[As promised, Gilgamesh and Aslan walk together. They walk together to the armory, with Gilgamesh's hand upon Aslan's mane, and they make for a handsome image as born companions—one clad in the golden armor of his station, the other of his usual regal bearing. The nightmare has passed, and with it, any measure of uncertainty; they must do this. They must fight.

Gilgamesh glances to Aslan from outside the armory's gates, not to say are you sure about this? but instead I am with you.]

The armor of men will suit you still. So long as it's of fine make, it does not dishonor you in any way, great beast.

[Perhaps Aslan remains uncertain about that much. Had he ever worn such a thing before? Gilgamesh wonders.]