The dirt was dry around his pale, white fingers, the tree root was hard but he could sense something round and smooth deeper in. The air had been calm for these last peaceful moments. A peace that would be short-lived once the Azarians and Kaucuns continued their battle beyond the forest. Everything had felt like it was falling apart but this one object that he pulled from the dirt might push everything back together again. It could fix everything.

Israfel rubbed the rounded rock, half white and half black, wiping away the dirt and quickly stuffed it into his pocket and grabbed his drum. The other frontline drummer boys were probably wondering where he ran off to. The Kaucun army would need their drummers to march into battle when the talks would inevitably fail. He ran back toward the open meadow, seeing the great opposing armies standing forty yards from each other.

So much hatred between the white Kaucuns and the black Azarians. He wondered when this war would ever end and how long it had truly been going on. A thousand years? A hundred thousand? He was too young to even comprehend the conflict and why each side would rather fight to the death instead of uniting. One pale as the sun, the Kaucuns, with narrow, waxen faces and sharp jaws. One pitch black, with rough skin like obsidian but strong and muscular.

Israfel snuck through the long grass and made it to the left flanking battalion of 600 Kaucun soldiers, and pushed his way through the crowd and made it to the end of the column with his fellow drummer boys. He saw the Kaucun king standing in the center field. The king’s white banner flew brightly in the air. Adjacent was the broad shouldered queen of Azarians with an untold number of soldiers behind her, addressing the king passionately. This particular battle was over the massacre of several hundred Azarians who were slaughtered at Golden Hill. Another injustice in a long line of cruelties on both sides. The white Kaucuns had banished all Azarian teachings and the black Azaria have forbidden Kaucun teachings, each refusing to learn from the other. Azarians had long been brutally murdered along the Bujahi River and Israfel had sympathized with them over his Azarian brethren.

Bodies of both sides were strewn across the dark field from the previous night’s fighting. Bloodied limbs had been severed and reached out from the mud like black and white flowers, desperate for the warming sun and end to the violence. Rotten smells came to the other boys but Israfel had become hardened to the smells of the dead, having smelt his own father’s death. It only strengthened his belief that needless war and conflict only resulted in unnecessary casualties. Nothing more.

He rubbed the gem in his pocket. Ancient magic had been forgotten before these wars even started, along with any sense of empathy or understanding. Israfel had discovered a dusty book during his studies, in the old library back in Thesolene, which outlined the origins of the old magic. It had surmised that elementals once roamed the planet, created by a singular deity known as Soriano. This being defused his powers across the land and embedded them in the elementals to instill diversity across Terria. Races were conceived from these ancient elementals and spread out across the territories to provide beauty and richness to a world once bland and empty. Plants, animals, and elements of all kinds emanated from the beings. Subterranean, terrestrial, and subaquatic creatures spilled from the bowels of the deities but it seemed Azarians and Kaucuns had become oblivious to this grand scheme and instead embraced these differences with hostility and hatred.

He saw the king and queen waving their hands about and realized it was time. He knew what he needed to do but only wanted to run away. Duty however was stronger than cowardice. It had to be. For the sake of Terria, for the sake of the Kaucuns and Azarians and their children. Sweat moistened his brow, his hands shook, one on the gem and one on the drum. Slowly he stepped from the frontline of the soldiers and approached the center of the field. There was much commotion and pointing from both sides. Chattering whispers and gasps came to his ears. But it was too late to turn back. He envisioned the ancient elementals and carried them with him in his heart.

When he reached the central point, only a few feet from the two royals, the king drew his sword in suspicion while Israfel dropped his drum, drawing his own weapon. He recited the prayer of Soriano and held the black and white gem high above him, dreaming of a more peaceful existence and let go of all hate and contention. The gem exploded with light as the soldiers gasped and repelled in overwhelming adoration. Israfel was lifted off the ground, allowing himself to be taken by the great and powerful god, wishing only that he would become one with Soriano.

And he did.

The gem had disappeared. His small white arms shown through his tattered clothes like a brilliant sun, however one stayed white and grew in radiance while the other turned black and shimmered like a black mirror. His body burst from his clothes as he became something bigger, taller, and lankier. With his new hands he felt his face and was no longer a boy at all. He heard a voice in his head not his own. It was soothing and reassuring, “I am born again. Be calm for I am with you now. Speak to them and let them hear my words.”

As he did as instructed he allowed Soriano to speak through him and accepted his fate that he had melded with the old god, becoming one with him. “Hear me, people of divided races, I have stood idle for too long and have returned to right you on your path of eternal destruction. This is not the way. Too many have died needlessly. You’re hatred is gratuitous and only feeds your primal rage. You fight and bicker over diversity but you should worship it.” Israfal’s voice boomed across the field, like a man’s voice, no longer meek and powerless. His black and white divided body was clearly visible. He was finally proud of who he was and what he represented. “Lay down your weapons and embrace your brothers. You were formed from versatility, to be unique, to be diverse. You cannot escape it. You cannot hide from it. Release your insecurities and your arms.”

As he floated in the air with stoic prestige he watched as soldiers from both sides drop to their knees and relinquished their swords and pikes. Finally, it seemed the war was over. And life would carry on in peace and compassion, the way Soriano had intended.