Darkness. Undisturbed, unadulterated nothingness.
Silence. Unbroken, uninterrupted absence.
A spark, first seen and only then heard, ignites a meager flame from lingering intent. What is a man when stripped of flesh and bone but intent? The sword saves lives in the hands of a guardian, but in the hand of a murderer it merely kills.
The flame grows, fed on the fuel of emotion. What is intent without emotion? The guardian cannot protect without love and the murderer cannot slay without contempt.
The flame blossoms into a very familiar, all-consuming conflagration, filling the void to its very edges. For in the end, the actions of the sword share the same results in spite of their intent.
Regaining awareness of body, the broken warrior's withered hand reaches out through time to catch the fire. Clutching it in his frail hand, he takes with it an immense and ineffable power. Seeping into his weakened form, bone, muscle, sinew, everything returns. Youth regained, strength recovered, his body becomes whole. Years peel away, and his energy peaks. Knowledge beyond his comprehension flows inwards from bygone eras. He feels he can move mountains with a breath, freeze oceans with a whisper. He learns to control the elements, to bend them to his will. And at long last, he learns a path back to his world.
A mere thought and the endless void vanishes, soon replaced by a moonlit forest, where the man is alone with his rage. Betrayal remains carved into his very soul, like a fresh branding that will never heal. He seeks his revenge and nothing else will suffice.
At his whim, all creatures of the forest congregate before him, bowing at his feet. With the mere flick of his wrist, their forms warp and distort into hideous, mixed beasts. Wolves meld with stags and bears with cougars, birthing terrible, demonic creatures. This depraved, unnatural army, built solely for the purpose of slaughter and destruction, eagerly awaits its commands.
With the mere swing of an arm, the wizard sets his nightmare army in motion. Howls act as trumpets, heralding the twisted horde's march through the midnight forest. Their four-pawed gallop carries them through the trees with inhuman speed; their master follows, carried on the wailing winds. Faster and faster, the misshapen beasts weave through pines and firs, until they reach the edge of the forest. A sleeping village. His vengeance begins.
The demonic soldiers raze the town, murdering indiscriminately. Peasant blood irrigates the burning fields, screams fill the midnight air, and corpses litter the landscape. In a final display of wanton destruction, the wizard lights the buildings ablaze with a grand motion of lifting arms and clenching fists. But his hunger is yet unsated, the meal far too paltry.
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Suddenly, deep within, the wizard feels his own fire dwindle, ever so slightly. An outward sign catches his eye, when he sees his left thumb has withered—a reminder of his wretched and pathetic form beneath the fiery cloak of power. But his desire for revenge far outweighs his fear of relapse, and he marches onward.
For ten years he brings destruction upon the land with his demon hordes, gathering legions of sycophantic human followers along the way. Never does he trust the fickle humans he collects; to him, they simply serve as fodder for his enemies' armies. Humans are nothing in his eyes. Though his cold demeanor does not extend to all soldiers of his army. For in time, he bestows his beasts with sentience, despite the heavy cost incurred, as his left leg withers instantly upon granting this gift. Yet their unquestionable loyalty and companionship leave no room to regret the decision, and the wizard bears the cost gladly.
But after ten years, he has destroyed the kingdoms that defied him and united the land under his dark banner. Now his banners of a starless night sky with a blood-red border dance in the wind above all castles in the land. However, the cost is great indeed. For he has now returned to his former decaying and shriveled body, and the blazing conflagration once within him has again waned to no more than a candle's flame.
For ten more years, he rules by force of reputation alone, never using his remaining power. He sits patiently upon his pewter throne signing edicts and performing the mundane tasks any lord might. When the impudent sow the seeds of rebellion, the Master of Night burns and salts the fields, quelling even the desire for change. He knows that none will rise to save these arrogant humans, that they are getting what they deserve!
But at the end of these ten years, he receives a report which leaves him mouth agape, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. A new hero has arisen among the people, one who has promised to vanquish the Dark Lord and to free the people from his oppression. The reality of this familiar situation hits him like an earthquake, shaking the very foundations of his resolve. His meager candle's wick grows dark, flameless, now with only a single wisp of smoke rising from it.
As he sits upon his sullied throne, clicking his crusty fingernails on its arm, he waits for his final guest. Gazing at an all too familiar oaken door, he knows that at any minute through it a fated warrior will appear. The wind rips open the door, allowing the confident figure to come traipsing through. The wrinkled and broken Dark Lord then sees before him his youthful self staring back, hungry eyes ablaze with that forgotten fire. In tacit sympathy, the youth shares a spark, lighting the cold, black wick of the aged wizard's spent candle.
Two sides of the same coin dart forward toward each other, their two voices erupting into twinned battle cries. Ever-closer do they draw. Ever-fiercer do they grow. Until the moment they collide. That moment sealed by fate many cycles before the slayer was born. That moment expected by the slain ever since he realized whose flesh he had assumed those many moons ago.
Upon the warrior's blade the Dark Lord's body rests, the struggle now over, true peace finally attained. What is the beginning for one man, is likewise his end.