He was sane once; this was before the accident. He was a fighter. All his life he thought he would fight; the accident stopped that. It should have been fatal. He should have died that day, but the Kusok allowed him to remain. They were not his gods, but they were the gods of destiny.
His performance in the arena declined, sort of, but not actually. He would win, but he would not kill. His abilities changed. He could determine the indeterminate. He hated more and loved less. His insides became as grub. His mind had changed; it was somehow opened into the beyond. He knew less but spoke more. He was a gladiator no more. He thought about things of no significance to life.
His wife was stolen by the Mon-dal. They probably raped and killed her. Daja-mor could never know, but might have. He almost refused to love again; the accident had this influence upon him. His crown of bravery was tarnished after the accident. Nobody cared who had fought in the ram-tel. It was a bloody war that should not have been fought.
He tried to love again; he kept it hidden and watched his new love fade away. He hurt inside. Suicide was his ally. His friends left him or turned inimical. They could not take his change. Diversity was great within his psyche. He was kicked out of the training arenas because his performance was low. He wielded a slower but more accurate sword. His crown rusted and cracked. His home was burned by envious Von-dal. His job was condemned unnecessarily.
He went away to rot. The vomit within him boiled. He could not leave his city. He was bound here somehow. Sleep was his shelter; song was his sustenance. His verses were fragmented and bizarre. No one went near him anymore. He was left to die Alone with nothing; he was no longer loved, no longer hated. Daja-mor was he called, nothing less nor more. Why had he lost control? Why had he allowed his crown to decay? Why were his enemies so few and his allies fewer? The powers he held were growing strange, odd, and queer.
His epitaph was made, but his coffin fit in no hole. He refused death's invitation; he turned the reaper away. In his silence he forced the sickle to the ground. His sleep was known by many, and many tried to prolong his nap. Daja-mor fought them quietly as death waited for a kill.
His thoughts were lost in time. Autistic was he not; he committed no crime. He saw what wasn't to be seen: stillbirths, tragic deaths, and storms.
The people could not take it, to see a man who did not see them but their outcome, their defeat, their destiny. No one fed him, but he survived. He slept standing to be alert. He could sleep in a crowded street or a deserted hall. Both places were the same to Daja-mor; both places were not of his new world. Rags were his cloak, and his crown was decaying, but to him these were the royal dress for a leader. A leader with second sight. To predict an occurrence was one thing; to predict the outcome of an occurrence was something totally different. Children started to listen to his songs, not really knowing these songs were about them or about the consequences of their actions. The wise men dismissed the children from the presence of Daja-mor. Demons inhabited his body and soul; however, a rumor as great i have not heard. It did little good, for the next day the children would return to hear the beautiful verses, bizarre as they were.
The courts declared Daja-mor dead this day. A fluke I am sure, for he lived many years since the accident. The "walking dead" was his title. Everyone was forbidden, by penalty of death, to speak or listen to Daja-mor. A shame, I thought, this would truly hurt him. I met with him early today. I took notes from his songs. We stayed together for quite some time until two guards noticed my presence.
The guards came to punish me. Swords and axes were their weapons of justice. Before my sentence was executed, a rusted crown crashed to the ground. Its splinters flew about. The guards spun to meet Daja-mor face to face. He spoke softly to them. He told them something about death being the sentence for those who heard him speak.
The sunlight flickered off the blade before it turned red with blood. The guards fell to the ground, and I ran for shelter. I was free, but Daja-mor was a killer, a revenant. A dead man? A murderer? I could not help him. He fought valiantly to no avail. They slaughtered him, and why not, for he was dead anyway.
His songs can be heard throughout the day, and in their sleep a standing figure still visits the children. The figure wears a shattered crown and a blood-stained cloak. The sword he wields is no longer red; the sun shines upon it forever.