Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm just playing in Naughty Dog's sand box.
-Chapter Twenty-One-
Jak honestly could not remember a time when he hurt as much as he did right then. It was a struggle even to maintain consciousness, especially now that the threat had passed. Even beyond the pain of his injuries and the dark eco he could still feel poisoning his body from the Metal Head's earlier torture, his nerves felt raw and burned out - from the torture or from channeling all that eco, he didn't know - and he was so lightheaded he could barely think.
But there was one thought racing through his head, repeating itself over and over, that he just couldn't ignore. He latched onto it, in fact, clutching at it like a drowning man with a rope. When Damas tried to gently lay him down, he shook his head and hooked his fingers into the king's armor. No. He didn't want to leave the man's arms. Not until he knew.
"Let go, Jak," Damas said sternly. "I need to take a look at your wounds." As he spoke, he started prying Jak's fingers loose.
Jak shook his head again and tried to catch his eyes - blue eyes that could almost be purple, a man standing over him as sand-laced wind blew through his hair - and when he opened his mouth, for the first time in his life he didn't think as he tried to speak. He just formed the word and let the sound come out.
It came out raspy and raw.
"Fa... ther...?"
He had to know. He had to know if the Metal Head was telling the truth. All his life he'd wondered, telling himself he didn't care, but he did, and now here was the first clue he'd ever been given. And it was a clue that fit. Samos, the boy, the Rift Gate, the way things felt familiar and different, the reason why he couldn't find Sandover - what if time travel was what the Rift Gate did? It would explain so much.
Damas' hand stilled at the question. Then slowly, almost regretfully, he shook his head. "No," he said, his voice soft. "The Metal Head was toying with us, Jak, trying to manipulate our emotions. But it isn't possible. There is no such thing as time travel."
Jak stared up at him, searching every line of his face even as a lump formed in his throat. He didn't want to let the idea go - but Damas' serious expression left no room for doubt. His eyes closed as he fought the hurt of disappointment. He had wanted... He had hoped... His train of thought slid out of focus and his head lolled ever so slightly before he could think to stop it. This time he didn't resist when Damas lowered him to the ground.
"Shit." Sig was there, had somehow joined them, but Jak could not remember when. He opened his eyes in time to see the Wastelander crouch down next to him. "That bastard really did a number on him."
Damas was grim as he agreed. "Indeed. And without eco, I am not certain he will survive to see a medic."
"Hell, I don't see how we can get him across the pit without gettin' a platform or somethin' from the surface."
Damas shook his head. "There's no time," he said. "I will have to see what I can do with the power in the Precursor stone. If I can separate the different kinds of eco..."
Was that even possible? Jak didn't know. There was so much about eco that he didn't know, so much he'd learned since coming here, light eco and vents and shields and stones, bullets in guns and empty shells on the floor. His thoughts drifted... then suddenly came back into sharp focus when Damas laid his hand on his chest. With a feeble sound of protest, Jak curled his fingers around the man's hand.
No. No more eco. The thought alone made him want to wince. His body hurt, but his nerves felt even worse. He'd channeled so much, pulled in every drop that he could, and then even more when Damas' help had amplified the stone's power. He felt empty and broken, like those shells on the floor, and he never wanted to touch eco again - especially not the eco in that stone.
But Damas ignored him, his hand immovable. "Breathe, Jak," he murmured. "Just focus on breathing." Threads of green began to lift away from the faint glow that surrounded him, and they traveled down his arm and into Jak's chest. Jak was surprised when it didn't hurt.
It just felt... warm.
Warm and sand and someone holding him and someday he'd be a warrior because that's what he'd said. He'd fight monsters and bad guys, and then his father...
His father would be proud. Because he'd be... just like...
"Mar." The name slipped through his lips so easily he almost didn't realize that he'd spoken. Even when Damas started in surprise, he could barely pull himself out of hazy delirium long enough to answer his confusion. "Just like... Mar. I remember... you said..."
Was he even speaking? Or was it more of the dream? Damas didn't seem to understand because he was just staring at him. His throat hurt, though, so maybe he was just screaming. He remembered screaming a lot.
No. If he was screaming, he wouldn't be lying on the floor and letting his eyes drift shut. He'd still feel claws and dark eco and a monster's hot breath, and Damas and Sig wouldn't be sitting next to him. They'd be fighting, and so would he, no matter how much he hurt, because that's what warriors did. And he really, really wanted to be just like...
Just like...
