In the beginning there was Chaos, an endless chasm of nothingness. From the depths of Chaos sprang forth the universe, and the only inhabitants of this premature universe were Light and Darkness, entities of entire opposites.
Because of their opposing natures, Light and Darkness fought a centuries-long battle which ended in a stalemate. Tired but unrelenting, both sides withdrew, spawning children to continue their feud.
The first set of children, Day and Night, reached an impasse and decided upon a truce, hence allowing themselves to coexist with one another peacefully. Furious at their children's disobedience, Light and Darkness disowned them, bearing new offspring.
The second set of children came in great numbers. To Light was born the humans, elves and centaurs; and to Darkness, the goblins, drows and trolls. Now these children warred for centuries on end, never tiring. Yet, even as the hundreds of battles dragged on, there was no clear winner.
Then, in the third century of war, a portion of the humans broke away from their rightful ranks and joined Darkness. Light branded these humans as evil men.
Even with the betrayal, the war seemed without end. The children of Light and Darkness begged their respective parent for a way to end the fighting, and so each side promised to the other a Champion who would lead their respective siblings to victory. By this time, both Light and Darkness had spawned new children: the faeries of the Celestia; the daemons of Pandemonium; the forest folk of the wilds; and the Tainted Ones, poisoned by the River of Death, Styx.
The earth, the battlefield set for children of Light and Darkness, was split into two, and each side dominated a portion of the globe. The world was lulled into a false sense of peace, while Light and Darkness created their Champions.
"What will I get out of this war if I were to win?" Darkness asked one day, while his sibling was busy preparing her Champion.
Light scoffed, "You think it is you who will win this war?"
"Our feud is endless, but the Fates have prophesied me as the victor."
"The Fates are your children, brother; of course they will declare your victory," laughed Light.
"But honestly, sister. Tell me: what would you give me if I were to win this war?" said Darkness, his tone serious. Then he added, "And if you were to win, what would you ask for?"
"I would ask for peace, the peace I know you would not give me even if we settled upon a truce."
"You know a truce is not possible."
Light turned to her brother wearily. "Why do you think I have never asked it of you?"
There was momentary silence.
Then Darkness spoke, "So you wish for peace. Well sister, if you win, I promise you the peace you so crave. But if I win…"
Light cringed inwardly, but hid this moment of weakness well from her brother. She knew about his deepest, bloodthirsty desire, for she was—quite unfortunately—a part of him.
He wanted the destruction of all her children, for that was in his nature.
"You can have it if you manage to defeat my Champion," said Light. "But let me assure you: you will not."
Darkness smirked, and then turned to leave without another word.
Light returned to her glancing pool, which allowed her to glimpse into the earthly realm of creation. Day, the fool of a son she bore so many millennia ago, was rousing; and hark, so was her newborn.
He had a handsome face, and bore the features of every other child Light had ever expunged from her being. He was to be human, but had the enchanting eyes of an elf, flawless complexion of a faerie, unparalleled instincts of the forest folk, the courage of the centaurs and the tender heart of Day (though this last quality was altered slightly by Light, for she did wish for her Champion to fight and end the war).
And so, from the depths of his mother's womb he came to be, for this was how those of the earthly realm came to recreate and breed. The final battle would soon begin—the battle to decide the end of this millennia-old war, the war between Light and Darkness.
The fate of the universe hung in the balance, and the weight of the world lay on the shoulders of this young infant, barely a day old, who lay crying in his dying mother's arms.