[Clive grins, and Joshua’s gaze narrows. His lips press into a thin line as myriad thoughts pass through his mind, most of them following the train of “Yes, when we were young” and “I know what you are doing”. The line parts with full intent to share those thoughts.]
[Instead, it all amounts into a defeated sigh. Despite his brief stint of angry words and lofty declarations back home, the truth is that it’s difficult for Joshua to refuse Clive’s requests. Equal parts admiration and the bonds of duty were far too entrenched in his very being to fully eschew. His shoulders sag, and the fabric draping from his elbows nearly brush against the ground as a consequence of his gesture.]
All right.
[Uuuuggghhhhhh.]
[Joshua flicks the paper so that it remains open between his palm and thumb. He takes a few moments, internalizing the melody and preparing to match its key.]
[Then it dawns on him. It really has been a long time since he’s had a chance to sing. He’s hummed to himself plenty of times, usually to help keep himself awake in the throes of his research, or murmured a tune or two under his breath, but no opportunity to truly exercise his voice ever presented itself, stifled either by the need for secrecy or outright rejection from his battered lungs.]
[The first few notes are rough. Between his deepened voice and lack of practice, pitch eludes him.]
[Joshua stops, takes another breath to quell his frustration and reset his voice, then tries again. This time, although not approaching a masterpiece, he manages to tap into experience and training long thought lost.]
”In twilight's glow, memories unfold, A flute's sweet melody, a tale retold. The past, it echoes with laughter and tears, In music we find our graces and fears.
no subject
[Instead, it all amounts into a defeated sigh. Despite his brief stint of angry words and lofty declarations back home, the truth is that it’s difficult for Joshua to refuse Clive’s requests. Equal parts admiration and the bonds of duty were far too entrenched in his very being to fully eschew. His shoulders sag, and the fabric draping from his elbows nearly brush against the ground as a consequence of his gesture.]
All right.
[Uuuuggghhhhhh.]
[Joshua flicks the paper so that it remains open between his palm and thumb. He takes a few moments, internalizing the melody and preparing to match its key.]
[Then it dawns on him. It really has been a long time since he’s had a chance to sing. He’s hummed to himself plenty of times, usually to help keep himself awake in the throes of his research, or murmured a tune or two under his breath, but no opportunity to truly exercise his voice ever presented itself, stifled either by the need for secrecy or outright rejection from his battered lungs.]
[The first few notes are rough. Between his deepened voice and lack of practice, pitch eludes him.]
[Joshua stops, takes another breath to quell his frustration and reset his voice, then tries again. This time, although not approaching a masterpiece, he manages to tap into experience and training long thought lost.]
A flute's sweet melody, a tale retold.
The past, it echoes with laughter and tears,
In music we find our graces and fears.