Dajaex Mirou
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Dajaex Mirou
128
son of Akheron
god of the river Akheron, god of pain
Kin: n/a
Friends: n/a
Rivals: n/a
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
It was only a matter of time. He knew it all along. No one can survive long in this nightmare anyway. Why should he be any different? Why should he be exempt from the rules? Of course he shouldn't. Of course he wouldn't ever be. He just never thought it would really happen. Not to him at least. Even now, he lives in denial. Until his father reminds him of the truth he finds so hard to face. This is Dajaex Mirou. This is Dajaex when he was young. Wide eyed. Innocent. Fearless. Naïve. Blissful. At that happy age when the world is a playground and the sky is always blue, even when it’s gray. This was his fantasy. His safe haven. This was his reality. A woman shunned by society for her infidelity. A whore who slept around, who couldn’t keep her pride, who ran to the first man she saw once her husband was off at war. A trouble maker. A home wrecker. An adulterer. The product of a jealous town’s lies. A woman hated. A woman scorned and despised. A woman brutally wronged in the dark of the night by a faceless foe who wanted nothing more than his own sick pleasures. Distressed. Mutilated, both inside and out. Alone. Afraid. Broken. A man. Her husband. A hero. A soldier. Brave and fearless. So terribly betrayed by his petty wife. Such a poor man; to return from god knows what horrors of war to find the worst of sins has been committed by she who was dearest to him, she who was most faithful to him. A man. Disgraced. Heart broken. Troubled. Determined to stay with his wife. Brave and stupid for doing so. But he loved her. He believed her. He knew the truth and he ignored the lies. The ignorant voices of the citizens in their city, their neighbors, friends, relatives: they were nothing compared to the truth she spoke and the truth he believed in. Then she had a son; the product of that dreadful night. He was a beautiful boy with raven hair and ocean blue eyes. But she would never see him. She died halfway through the labor and he had to be surgically removed from her before he too died. His father, for it is best to refer to him as such as he never referred to the man any other way, was grief stricken, but took the child nevertheless. He named the boy Dajaex, the name of a war friend of his who had fallen in battle. And so, the two of them, began their life. Dajaex was a lonely child, but it was his choice and his father did not hinder it. He had no friends and very few acquaintances. When he went to school, he sat alone, neither communing nor conversing with others. He did his work and then went straight home. He lived a quiet life, and for that he was content. He would oft hear others speak of him. Quiet, murmuring whispers behind his back. He knew they spoke of him, for they looked and pointed and hushed each other up when he came too close. Then, one day, he overheard what was spoken of him. He went to his father about it, for it troubled him greatly. “Dad? What’s a whore?” His father was furious that Dajaex would use such a word, but Dajaex explained he heard his teachers talking about him, and they called his mother a whore. His father never told him the story or explained to the confused boy what cruel things were being whispered about him and his dead mother. Instead, he fell very quiet. It confused and disturbed Dajaex greatly, but he didn’t press any further about it. A month later, his father moved them to a city, far, far away from the little town they grew up in. His father called it a new start. A new life. It was hell. His father lost the job that was promised to him and they couldn’t afford the house. Any attempts at getting work failed miserably, and the two were forced to move into the ghetto. Dajaex spent most of his days sick and starving, huddled next to the boiler trying to keep warm as winter hit. He had to drag himself through the streets, begging for food, while his father begged for work. He was often beaten and ignored, being nothing than a gutter rat. His father finally found a job in a car factory, but by that time, Dajaex’s health plummeted. The medical bills were ridiculous, and they barely made enough to live on because of his expensive medicines. It all ended abruptly when local gangs did a drive by shooting at his father’s factory. His father was killed trying to help some of the workers escape. Police came to the house a few days later for some investigating and found Dajaex, pretty much at death’s door. He lived at an orphanage for most of his life. When he turned, fifteen, he left to return to the little town where he grew up. He had this feeling gnawing at his insides that he had to go back there. So he did. Once there, he learned. He learned who his father was, his real father. He learned about his mother, or at least what they thought of his mother. The town didn’t want him though. Once he had learned what there was to be found out, he left, never to see it again. He grew. He learned. He adapted to the world, taking every challenge as it came. He never complained, for he had learned early in life that complaining was useless and seldom got him anything. He struggled through life, but despite the struggle, he was ever determined. There were days