-o-
"...father..." The hoarse whisper before Jak fell unconscious was so soft Damas almost couldn't hear it. Even so, something tightened in his chest and he closed his eyes briefly.
Father. He never had asked Jak about his parents. Apparently, Jak knew as little as he did if he believed there was a chance that Damas could be his father. There was a certain, bitter irony in that. The boy must have lost his father just as he had lost his son. Damas wondered if the Metal Head had known all this when it picked out the story that it would use to trick them. It seemed too convenient to be a coincidence. Then again, Jak did look a good deal like his son. If the Metal Head had ever seen Mar, it would be fairly easy for it to imagine a connection, especially with Jak's talent for channeling eco. Either way, it made for a very believable lie.
But a lie was all it was.
"Damas." Sig broke into his thoughts. When Damas looked at him, the other Wastelander nodded his head toward the broken bridge. "You want me to go topside to find somethin' for the bridge, or you want me to stay and watch your six?"
"Go," Damas said. "If there are any Metal Heads left, they would have come when their leader was in danger. I doubt they would attack now that their leader is dead. Just get me Jak's gun from where I dropped it." Because even though he did not think he'd be attacked, it did not hurt to be armed just in case.
But they needed to get Jak out of here as soon as possible. It was difficult pulling green eco from the complex mix of power in the stone and the process was far too slow and exhausting to be anything more than a stopgap measure to keep the boy from dying before they could get him to a medic. Damas would burn out long before Jak was healed completely.
Sig nodded and stood, needing only to look at Jak to understand the reasoning behind the command, and soon Damas was alone in the chamber. Alone except for a teenager who would not be waking up anytime soon. As he paused to collect more eco, returning what he'd already sifted to the stone, he let his eyes roam. He lingered on the Precursor ring, dented badly out of shape and perhaps never to be fixed. Then he moved on to the statue that had once held the stone he currently had in his hand. It would have been ideal to return the stone to its original resting place, but with the condition that all the doors were in, Mar's tomb was no longer the safest place to keep it. He would have to find a different hiding place. He let his eyes return to Jak.
Only to stop midway when he noticed something lying on the floor. His breath froze in his chest. No. It couldn't be.
But there it was, just barely within his reach, and it was with trembling fingers that he reached out to pick the amulet up. The familiar weight and feel, the tiny chip in the otherwise smooth side, even the old leather cord he could remember tying, though the knot had come undone - there could be no denying whose seal this was.
The Metal Head's words echoed in his head. Only a few minutes ago, just before you showed up, your son went through a Rift Gate that took him to the past.
"Mar," Damas whispered. His son had been here. And, if the Metal Head was to be believed, he had gone through that ring... the ring that was now possibly too broken to fix. Grief welled up within him anew as he clutched at the seal in his hand. He'd been so close. So close. If only...
But now he's come back, all grown up.
Unwilling and yet unable to do anything else, his eyes were drawn back to the sleeping teenager. It couldn't be. It couldn't be possible.
Don't you recognize him?
He put the seal down and slowly, carefully placed his hand on Jak's head, pushing his goggles back so that his hair could fall free. It was longer than Mar's had been, but that was only to be expected. Was it his imagination, though, or was it trying to twist and lift in the exact same patterns?
Just like... Mar. I remember... you said...
Only Damas had never named his son in Jak's presence or remarked on their resemblance anywhere the boy could hear, nor had he made such a comment in reference to the original Mar. Not to Jak, that is. He had, however, once told his son that he would grow up to be just like the ancient warrior.
You're reading too much into this, the logical part of his mind numbly told him. The boy had been delirious, his words barely intelligible. It could all easily be a coincidence.
Unfortunately, he still did not like to believe in coincidence.
But what did that leave him with? Time travel? The notion was absurd. If the past could be changed, the future that had formed it would cease to exist and so the change could never happen. Even if a stable loop could be formed where the altered events in the past produced the very future that would send someone back to repeat it, there still had to be a beginning. There had to have been an original set of events that did not include time travel, and then they were right back where they started where the past that was formed could not be created once the original future was changed.
It made his head hurt just thinking about it.
And yet, when he looked at Jak, he couldn't completely rid himself of the doubt that had been planted. Even as he returned his attention to the task of keeping the boy alive, he couldn't help but wonder...
What if it was somehow true?
-o-
When Sig returned to the chamber in the tomb, he found Damas and the kid right where he'd left them. Jak was still pale and unconscious, though most of the blood had been wiped away and his injuries had been bound with strips of cloth, most likely from Damas' cloak. Damas, on the other hand, looked worn out and exhausted, but still surrounded by swirling eco. Having never channeled eco in his life, Sig had no idea what it felt like, but he knew he'd never seen the king deal with the stuff for so long.
