But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, 'She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.'
+ The Lady of Shalott, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 168-71

Epilogue – Ominous

Forlorn, bereft, lost, fallen – surrounded by the might of Narnia, he was unbearably alone. Even in sleep, ensconced within the rough embrace of his campaign, he felt a familiar creeping touch of dread. There was a muted rattle as his inhalation caught in his throat.

'How can this be, my champion? What have you done to me? What have you done?'

Her voice came to him then, taunting, no longer afraid, without panic, and he knew the source of his fear. He thrashed, desiring more than anything to escape, to put away the images of her beauty, of her coming to him in darkness, of him taking her viciously and without mercy – smoke and blood and fire – just as she'd wanted, just as he'd wanted.

He moaned again, whispering, whimpering, pleading. Please, no more. Aslan…

No. Calling upon the Great Lion buoyed him. He couldn't – he wouldn't – he was a knight and a king – a king, a king – and he would resist and remain strong, and…

'Your doom has come upon you.'

Softly, she smiled.

… and – he couldn't breathe, suddenly he couldn't breathe, for the blow of a giant's war club had crushed his chest, and he was suffocating, drowning in his own blood, dying. The world around him faded, graying into a horrible shade, dirty-white and foggy. He fought, straining through his agony for breath, the pressure inexorable and the pain unbelievable.

He knew his lips moved as he struggled to speak, but the words circling in and around him were not of final wisdom or parting command. Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe…