elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

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.

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.

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