He was still alert, though, looking up the moment Sig entered the room. The troubled expression on his face vanished in favor of relief, especially when he saw the zoomer that Sig was carefully guiding. Sig would have liked to have brought something larger, but the cramped elevator at the entrance wouldn't allow it. Still, this would at least get Jak across the broken bridge.
"Good," Damas said wearily. He lifted his hand from Jak's chest and the glow around him faded. As Sig flew the zoomer over the pit, the king wrapped the Precursor stone in the remains of his cloak, then set it aside so that he could scoop Jak up. However, when he tried to hand the boy over, Sig shook his head and dismounted.
"No," he said bluntly. "Maybe you don't have a mirror to see it, but you look like leaper crap, Damas. I'm still fresh as a daisy. You take the zoomer and Jak, and I'll jump across."
Something glinted in Damas' eyes, reminding him that the king had never been one to take orders from others. After a moment, though, the stubbornness receded and the man gave him a tired nod. That more than anything said what kind of condition he must be in. "Very well," he said. Then he nodded his head toward the bundle on the ground. "Put the Precursor stone in the seat compartment."
Sig nodded and did as he said, and as soon as the stone was safely stowed, Damas swung a leg over the zoomer's seat and settled Jak in front of him. It would be an awkward ride at best, as he needed one arm wrapped around the unconscious teen to keep him from falling off, but Damas managed well enough. Sig followed behind him, making the leap and grabbing onto the ledge with relatively little trouble. Once they were on the other side, Sig took point, his gun out and ready in case they were attacked.
The tomb remained quite, though, and the only trouble they encountered came from the fish, which Sig knocked out with the butt of his Peacemaker. Before they reached the elevator, though, Damas stopped the zoomer so that he could wrap his scarf back around his head. Then he turned to Sig.
"I want to take Jak back to Spargus," he said. "I trust the monks more than any medic in Haven, and I do not think it would be a good idea for any of us to remain in the city. If the Metal Heads managed to penetrate this deep without raising any alarms, there is no place safe within the walls."
Sig frowned. "That ain't a short flight, Damas. You think Jak can last that long?"
Damas nodded once, with no sign of doubt. "His wounds have stopped bleeding, for the most part, and I can keep him stable with the Precursor stone."
That would mean more channeling, though, and Damas was already tired. Sig gave the man a piercing look, but he had no way to judge his limits on this. He'd have to trust Damas to know what he was doing.
"Right," he said. "Let's go."
The elevator was crowded with all three of them and the zoomer, but it managed the load with ease, a testament to the Precursor technology that had been used to make it. When they emerged from the tomb, it was to a scene much like the one they'd left behind when they had first entered, the lives of the Havenites untouched by what had happened down below. Only a few people even glanced at them while most just trudged on with averted eyes, too wrapped up in their own problems to notice anyone else. Frankly, that was just fine with Sig. The less attention they drew, the better.
It wasn't all that far back to the docks and the landing platform, or he would have considered finding another zoomer. As it was, he could travel fast enough on foot to keep up with the pace Damas was forced to maintain by both the traffic and the difficulty of maneuvering and holding onto Jak at the same time. In short order, they were back at the landing platform, where the pilot had obviously been instructed to wait. Damas immediately dismounted and carried Jak into the transport while Sig retrieved the stone from the zoomer, making sure that it stayed well wrapped. He didn't worry about the zoomer itself. He hadn't exactly gotten hold of it legally, so he didn't care if it was stolen right back.
The door closed almost as soon as he got on, and the transport lifted off the ground. Well used to the sudden motion from all the trips he'd made, Sig found his balance easily enough before he dropped down next to Damas and handed him the bundle. The man finished pulling his scarf off, then nodded as he accepted the stone. Once the cloak was removed, giving him access to the stone beneath, he placed his hand on Jak and began to channel again. Once more the light of eco surrounded him, mostly white with sparks of green that quickly traveled down his arm and into the boy on the floor.
Silence descended, broken only by the hum of the transport and the soft crackle of swirling energy.
Sig opened his mouth.
But Damas spoke first. "He said he grew up in Sandover." There was a strange expression on his face, puzzled and pensive, like he'd just been given a drink by a Marauder who claimed they were friends. He couldn't believe it wasn't poisoned, but the fact that he hadn't died yet was making him forced to reassess.
