Sam threw back his head and roared. It was an animal bellow of rage and desperation. He felt sick. Sick from the continual pain that his presence here brought. But sick also with the knowledge that Aimi was lost to him. Without thinking, his hands plucked forth his swords, a move fraught with anguish and despair. He felt compelled to do it, almost like he had no choice.
As his swords cleared their scabbards an impact slammed into him, so powerful that it struck him completely senseless, knocking his cherished blades from his grasp. A force washed over him cracking his bones.
“YOU DO NOT DRAW BLADES ON ME HERE, DEMON. FOR THAT YOU WILL PAY THE PRICE.”
He felt himself tumbling for the second time in as many hours. Tumbling, but nothing made sense. He didn’t know what was up and what was down. He was dazed, losing a battle with consciousness.
He hurtled towards the ground, limp, frail and senseless. He struck the road with enough force to create a sizable crater and lay completely motionless, his body curled into a fetal position, broken and shattered. Next to him were his swords. Both were broken, in much the same state as he was.
He lay there for some time. Hours later, his body was discovered by the ragged survivors of New York. They gathered in numbers, creeping out from their places of concealment, clustering around his still form.
A whispered conversation took place in the gathering darkness and eventually, a wretched group of men descended into the crater. One gathered up the shattered pieces of his swords while the others lifted Sam up onto their shoulders.
Slowly, gently — almost reverently — they carried him off into the gloom.