when he was happy, and there were days when he found himself once more at death’s door. He took the good with the bad, the ugly with the beautiful, not because he wanted to but because he had to. And through it all, he tried to discover himself. And that journey began with a single step: finding his father. Though he would never call the man father, he eventually did discover the identity of his biological parent. His biological father is a very delicate issue, one that must never be brought up. To do so would not inspire a violent or radical reaction, merely it will affect Dajaex internally. When approached on the subject, he may cringe, flinch, or perhaps simply blink. Then he will respond to the approach in a calm, collected manner. Dajaex does not hate as a rule, for he finds there to be no logical reason to hate. But he does reserve that singular emotion for his father. His father was the one who raped his mother and eventually caused Dajaex to exist. Dajaex blames the death of his mother on his own existence. If he had never been born, his mother would still be alive. And in essence, it is his father’s fault for him being born, making his father the initial blame on his mother’s death. His father was Akheron, the god of the river Akheron, the god of pain. The particulars on how son and father met are unknown. Even Dajaex does not quite recall. From what he remembers, he confronted his father somewhere in the midst of the Underworld, facing against the god with a strangely colored short sword. The god merely laughed at his petty attempts to threaten him, and cast him into the river. Dajaex prefers not to recall the events thereafter. All he may remember is that over a century later, he was freed of the black waters and was roaming aimlessly in the world of the living. He found some relief. He hid himself from the world. Alone. Afraid. Every sound made him jump, every beam of light made him cringe. He crawled into some forgotten corner of the city and curled into a ball, ready and waiting to die. But he didn’t. He had a life to live yet, and death would not come so quickly and sweetly as he longed for it to. With a despairing heart, he was forced to abandon his misery. He walked the world a dead man, mimicking the life he had come to regret having. He became a shell. No, not a shell. He became the creature without the shell. Raw, naked, and vulnerable. Helpless. It took him a long, long time to come to terms with what had happened to him and this new world he had been thrown into, and it took even longer for him to finally snap out of his state. When he did, it was like coming up for air after being held under the water for so long. Only, it wasn’t the world of the living anymore.
128
son of Akheron
god of the river Akheron, god of pain
Kin: n/a
Friends: n/a
Rivals: n/a
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
It was only a matter of time. He knew it all along. No one can survive long in this nightmare anyway. Why should he be any different? Why should he be exempt from the rules? Of course he shouldn't. Of course he wouldn't ever be. He just never thought it would really happen. Not to him at least. Even now, he lives in denial. Until his father reminds him of the truth he finds so hard to face. This is Dajaex Mirou. This is Dajaex when he was young. Wide eyed. Innocent. Fearless. Naïve. Blissful. At that happy age when the world is a playground and the sky is always blue, even when it’s gray. This was his fantasy. His safe haven. This was his reality. A woman shunned by society for her infidelity. A whore who slept around, who couldn’t keep her pride, who ran to the first man she saw once her husband was off at war. A trouble maker. A home wrecker. An adulterer. The product of a jealous town’s lies. A woman hated. A woman scorned and despised. A woman brutally wronged in the dark of the night by a faceless foe who wanted nothing more than his own sick pleasures. Distressed. Mutilated, both inside and out. Alone. Afraid. Broken. A man. Her husband. A hero. A soldier. Brave and fearless. So terribly betrayed by his petty wife. Such a poor man; to return from god knows what horrors of war to find the worst of sins has been committed by she who was dearest to him, she who was most faithful to him. A man. Disgraced. Heart broken. Troubled. Determined to stay with his wife. Brave and stupid for doing so. But he loved her. He believed her. He knew the truth and he ignored the lies. The ignorant voices of the citizens in their city, their neighbors, friends, relatives: they were nothing compared to the truth she spoke and the truth he believed in. Then she had a son; the product of that dreadful night. He was a beautiful boy with raven hair and ocean blue eyes. But she would never see him. She died halfway through the labor and he had to be surgically removed from her before he too died. His father, for it is best to refer to him as such as he never referred to the man any other way, was grief stricken, but took the child nevertheless. He named the boy Dajaex, the name of a war friend of his who had fallen in battle. And so, the two of them, began their life. Dajaex was a lonely child, but it was his choice and his father did not hinder it. He had no friends and very few acquaintances. When he went to school, he sat alone, neither communing nor conversing with others. He did his