There is beauty in impermanence. The flower is all the more beautiful because it will not last. The emergence of the first bud and the falling of the last withered petal are just as worthy of contemplation and artistic attentions as the sweet-smelling bloom at its peak. Winter, likewise, has a limited lifespan allotted to her, from a brisk breeze heralding her approach in mid-October, through the frosty days of November, and on into the snowfalls and even blizzards of her prime. But she begins to fade as spring is born. She ends, gracefully melting, softening, and yielding her reign unto her sister.
The power of the witch was in this lie: you can continue. You can prolong your youth indefinitely. No more long slow decline. You can live forever. Winter forgot that she was reborn each year and began to covet first April, then August. In arrogance and fear, she refused to relinquish her hold, but she hadn't the strength to cheat death for long. And so it came to pass that Winter and the Witch struck a deal.
Aslan, upon his return, found Winter, little more than an icy shell who knew nothing but the fear of death, utterly beholden to the witch. In his warm breath she felt herself soften and found a small stirring of peace in her crystalline heart. Liquid water carved rivulets of tears down her face. After all, she would be raised again. What was there to fear? And so Winter surrendered blissfully to the ever-imminent arrival of Spring.
