Disclaimer: No, I'm not C. S. Lewis. He's dead, actually. I'm not him. But that doesn't stop me loving his works and wishing there were more of them :) Enjoy.
"…So he returned to his mother, and found them all busy about her.
But they were busy in vain, for at the first glance of her face Rilian knew that no physic in the world would do her good. As long as the life was in her she seemed to be trying hard to tell him something. But she could not speak clearly and, whatever her message was, she died without delivering it."
The pain is mostly gone now. It has drained away out of the two small holes in her hand, but her ability to move seems to have gone with it. She feels incredibly heavy, as if she's falling into a deep, deep sleep, and her vision is starting to go blurry at the edges.
She can still shift her head, just, and she does, though it brings the pain flooding back to her neck. She doesn't mind. It's nothing to the icy fire of pain that was with her earlier, and she wants to see.
"Where is he?" The words come out mumbled and slurred. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. Where is her son? Why is he not by her side with the others? Their ministrations are useless. She knows she's not going to make it back to Cair Paravel, but she wants – needs – to see him. She needs to say goodbye. Suddenly that's the only thing that matters now.
"Ril- Rilian –" she gets out the name through stiff lips. Even breathing is hard now.
Then a hand grips her wrist and a face fills her sight. There he is, face earnest and despairing, his eyes locked in hers, filled with tears.
"Mother?" she can barely hear him.
Now he's here, there are so many things she wants to say, but she can't. She can't speak at all. So she just has to look at him, feel his hand round hers and try to say what she needs to with her eyes alone.
How much there is to say… I love you, my dear son. I know you will make a great king of Narnia one day…
You look so very much like your father. Tell him I love him too. Tell him I cannot believe it has been all of thirty-five years since he brought me back across the sea… These years have been more wonderful than I could ever have imagined when I left our island.
But most of all, she wishes she could wipe away the tears she sees cutting a trail down his cheeks. She wishes she could tell him not to cry. She wishes she could tell them all not to cry. The women around her are weeping openly now, as they realise what she has known since the fangs pierced her hand: there is nothing they can do for her. The men are tight-faced.
She wants to comfort them all. Her son, her friends, her people, Caspian. She wishes she didn't have to die without telling them not to weep. Because she knows it's not goodbye she saying here. She knows she will see them all again. She wishes she could tell them that she knows where she's going, and much, much better than here, if that were even possible…
But there's not long now. She can barely hear anything, and now she can't even swallow. Her breathing is slowing.
The black is eating at the sides of her vision, but her eyes slide from Rilian's, past his shoulder. There's a clear place between two trees, where the sunlight falls through the leaves.
There He is. Standing between the tree-trunks, with the sun shining on his mane, huge, golden and impossibly beautiful, stands the Lion. He looks at her with his deep, clear brown eyes, and seems to smile, so big and bright and real that the whole rest of the clearing seems suddenly dim and grey and shadowy by comparison.
Aslan.
She wonders briefly why those around her haven't stopped what they are doing and run to him and knelt before him with cries of joyful recognition.
Then she realises. Because they can't see him. He is not here for them. He is here for her.
She smiles, and closes her eyes.