It's Always So

10

The next night, Lance didn't see what he usually saw. Aslan wasn't in bed, he wasn't holding a revolver up to his head, he wasn't staring out the window with that heart-breaking face of his. Instead, he was writing.

In a small, tattered notebook, Aslan was writing. The only lighting he had was from the long candle next to him, flickering.

Lance snuck up behind him, even though he was sure that Aslan knew he was there, what with the way his boots creaked on the wooden floor. He saw bits and pieces of what seemed to be a poem, none of the words really making sense to him.

We all starve for
A moonbeam on our town

Ease our burden,
Long is the night

"What is this?" Lance asked, after seeing Aslan draw arrows going either up or down on top of the words.

"It's..." he hesitated, and it was such a strange sight. Aslan, sure of all of his actions, hesitating. "It's a song."

"A song?" Lance repeated, slowly dropping to his knees next to Aslan's chair, hand on the table to hold himself up. His chin was nearly at the same height of the table, allowing him to see the pencil strokes closer, though at a weird angle.

"A long time ago... I used to write songs."

Lance realized, by the softness of Aslan's voice, that he was letting himself be vulnerable. In this very moment, he was sharing a part of his past—which had only been a mystery to Lance up until now.

"With a piano, I wrote some lyrics and I created some melodies. But I..." He looked away from Lance, back to his scribbled arrows and letters. "There's no way to play music here, so I try to make sense of some things. I don't want to draw music notes when I don't remember what they're supposed to sound like."

Aslan was a little more talkative, a little more revealing. It was probably because of their shared moment that morning, where Lance finally realized how horrid he actually was; leaned up against a car next to his general.

And it was true. Aslan was feeling terrible, for showing someone so young what it felt like to be him. He felt as if he owed Lance, after what the man had come to realize.

Especially now, when his juvenescence showed even through the dim lighting. He looked like a curious kid... But, when Aslan looked closer, he could see the sadness creeping in. The shadows on his face; the experience painting his youth in deep colours, bit by bit.

Despair was slowly making a home in his eyes.

"The arrows are meant to be the pitch?" Lance asked after a little while.

"Yeah," Aslan snapped out of his thoughts, "I'm sure there are better ways to do this, but they help me memorize what the song should sound like."

Lance smiled. "You should sing it for me, sometime." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes like they used to.

The younger felt a hand pat his head. A light touch at first, before it came back, smoothing down a few of his baby hairs. They both knew it was some kind of way of saying: Sorry, and you'll get through this.

"I will."