icarusandthewind
Caspian was dealing with the pieces of a broken, scratched mind, filled with the scattered fragments of unreal, yet raw and genuine memories that ought to be his own. There were flashes of screams and blood and clashing iron blistering under the unyielding sun. There were flashes of rivers taking the shape of gigantic men and engulfing everything under their path. There were flashes of his voice, not quivering and insecure as now, thundering in halls as tall as cathedrals -where high people left and right would kneel before him, ask his wisdom, his command, his forgiveness, his justice. There were flashes of his own reflection on the mirror, of his body in a bright armour, a sword nested in his hands as if it had been born there -with him. It seemed unreliable. It seemed as if it was hiding the truth right under his nose by covering it in a thick layer of cruel fantasy.
OR: Caspian adapting to 1946 London for he cannot go back to Narnia... nor does he wish to -he might or not have done this to himself