work and then went straight home. He lived a quiet life, and for that he was content. He would oft hear others speak of him. Quiet, murmuring whispers behind his back. He knew they spoke of him, for they looked and pointed and hushed each other up when he came too close. Then, one day, he overheard what was spoken of him. He went to his father about it, for it troubled him greatly. “Dad? What’s a whore?” His father was furious that Dajaex would use such a word, but Dajaex explained he heard his teachers talking about him, and they called his mother a whore. His father never told him the story or explained to the confused boy what cruel things were being whispered about him and his dead mother. Instead, he fell very quiet. It confused and disturbed Dajaex greatly, but he didn’t press any further about it. A month later, his father moved them to a city, far, far away from the little town they grew up in. His father called it a new start. A new life. It was hell. His father lost the job that was promised to him and they couldn’t afford the house. Any attempts at getting work failed miserably, and the two were forced to move into the ghetto. Dajaex spent most of his days sick and starving, huddled next to the boiler trying to keep warm as winter hit. He had to drag himself through the streets, begging for food, while his father begged for work. He was often beaten and ignored, being nothing than a gutter rat. His father finally found a job in a car factory, but by that time, Dajaex’s health plummeted. The medical bills were ridiculous, and they barely made enough to live on because of his expensive medicines. It all ended abruptly when local gangs did a drive by shooting at his father’s factory. His father was killed trying to help some of the workers escape. Police came to the house a few days later for some investigating and found Dajaex, pretty much at death’s door. He lived at an orphanage for most of his life. When he turned, fifteen, he left to return to the little town where he grew up. He had this feeling gnawing at his insides that he had to go back there. So he did. Once there, he learned. He learned who his father was, his real father. He learned about his mother, or at least what they thought of his mother. The town didn’t want him though. Once he had learned what there was to be found out, he left, never to see it again. He grew. He learned. He adapted to the world, taking every challenge as it came. He never complained, for he had learned early in life that complaining was useless and seldom got him anything. He struggled through life, but despite the struggle, he was ever determined. There were days when he was happy, and there were days when he found himself once more at death’s door. He took the good with the bad, the ugly with the beautiful, not because he wanted to but because he had to. And through it all, he tried to discover himself. And that journey began with a single step: finding his father. Though he would never call the man father, he eventually did discover the identity of his biological parent. His biological father is a very delicate issue, one that must never be brought up. To do so would not inspire a violent or radical reaction, merely it will affect Dajaex internally. When approached on the subject, he may cringe, flinch, or perhaps simply blink. Then he will respond to the approach in a calm, collected manner. Dajaex does not hate as a rule, for he finds there to be no logical reason to hate. But he does reserve that singular emotion for his father. His father was the one who raped his mother and eventually caused Dajaex to exist. Dajaex blames the death of his mother on his own existence. If he had never been born, his mother would still be alive. And in essence, it is his father’s fault for him being born, making his father the initial blame on his mother’s death. His father was Akheron, the god of the river Akheron, the god of pain. The particulars on how son and father met are unknown. Even Dajaex does not quite recall. From what he remembers, he confronted his father somewhere in the midst of the Underworld, facing against the god with a strangely colored short sword. The god merely laughed at his petty attempts to threaten him, and cast him into the river. Dajaex prefers not to recall the events thereafter. All he may remember is that over a century later, he was freed of the black waters and was roaming aimlessly in the world of the living. He found some relief. He hid himself from the world. Alone. Afraid. Every sound made him jump, every beam of light made him cringe. He crawled into some forgotten corner of the city and curled into a ball, ready and waiting to die. But he didn’t. He had a life to live yet, and death would not come so quickly and sweetly as he longed for it to. With a despairing heart, he was forced to abandon his misery. He walked the world a dead man, mimicking the life he had come to regret having. He became a shell. No, not a shell. He became the creature without the shell. Raw, naked, and vulnerable. Helpless. It took him a long, long time to come to terms with what had happened to him and this new world he had been thrown into, and it took even longer for him to finally snap out of his state. When he did, it was like coming up for air after being held under the water for so long. Only, it wasn’t the world of the living anymore.