I was particularly happy with the second half of this chapter.
Chapter 46: Cold
The two of them stared at each other for some time, the rumbling of the vehicle nearby sounding distant, everything feeling far-off, the world a trance, even after she had finished telling him what had happened. It didn't matter who she was or how she knew, even if those were questions that would normally be asked. All that mattered was the news that she had brought him. Not all of that really mattered, either. Maia was dead. Somehow, she was, and that would be good, but these words, which would bring celebration in any other circumstance, to hear that one of their enemies was no more, half of their goal accomplished…these words were just that, a string of words to him, with no meaning.
Yes, Maia was dead, one of their hated enemies, but all Jak could focus on right now was the fact that Torn was, as well. That somehow, he was gone, too. She described him as the man with the red hair and the tattoos on his face, and that couldn't get any more obvious. It was the man he had last seen a week ago. Who had scolded him, and rightly so, for his stupidity. It was the man he had worked with over the last several years, whom he had first met in the Underground and whom he had gone on to fight alongside to free Haven City from tyranny and war on more than one occasion. That was the man she had described.
When asked how it had happened, she said she didn't know. Perhaps it was Gol. Perhaps it was Maia, before she had died. And maybe that detail didn't really matter, if the end result was the same either way. She also couldn't tell him who had killed Maia, but it had to be Torn. It had to be. Who else could have done it? The Wastelanders Ashelin had sent out? No, he really didn't think so. Perhaps…perhaps Torn had done this for them, sacrificed himself for them, while Jak sat by and did nothing. That was the only way that what had happened could be made just a little bit better, even if there was really nothing that could possibly make what had happened less horrible. And he couldn't help but feel like he had killed Torn. It was him, not Gol or Maia, even if it was one of them that had actually done it. Because in the end, it was still his fault. If he had gone back there, maybe it would've been him, but it wouldn't have been Torn.
Movement caught his eye as she raised a hand in an unsteady motion and, unsure of what to do with it, settled with scratching her head, a temporary distraction from an uncomfortable situation. Who was she anyway? The only surviving Wastelander that had gone out to the citadel? Because they had surely been killed, as well. They hadn't been gone for long, just several days, but he knew they weren't coming back, either. He opened his mouth, then, turned away from her, question forgotten.
"I…I need to tell Ashelin," he said, perhaps only to himself, and his stomach clenched. It would be a hard thing to say. And he couldn't help but wonder if she'd blame him. She could. She had a right to. It was his fault, at least partly. She should blame him.
He began to walk, no more being said by the woman, or if she did speak, he didn't hear it, and he went through the enormous gate of Spargus as it opened for him. He had so many people to tell. It felt like so many, too many to tell this news to, that one of their friends was gone, that someone they had been through so much with would no longer be there to see where this war led, whether to victory or to failure, even if the latter seemed more likely right now. Torn was gone, just like that, with no chance for goodbyes. Like he had ceased to exist. Just vanished in the wind, like he had been made of sand. Gone, with no second chances. Jak should have remembered that life often gave no second chances. That's why he shouldn't have allowed this to happen in the first place, because he only had one chance to prevent this, and he didn't even try to. Maybe he hadn't known, but he hadn't even tried.
And as he made his way through Spargus' now quiet streets, the place felt even more empty than he knew it was, the houses watching him with hollow eyes for windows, the tents having gone dark, lanterns having been put out for night time, the patrolling Wastelanders feeling like they weren't really there, just specters moving past him through the streets. And they very well could be soon. They could indeed be reduced to nothing just as Torn had been, to cease to exist. They would all be dead, too, if he didn't do something. If he sat back and allowed anymore suffering to take place, if he continued to do what he had been doing, if he refused to take action, they were all as good as dead. He had failed Haven City and Torn and would fail more people if he continued to do the same thing that had caused all of these things to be lost. Nothing. He had done nothing, and everyone had to pay the price for it.
Jak reached the palace and, knowing nowhere else to go to find the person he sought, took the elevator straight up to the throne room, the trip up seeming to take longer than it ever had before. His guess turned out to be correct when he found her speaking to Sig, the king of Spargus currently lounging in his throne, the former whipping around in response to the sound of the elevator, the tension in her body easing somewhat at seeing who it was, but not entirely. She seemed disappointed to see him.
He forced himself forward, silence filling the room as the two watched him, Sig sitting up straighter, like the news of something they feared was already clear in Jak's eyes. Ashelin watched him closest of all, and he only met her gaze for a second before looking away. He stopped, and now came the hard part, delayed when the Governess spoke up first.
"Jak, is something wrong?"
He looked up, forcing himself to meet her gaze no matter how much he wanted to leave and let someone else tell her what had happened. But, after allowing one of his friends to go to his death, when he very well could have prevented it… It was the least he could do. That's right. The least.