He's thinkin' about what that Metal Head said. Sig hummed noncommittally. He didn't know what to think about it either. Normally, he wouldn't believe a Metal Head even if it told him the sky turned black at night, but something about this particular story rang too close to what he'd already begun to suspect. He didn't know if time travel was possible, but if it was...
If it was, was it really that far of a stretch to think that Jak might be Damas' grown son?
Still, he would let Damas draw his own conclusions. "Yeah," he said. "But Daxter said he came from somewhere else when he was just a kid."
"Hnn." Damas frowned, the lines on his face looking particularly pronounced in the strange light of the eco around him. Still channeling, he moved his hand up to smooth the hair away from Jak's face. "Nonetheless, he claims to have lived in a village that no longer exists."
There wasn't exactly much to say to that, so Sig just nodded. On the surface, it seemed that Jak's story fit with what the Metal Head said. His story would be possible if there was time travel involved.
But that didn't necessarily mean that was the only explanation, and therein lay the danger of making assumptions.
"Maybe," Sig said cautiously, "you should wait until Jak wakes up before you think about this too much."
Damas continued to stare at Jak for several long moments before he finally looked up. His eyes were still distant, though, and his expression still lost in thought. "Yes," he said. "I want to know what happened before we showed up."
-o-
Jak's return to consciousness was slow and lethargic, and it took him a while to even realize that he was awake. Then someone gave him something to drink, and almost immediately his awareness faded. He didn't mind. The warm, drug-filled haze was pleasant and comfortable - infinitely preferable to being in pain. He readily drank each time he felt the cup pressed to his lips.
He was dimly aware of time passing, as light sometimes filtered through his eyelids and other times didn't. Sometimes he thought he felt someone near, someone besides whoever owned the clinical hands that held the cup and changed his bandages, but the vague, familiar presence always kept a careful distance. Other times it was a different person, a man with an easygoing voice who talked without caring if Jak was listening.
Eventually, though, he came to and was not presented with a cup. He lay there for a while, content to enjoy the soft bed he was in while his mind slowly accepted being awake. Even when he opened his eyes, he wasn't inclined to move. His body ached dully, informing him that it hadn't been that long since he'd fallen asleep.
Someone moved into view, leaning forward so that Jak could see him without turning his head. White hair framed his stern face, and his distinctive armor creaked.
Damas.
"Jak," Damas answered him, as though Jak had spoken out loud. "How are you feeling?"
Like I got run over by a zoomer. That was what he wanted to say, but it was too complex to communicate with just one hand. His other arm, besides being bound up tightly, felt too stiff and sore to even think to use. Jak ended up settling for lifting his hand and letting it flop back to the bed. Yeah, that was about the way he felt.
Damas' hand settled on top of his, gently but firmly trapping it in place. Jak blinked and furrowed his brows in confusion, but soon found himself pinned by the man's stare. "Jak," he repeated. "How are you feeling?"
Jak tugged on his hand. How did Damas expect him to answer if he couldn't-
Father?
Jak stilled as the memory of the aftermath in the tomb resurfaced. He remembered what the Metal Head said, what he'd thought, and the question that he'd asked out loud. He remembered, too, the answer he'd gotten, and again he felt a flash of disappointment.
But that wasn't the issue at hand. The issue was the question, the fact that he'd spoken. It hadn't been a dream or his imagination.
And now Damas expected him to use his voice again.
He hesitated. It seemed so impossible, even though he'd done it once. He'd tried so many times before and met with no success. What had made this one time different? Still, his mouth formed the shape of the word that he wanted. He wouldn't know if he could if he didn't try.
The croak that came out only half-resembled anything coherent, making Jak wince with a different kind of discouragement. He mouthed the word again, then again, so that he wouldn't need to think about what he was saying, he could just concentrate completely on getting the sound right. He would do this. He could.
His voice rasped even worse than before.
Frustration bubbled hotly under his skin and he had to close his eyes to fight back the emotion. His good hand balled up into a useless fist. Why? What am I doing wrong?
"Stop trying to force the words out," Damas said, recapturing his attention. "People rarely think about their words as they're speaking. You spoke before when your mind was preoccupied with pain. Try focusing on something else before you open your mouth."
Jak frowned, but he'd tried just about everything else. Unfortunately, that was easier said that done. How could he not think about what he was doing when it wasn't second nature to him? No matter what he tried thinking about - Daxter, Sandover, riding zoomers in the basin - his mind kept skipping back to his mouth and his throat. He ended up coughing on the strange way his vocal cords seized up.
