wasn't disappointing him as he gestured for vegetables to be sliced as he outright laughed at the change in song before joining in without reserve.

A song full of joy, of Maglor's choosing would always be welcomed with an open heart. His nephew was still painfully shy and cooperative than how he remembered him, but the fact he'd offered that particular song was a step forward, and deserved to be cherished.

Where Maglor's gift, and Maglor's skill lay mostly in mimicry, and he has spent most of his time being unseen, unremembered. The voice on the wind, the singer by the sea, just another homeless bum on the streets (a legend, a myth, a fairy tale, or less than that, even).

He knows his way around a kitchen, and quite well at that (England makes a perfectly good tea excuse you) even if it has been a while, and more importantly, he knows how to follow instructions.

He ducks his head shyly at the laugh and obligingly makes the song more difficult, adding the frills to the countermelody.

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