"Torn's…" And that was likely enough, but he had to finish. "Torn's…gone." His heart sank just at hearing the words again, this time coming from his own mouth, but he could only imagine just how Ashelin felt. He watched her, and she no longer seemed to be the same person he was normally used to seeing, the person who normally had the fire in her eyes and the will of stone. The change was imperceptible, really, but it was there, nonetheless, and he couldn't say when it had taken place. It may have even been there before he had said anything. All he did know for certain was that, right now, she seemed so different, so…ordinary.
She was silent at first, her eyes no longer looking at him, just staring off at nothing, and all she eventually said was, "I see."
More silence, and Sig stood, raising a hand to set on her shoulder, but didn't, and he excused himself, voice soft, and left the room, Peace Maker forgotten. Should he leave, as well? He wanted to, but his feet were heavy, rooted to the spot. He stared ahead, at the stars twinkling through the wall of windows and at the slow turning of the waterwheel behind the throne, the throne that his own father had once occupied, but he, too, was gone. The room was quiet aside from the gentle sounds of water flowing into the channels surrounding them, sounding like the palace itself was mourning the loss with tears they themselves had yet to shed. Jak was startled from his thoughts when she spoke again.
"How did it happen?" she said, voice flat.
"I…I don't know. But…Maia's dead. Maybe…"
She nodded, and he said no more. It could have very well been her, that witch. It was one of the two, that was certain, and he could only hope it was her, as she was the one who had been punished, even if she got off easier than she deserved, to be free of any retribution Jak could ever bring her. And Torn…Torn must have been the one to kill her. He must have been. There was no one else it could be. No one else besides the Wastelanders that had likely perished in that place, as well. But, it wasn't them. It wouldn't be right if it was them. It should be Torn. It was Torn. Torn was to thank for this. Or was it that he simply wanted that to be the case, so that this whole thing would seem to have more meaning, to have happened for a reason? So that he could go on believing that things happen because there is a purpose for it, that when someone you care about is gone, at least something vaguely good will somehow come of it? No, it was Torn's doing that one of their enemies was dead. It had to be.
Ashelin watched him, never as solemn as now. "Who told you?"
"One of the Wastelanders. She…she must've been one of the ones you sent out…" he said, his words sounding like someone else was saying them, his mind numb as he stared at Ashelin and the windows and the waterwheel and the empty throne, that was not missing Sig, but was, in actuality, missing his father. His father should have been there. But, it seemed that every trial that came his way, he always walked out of it lacking something he once had. His childhood and his innocence. His father and his friend. All of these things were gone now, taken from him. He couldn't afford to lose any more, or eventually, what would he have left?
"The rest didn't make it, then."
He shook his head. That woman hadn't actually said, but it must be the case.
And there was nothing else that needed saying, not right now, and they stood there, both of them no doubt trying to sort out what was reality and what was, in fact, just a dream. Maybe they would wake up and find that the war had never happened. Torn would still be alive, as would thousands of others, and Haven City wouldn't be flooded with Dark Eco. Maybe he'd wake up in Sandover to find none of this had happened, and he was mute and Daxter was still human even. Maybe he'd wake up and things would be worse. They would be worse eventfully. If he didn't do something. They were worse because he didn't do something.
"I…need to be alone," she said.
He nodded, and he turned and left by way of the elevator, the way down taking even longer than the way up, before he finally found himself once again on the streets of Spargus. And the air was cold. It was always cold at night, but it was more like the cold of the temple this night, the biting chill he had felt every night he had spent in that cell, spending his hours shivering and hugging himself for warmth. It was that kind of cold, and he hugged himself now, as his legs took him home, for there was nowhere else to go, and even that was not really home.
And when he got there, he was met with all the familiar faces of those still here, as they came out of wherever they were to ask why he had returned so late, but then this died down when they saw his face, and he sat down on the hard couch, arms still wrapped around himself, and stared at the floor, and their voices began to pick up again as they proceeded to ask him what was wrong, but where could he possibly begin?
Gol returned inside once he was certain he would not get even one glimpse more of the woman and her vehicle, and for a reason he wasn't quite sure of, or perhaps he was, he began to wonder more than he ever had before what had become of those that had lived in this place long ago. Were they killed or did they leave because they wanted to? And if it was the latter, why? Why did they abandon this place? Why was such a place even built, if it was only destined to be abandoned one day? Why did anything exist if it wasn't going to see its full use? What was the point? This place was just one empty mausoleum now, even if there were no bodies in it, but it was a tomb, nonetheless, a testament to the lives that had once occupied it, but no longer did. It was so much more dead a place than it would have been if no structure had ever been built here. If it was just the mountain and nothing more.