Damas regarded him for a moment, then suddenly tightened his grip. "Focus on this," he said as his fingers dug into Jak's skin.
Jak gasped and winced, though it would take a lot more than what Damas was doing to equal anything the Metal Head had just put him through. That didn't mean it was comfortable, though, and again he tried to free his hand.
"Focus!" Damas snapped.
Startled, Jak did as he was told. Unlike his memories, Damas' fingers were solid and real, and his grip on his hand was firm. It was easy enough to think about them and the pain in his hand as long as Damas kept applying that pressure. It...
"...hurts..."
He almost didn't realize he'd spoken at first. He didn't recognize that sound as his voice. It was scratchy and imperfect, but it was coherent, and it had said a word. His eyes widened as he looked at Damas.
The man was smiling. "Good. Very good, Jak." He released Jak's hand. "Now try it again."
Something inside him warmed at the smile and, encouraged by the praise and his own success, he opened his mouth again. "It... hurts," he said, and it was so hard to keep thinking about the pain in his body when joy was flooding him. Two words. Just two words. But they were his and they could be understood. His voice rasped when he tried to add, "A little."
"Good," Damas said again, not seeming to mind the slight backslip. Then the smile faded into something more serious and he reached a hand inside the fold of his clothes to pull out a small stone amulet. "Now, what can you tell me about this?"
Jak's eyes went to the amulet, tracing the pattern of circles carved into the front, and after a moment he realized that he recognized it. It was the amulet the boy had worn, the one he fidgeted with when he was scared or nervous. When had he dropped it?
Damas cut into his thoughts, his voice laced with tension. "Jak."
He looked at the king, and found himself trapped by an intense purple gaze. This question was important. So important that Damas needed him to speak, to tell him exactly what he knew without relying on vague gestures or pantomimed impressions. There could be no room for guesses.
Jak found himself swallowing. Could he do this?
"There was..." His voice cracked, then gave out on him, and with a grimace he pressed his nails into his palm. Focus, he told himself. Focus on this.
He tried again.
"There was... a boy. He... wore it. I sent him... after Samos... through the ring. That's why..." He had to pause to take a breath and swallow again. His throat hurt and his mouth felt so dry. Was speaking always going to be like this? "That's why I... didn't want you to open it. If it was closed... he was safe."
Something indescribable passed across Damas' face. Then he closed his eyes, suddenly looking so old. "I see." Before Jak could say anything else, though, he opened his eyes and looked at Jak, almost as though he was studying him. "This... Samos. He'll take care of him?"
Not certain exactly what was going on, Jak nodded. He knew that much at least. "Samos... helped raise me. He's... a good man." Strict and stern and with a tendency to go off on long-winded rants, but he'd taught Jak and kept him safe. He'd even found someone to take him in. If the boy was with him, he'd be in good hands.
Even with Jak's reassurance, though, Damas' shoulders still seemed to be weighted down. The corners of his eyes were tight and his lips were pressed into a thin line. Jak hesitantly reached out to touch his hand. His throat was tired, though, unused to what he was doing with it, and he no longer needed to be precise. It was easy to fall back into old habits and let his body communicate for him. What's wrong?
Damas didn't answer him for a long time. When he did, it wasn't a direct response. "Do you remember anything before you lived in Sandover?"
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, catching Jak off guard. He stared at Damas uncertainly, then lifted his hand and wavered it. Not... He caught himself. "Not... really," he croaked out. "Just... sometimes... I have dreams."
"Dreams?" Damas echoed.
Jak nodded and dropped his hand back to the bed, where he began to pluck at the sheets. It felt strange to be talking without moving his fingers, and it left him feeling restless. Or maybe it was just the awkwardness of the topic at hand. His dreams weren't something he even discussed with Daxter. "I think... maybe... I lived in a desert. I have a dream sometimes... about a man... and lots..." His voice disappeared for a moment, forcing him to back up and try again. "Lots of sand." He coughed. It was getting harder and harder to get the words out, even with the trick of using pain to distract him.
Damas reached out and picked up a cup from a table next to Jak's bed. When he pressed it to Jak's lips, though, it only held water, with no hint or trace of the drugs he'd been given before. Jak drank it gratefully anyway, and it seemed to help soothe some of the pain in his throat. Damas set the cup aside.
"In your dreams," he said, "did this man ever speak to you?" He still had a strange expression on his face, as though he'd never quite seen Jak before. The heavy emotion from before was there, too, but Jak still couldn't figure out what it was. Pain or grief, or maybe defeat.
