White.
The color of purity, unmarked cleanliness, symbolic to those who wish upon themselves a wholesome life free of pollution. It is the pigment that lacks any sort of taint, free of tarnishing and pockmarks. Indeed, it is the very essence of a newborn soul, yet to see the world for what it truly is.
The very color he used to be.
Black.
The color of contamination, brutality, and honest suffering. The tincture of a soul charred to the core, stolen of happiness of the purity it once held. It is the very definition of one's fears and insecurities, insanity and death, the very sight that represents famine, pestilence, war, death. It is the color of shrieks and dismay, of misery and sorrow – the shade always associated with all things wrong.
The very color he was now.
White and Black.
The two colors representing the corruption and the yet lingering purity of his soul could be seen mingling into an unbecoming result, and whether the darkness of his newfound desire to cause pain triumphed over his fading light for the greater good was no longer a concern. He could still feel his staff, smeared with red, shifting under his fingertips, feel the jolt of ecstasy race through him like a snap of adrenaline every time the sharpened end skewered through skin. At that time, the darkness his adversary had inflicted upon his person had been at its peak, and he hadn't truly been aware of what he was committing – not until it was too late.
He could feel the darkness brimming inside him, threatening to choke down the lingering traces of his light. He could feel the shadows elongating like claws inside his being, ready to claim what it had been seeking for so long – complete dominance over his soul. Just a bit more…just a bit more and the light in him would be completely dominated, and the evil side of his once pure soul would char him black to the core.
The man was once hailed a hero, his name dating back to books generations old. He could laugh at the title now, he really could – he and his fellow allies, aiming for the death of the Black Mage, he who wreaked havoc upon the peaceful world they resided in. And now, with the darkness creeping up his soul, he no longer felt detestation for the adversary he had fought against for so long – in fact, he could almost find himself relishing the thought of spilling more blood, like he. It wasn't as if his hands weren't dirtied already.
As these troublesome thoughts echoed through his mind, the man stood amidst the island of death and carnage, unbecoming corpses stretched out across his feet – some of whom were familiar to him. An elf, who suffered a blow to the chest from his mighty weapon powered with fear-inducing dark energy, whose golden hair currently spilt out across the ground like a river of molten sunshine. A thief, who suffered a similar demise, dropped near his feet, his richly embroidered garments smeared with his own blood. A female warrior sprawled across the ground, vicious streaks of maroon coursing through her pure white hair. A young boy, no more than thirteen, whose small body was stretched out across the bulky neck of his fallen dragon.
So many friends, so many deaths – and yet he felt nothing.
He could still feel his conflicting powers tearing each other apart for dominance; feel his remaining morality slip from his crimson-smeared fingers. Red on red on red – that was all he saw, now. Even his sole crimson eye, normally dimmed by the power of light that would not yield until the bitter end, stung with the growing darkness, spreading to his other eye to taint the blue of the iris a similar red. His head throbbed with the divergence of his inner souls, and as his gaze wandered to the sky, free of taint and corruption, he briefly wondered how a simple strike from the Black Mage, how a brief brawl with the bitter adversary, could possibly plummet him so far down.
Only one thought manage to momentarily drown out the screaming in his ears, the darkness threatening to pull him under – the thought of his dearly adopted daughter, still awaiting his return in the woods of Ellinia. The bittersweet memories shared with the youthful girl still swarmed through his thoughts, now mostly filled with the death and screams of those he once considered comrades. It was the only thing he clung onto steadfastly, even as the blackness swamping his being sunk its claws into it and attempted at wrenching it away.
I will return, he called out through the blackness infiltrating his mind, reaching deeply into the core of his body to finally snuff out the lingering light illuminating the darkness of his soul. His eyes – now both vibrantly red – shut against the sight of his fallen comrades whose demise was his cause, and instead fixated solely on the image of a girl with braided straw-colored hair, beaming at him under the brim of her straw hat. He kept her in his mind as clawed hands dragged his consciousness away. I will return, and that is a promise.
And then the world blackened away like the essence of his soul.