Time, in the midst of battle, was a blur of minutes slathered in gore and hours smeared in blood. Dirt moistened into mud clung possessively to the the Tenth's boots as he wallowed in its pool, crushed and suffocated by the twitching mass of a slaughtered minotaur loyal to the Witch and payed in death its sacrifice for evil's side. Caspian gasped beneath the excessive weight, writhing to be free from the grime and the stench of the coarse hair and decay. His legs were wrenched free and to his knees did he prop himself, gripping his sword from its place and staggering to his feet, the shriek of a creature heralding disappointment at his remaining life.
The sky was the azure of spring, and dotting the farthest reaches of the place of conflict were flowers, protruding from humping mounds of remaining snow or sprouting from green. The gates of Cair Paravel lay twisted in comparison to the vivid arrival of the first season and seemed an emblem of winter which had marred the entirety of Narnia with its oppressive mantle. The Tenth roused strength, and with adrenaline pounding in his dirt caked ears he slit the throat of a limping ghoul that lashed with broken talons for his legs. Screams echoed in his hearing; the cry of a faun as its throat was torn out by an avaricious wolf and the shriek of a human as it fled from the smoking, crumbled structure of its home. Caspian avenged the murder of the faithful talking beast, fingertips ghosting across the faun's eyelids to slide them shut in reverence, and from that corpse he sprinted to the side of the woman, whom had run into the midst of the chaos. Her light brown tresses were knotted and amiss, and her blood-stained digits curled in insanity as she sobbed in sorrow, but Caspian was beside her before she could collapse, with an arm beneath around. His teeth were gritted and he thrust his blade toward a dwarf as it wheezed and hobbled toward him, a hag approaching stealthily from behind.
The royal muted the voice of the woman whom he protected from his ears, and concentrated his efforts in dragging her from the field. Grass welcomed her fainted figure in a cushioned bed of innocent nature, the black-bearded dwarf at that moment releasing the last of his arrows from his bow, the small though precise shaft grazing across Caspian's head, slicing a thin-cardinal line along his forehead. A hiss escaped him, but the dagger that flew in vengeance of the wound inflicted buried itself in the neck of the traitorous one. The hag cackled at the site, her hands raising and venomous words whispering out in a spell to fling at the king.
But Caspian ran, ran. The air whizzed past his ears and dried his nostrils and deflated his lungs as he collided with the spindly frame of the nightmarish sorceress. Her cursing breathed with heat and revulsion against his ear, but his sword was her answer. He rose again, casting a final look to the woman reposed upon the one pure fraction of the ground, before he moved back into the fray.
Cair Paravel's citizens, horrified, beset, persecuted, crowded into the last of the boats set out for Galma; the safe haven that would welcome them in alliance with Narnia. Infants unknowing of the danger and abandoned to a life without parents, youths with shock etched into their tear-brimmed orbs, and aged individuals that comforted and cared, their hearts broken for the second, third, fourth time that they had now seen death personified in war, all huddled in these crafts. It had been morning when the final battle had begun with the sounding of a horn and the rousing words of faith. The noon hour had passed now, and shadows were wavering forms amongst the ragged battalions and cacophony of confusion. But the king was there. His back ached, his fingers were numb. But the king was there, and his soul was bleeding as was his skull, his thigh, his shoulder. Aslan, Aslan. Was upon his tongue coated in plasma. Aslan, Aslan!
The warriors of the Lion had dwindled. The servants of the Witch had fallen. Who won amongst this was victor? Bent over the carcass of a faithful centaur, Caspian shut the being's eyes for the last time until, surely, they met once more in Aslan's Country.
The victor? It was a sigh at first breath, and then a strain that arose from those that still stood. Aslan. Yes, those of the Lion, the Lion Himself had won.
Caspian approached a trembling child, left without boat to carry her to safety and though she flinched at first away from his bloodied body, when he sat beside her, and smiled through the smudges upon his tan flesh, she came closer and flung herself into his lap, weeping. It was over. Over. He would find a home for this little one in his arms. But it was over, and as he leaned against the wall, his eyes shut.
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