Jak stared back at him, wondering why it mattered. Even if it was a memory and not just a dream, it must have happened years ago. What could it possibly have to do with... with anything? But Damas continued to watch him, waiting for an answer. Jak shifted uncomfortably.
"He said... someday I'd be a warrior. Just like..." He fumbled for the name. What had it been? "Just like..."
Damas closed his eyes, and for the first time Jak noticed how ragged his breathing had become. "Mar," he whispered. "Just like Mar." His head bowed and his body shuddered once.
Mar. That had been the name. Jak's eyes widened in surprise and he struggled to sit up, alarmed by the way Damas was reacting. What was wrong? Damas? His body protested every movement he made, but he ignored it, reaching out for the man's shoulder. Was he having a heart attack?
But Damas' hand intercepted his before it could touch him, and when his eyes opened they were as clear as ever. For a moment he said nothing, just held Jak's hand as he struggled with whatever he was thinking. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then looked up to study Jak more closely. Not knowing what was going on or what Damas was looking for, Jak held still. There was something important about all this, something he was missing. He searched Damas' face for a clue to what it was.
Finally, the man spoke. "I took my son into the desert once," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Shortly before he was taken from me. We lived in Haven, but Spargus was where he was born, where his mother lived before she died. I was taking him to her grave so she could see how he was growing."
Whatever Jak had been expecting him to say, this was not it. Not something so personal and private. He almost felt like an intruder even though Damas was sharing it willingly. He opened his mouth.
But Damas shook his head, cutting him off before he could speak. "I told my son stories on the way there," he went on. "To keep him entertained." The corners of his mouth lifted into a brief, nostalgic smile. "He always liked the stories about Mar the best. I think he liked to think the stories were about him." The smile faded, and his expression once more became serious. He met Jak's eyes. "I named my son Mar, after the great warrior. And I told him..." He hesitated. "I told him someday he'd grow up to be just like him."
What? If Jak had been still before, it felt now like his muscles were frozen. What was Damas saying? He couldn't be... He'd said...
"You said... time travel... was impossible." The words scratched and broke, but he didn't care. He was having trouble just breathing. "You said..."
"I know," Damas said. "But I do not know everything, and I cannot deny the evidence in front of my face. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe you are... my son." His voice was thick with emotion as he said those last two words. "All I know is that you sent my son through a gate with the man who raised you, a gate that a Metal Head claims would have taken them to the past. You also traveled through such a gate, from a village that no longer exists. You look so much like him..." He shuddered again, and this time Jak recognized it for what it was: a man too proud and strong to give in to his grief.
His son. For a moment, Jak forgot everything else in the realization of who that child was. That little boy was Damas' son?
Heir of Mar.
Damas of the House of Mar.
The Metal Head's words came back to him, telling him he should have figured that out a whole lot sooner. But the Metal Head had also called him an heir of Mar, and he wasn't... Damas wasn't...
He took a deep, shaky breath. He'd been ready to believe that Damas was his father when the Metal Head had first made that claim, but he'd been in so much pain, he hadn't been in any state to think clearly. Now... Now he didn't know what to think.
He looked at his hand, the one that Damas still held by the wrist.
He remembered a hand holding his, so much larger, so warm, but not as warm as the sand.
And when he looked at Damas' face, he could see wind blowing through white hair that was bound into separate pieces.
He swallowed. Could he really believe? Not just pretend for the sake of wanting a father, or to make up for sending Damas' son through the gate, but really and truly believe? He took another breath.
"Say it," he said hoarsely. "Say what you said to... to your son. In the desert."
Someday...
Damas regarded him for a moment. Jak couldn't tell if he was considering the request, if he even understood why Jak was asking, or if he was just trying to remember the exact words he'd said. Jak locked eyes with him, refusing to back down or be intimidated. He had to know.
Someday you will be-
"-a great warrior," Damas murmured, his voice overlapping with the voice in Jak's memory. "Just like Mar." He never blinked or looked away, and his attention was so complete and so serious that it felt like the words were meant for Jak and weren't just being repeated.
Something inside the teen gave way. His throat constricted, making it impossible to speak, but that was okay because his body knew how to say what he wanted. With a soft sound, he leaned forward and buried his face in the startled king's chest. He didn't care that it was a childish gesture, or that Damas' armor didn't make it comfortable. He wouldn't have cared if anyone else had walked in, either. Right then, nothing else mattered, especially when Damas' arms hesitantly, awkwardly wrapped around him.
Because he had found his father.
-End Chapter Twenty-One-