The more things change, the more they stay the same.
It was a bit strange, when Paul thought about it, just how much his brain was apparently capable of getting used to. There had been strange afflictions of the mind for various people, there had been a blizzard (although that, he recalled, could happen just as strangely at home in England--but he knew Will's lot weren't involved in this one, not here), there had been...well, any number of strange things, and Paul just went on enduring them and embracing the normal parts of his life.
Mostly the normal parts were family, which, if one didn't count that his youngest brother was now older than him and living with a boyfriend who was the time travelling son of King Arthur, was not so terribly different from home. (And the mere fact he was capable of making that sentence without his brain exploding probably proved his point right there.) There was music, and playing with the dogs, and bothering Moril, who seemed a bit happier lately himself. And he'd developed a bit of a fondness for lying out on the beach on a blanket, reading a book.
But the most consistent thing in his life, no matter where he was, was the instrument in his hands. In England or on a tropical island, with an orchestra or in the sitting room with Bran on the harp behind it, the flute remained the chief focus of Paul Stanton's life, and he liked it that way. on a particularly nice day, he was sitting on a blanket outside his hut, his eyes closed and the flute at his lips, persistently imitating the birdsong that he can hear in the trees.
[Haven't done one of these in a while. Is it still tag someone new week? Well, even if it isn't, have at. :) ST while I get ready for church, but will be back this afternoon. ST/LT/etc all good.]
Mostly the normal parts were family, which, if one didn't count that his youngest brother was now older than him and living with a boyfriend who was the time travelling son of King Arthur, was not so terribly different from home. (And the mere fact he was capable of making that sentence without his brain exploding probably proved his point right there.) There was music, and playing with the dogs, and bothering Moril, who seemed a bit happier lately himself. And he'd developed a bit of a fondness for lying out on the beach on a blanket, reading a book.
But the most consistent thing in his life, no matter where he was, was the instrument in his hands. In England or on a tropical island, with an orchestra or in the sitting room with Bran on the harp behind it, the flute remained the chief focus of Paul Stanton's life, and he liked it that way. on a particularly nice day, he was sitting on a blanket outside his hut, his eyes closed and the flute at his lips, persistently imitating the birdsong that he can hear in the trees.
[Haven't done one of these in a while. Is it still tag someone new week? Well, even if it isn't, have at. :) ST while I get ready for church, but will be back this afternoon. ST/LT/etc all good.]