Notes: I love the idea of composers meeting their nation's personification! Or, the personification of their adopted or second nation, or somewhere they have a strong connection with for some reason...
"And so, I finally meet the famous Chopin!"
The man, tall and broad, golden curls and radiant, appeared as if by magic upon the very instant Fryderyk was left alone by his last conversation partner.
"What to say of your music?" he continued. "You delight me, charm me, wound me in the sweetest of ways! It is a privilege to have you here."
"Thank you." This response did not really seem adequate to the task so he said it again. "Thank you indeed, I… apologize, but who are you?"
"Forgive me." A half-bow. "France."
"Francis?" he echoed.
"That too, if you like. Come, sit!"
Glass in one hand, he put the other arm around Fryderyk's shoulder and swept him effortlessly through the thinning after-party throngs to a plush velvet seat. Sitting, Francis clasped his hands and simply gazed into his face for a while in deep contentment. "Splendid," he kept repeating. "A privilege."
"Am I dreaming?"
"No… though perhaps you should be at this hour, we should both be, it is late! But stay and talk a little?"
"You said, France."
"Ah. I did. Don't worry about it if you'd rather not."
Oddly, he wasn't especially worried about that. But:
"Does that mean—Poland? Is she—he—?
Francis nodded a few times, sympathetic. "Having… some little difficulty, as you know. But tenacious! Good God, that. And extremely proud of you."
"Still—still living, then?"
"Dear boy, did you doubt it?"
"Never."
"How does that army song go?"
"—So long as we still live."
"There! Dead nations have no more history. And you are writing Poland quite the history. Do you realise? You aid and save your country daily."
"I?"
"Certainly. Although, probably he would not phrase it like that."
"How would he?"
Francis laughed heartily. "Oh, don't ask me—I can't understand him half the time; he's impossible, and always putting on the strangest accents."
(Fryderyk remembered making his classmates laugh by mimicking their masters at school. There was an unlooked-for kinship!)
"Maybe you two will meet one day," Francis said, "and you'll see for yourself. He was here, you know, and recently. But, you understand, circumstances constrain; he isn't free to go where he chooses. I wonder. Perhaps it isn't meant to be."
"Oh."
"Try not to be down-hearted. Dear me, now I'm beginning to give you advice, and that's never a good idea."
"No?" He couldn't begin fathom the context—nations advising citizens, and why it was 'never a good idea'.
"Are you tired?"
"Well, yes. And—a little overwhelmed, honestly."
"I tend to have that effect! Listen, now, if you were mine… But, there. He would never allow it. You will never be more than half-mine, I suppose, less; well one can't have everything, as I've discovered lately… So I will simply say: Fryderyk, you are welcome to me and mine for as long as you have need, or inclination."
Overwhelmed more than just a little.
"Thank you. I really do thank you. I'm so grateful—for your love and welcome. In a way I am very happy here. But I…"
He looked away.
France patted his hand gently. "But your heart will always be his."
Notes:
* I thought I was going to write this last year. My original, sad, headcanon-y thought was that Poland actually never got to meet Chopin, or not properly. I may have revised that, especially as I tend to have Poland him/herself spending time in Paris. But it's maybe not at the same time. Chopin heads there after 1830, and that's when Poland personally is heavily involved in things at home.
* Army song: Poland is Not Yet Lost
* Chopin requested for his heart to be removed after he was dead and buried in Poland. It's in a pillar Holy Cross Church on Krakowskie Przedmieście, with the inscription "For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."
* France is using the Polish version of "Frédéric", other than that I don't think he speaks Polish...