He hefted his broadsword, a blade of moonlight held in warrior hands, and turned the silver edge on the sea of darkness before him. Aïs cared not where the creatures had come from, nor their purpose, although it seemed to be naught but destruction. He just tore forth, mind numbed by loss and agony, the blood of his son still bright on his face, mingling with that which poured from the deep gash across his forehead.
His dark hair flared like a penant, eyes bright with fire and hatred as he bore down on the murderers that stormed across his village. He cleaved one, and another, and another, watching the shadows ooze forth before feral golden eyes flared forth again.
All around him were screams, roars, a deafening cacophony, the audial sea of sorrow. He registered only on the farthest flung reaches of consciousness, so close to being wiped out by the red haze of hatred, that his own battle cry joined them. All that was left was death. All that was left was pain, pain in his very essence, pain he had to shove out through the world.
But then the darkness was gone, flared out in a sea of red light. He smelled ozone and blood, masking the so-recent smells of summer rain and festeval food and fireworks. A gloved hand touches his shoulder and he's quick to turn, quick to snarl and slash and bare his teeth, but the hooded figure moves before he can strike a blow.
"It hurts," the shadow man drones.
Aïs moans in reply, the rage fading and replaced by sick, icy grief.
"You're alone," another sneers, the slightest hint of contempt in his arrogant growl. Aïs turns and stares down the hunched, broad-shouldered man, but has no eyes to lock on, no face to spit in. Just shadows.
"Your heart must be so full of darkness," another says, sounding almost wistful. He's small and frail and Aïs knows he could break him like a twig, but he's lost the strength to lift his sword, lost the strength to do anything but just barely hold back tears.
"Give in," the first man says. "Give in, and let go. Let the pain fade forever."
He turns his head again, the honey brown eyes which his wife oh god, how she bled, how she cried had called beautiful now blood-shot and full of hate. He tries to stand, tries to charge again, because there's no way he'll just give up to death, no way he'll let himself just die.
"I am Aïs, and I will not give in!" he roars.
But then he feels talons in his back, ripping open cloth and flesh and oh god, he can feel it scraping across his very bones, digging through him to get to the heart. He never stops trying, never stops forcing himself to his feet until the muscles fail him, sending him flat on his chest, flat on his face, and all his can do is scream as it keeps boring into him.
And all he can do is watch as the dark man steps forward, a tiny beam of crimson light extending from a finger, and whimper as it cuts into his eyebrow, down across his forehead until its below his eye.
"Saïx," he mutters.
Then darkness.