Buildings were meant to be used. Villages were meant to have people. It was almost like this place didn't want any part in its intended purpose, however. His sister and he had found it empty, and now that it had life within its halls again, it was only beginning to empty once more, as it had done with those that had been here before them, to become a hollow place just like it had been before they had ever arrived here. It was like there was some kind of curse in this place, pervading the air like an invisible mist, and he could almost believe that right now if his life hadn't been cursed long before he had ever even set eyes on this mountain and this empty building.
Only his servants lived here with him now, but did they really count, when they really shouldn't exist in the first place? He had created them. Otherwise, they would not be here. And even they were beginning to die out, it seemed. Each day that went by, it seemed like he saw fewer and fewer of the things. He hadn't seen any just collapse before him, and yet he swore they were dying off, their numbers appearing to have dwindled to a mere several dozen. That was all he had seen, at least. That was it, after the over a million they used to have. Soon, he would be all that was left.
And now the citadel was empty and silent, and he wandered back inside, and he looked upon the library, which was, even after the woman and he had tried to clean it up, still in a sorry state compared to when he had first seen it, back when his dear sister had first brought him here, back before their work had begun, long before they knew what fate would eventually befall them.
He crept in, a place this silent ought to stay that way, and retrieved the figurines, holding one in either hand, the two wooden versions of themselves looking up at him with rough, expressionless faces, and he couldn't say what they were thinking. Was he a fool, did they think? But, in what way? Was he a fool because of what he was going to do, or was a fool because he was putting it off? He knew what Maia would think, but he couldn't say what his past self would say about his decisions. Perhaps he really was a fool, for even considering the things he planned on doing, things he didn't think his past self would have been willing to do, but whether or not that was because his past self was even weaker than he was now, he didn't know. Or maybe he was making things much too complicated. Maybe he was just a fool because he was putting off his sister's wishes, when he was so very close to completing their goals. Maybe it was as simple as that.
He couldn't keep putting this off, could he? He had to get back to work. But in his defense, it was evening, after all, nightfall, and surely he could wait until morning, couldn't he? Yes, he would wait, and he would get back to work in the morning. And then… And then it would be over. Once he completed the bomb, it would all be over. Yes, he would do it then. He had to. Or he might never do it.
And as the day changed to night, he left the library, his feet taking him to Maia's room, and he set the figurines down on the table and lit the oil lamp, to find the room just as he remembered it, with all the frivolous pillows of different sizes she had accumulated this past year piled up on the bed, with different designs stitched on them, along with frills and beads. And various combs and a mirror propped against the wall sat on the table, beside a round vase filled with twisting, spiraling plants that had been transformed by Dark Eco.
Teeth had gotten free long ago when one of their servants, completely unauthorized, snuck into her room one day and set it free, the offending servant being caught and promptly punished, though, aside from that one glimpse before it was lost to sight around a bend in the hallway, Teeth was never seen again. Maia said she had never seen something move so fast before in her entire life. It wanted to escape from her, he thought, not that he would say it.
He sighed and put the lamp out and grabbed the figurines in one hand before shuffling out of the room. One more night. Just one more night, and then he would get back to work. He promised. He went to his room and put the figurines up on his dresser, standing next to each other on either side of the pearl. He watched the two people, standing there together, just like the way it used to be, just the two of them. They would make the world theirs one day. That's what they had always thought. And now he was left to finish it all himself. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would.
Gol went to bed, though sleep did not come as his mind raced over all the things that would have to happen, and he tossed and turned, which only kept him awake further. These efforts to get a rest he so desperately needed were hindered all the more as he gasped for air just as he always did, the Sage kept awake by the rattling of his own breathing. Eventually, as the hours ticked by, he gave up when he found himself to be just as awake as he was when he first got into bed, and he left the room, hugging himself in the chill air, and began to wander, something he had been doing nearly every night since what had happened. He was surprised he wasn't exhausted from almost no sleep, but it was impossible when there was so very much to do. And so he walked wherever his feet cared to take him, the air feeling so cold, he expected to see his breath, but he didn't, not that he had enough to see anyway.
And he turned down one hallway and then another, propelled by some force he didn't understand, the candles burning low in this deep, dark place, like his time was running out. When those candles burned all the way down…when they burned right down to the stone they rested upon…
He stopped, staring ahead of him, both hands clutched to his chest. He had heard something, he had thought, but he was always hearing things lately. When he heard no more, he padded forward, stooped more than usual, the ache in his back never ceasing anymore, and he stopped at the intersection where two passageways crossed and wrapped the fingers of one hand on the corner, pausing before he peeked around to see a ghostly form, pale, where the light was scant because, here, the candles had burned out, and only distant light reached. But, he saw this pale shape, nonetheless, standing there down the hallway from him, facing away, with hands clasped behind their back, hair swaying in a wind unfelt by him, looking off down the hallway as if they were waiting for something. Or someone.
The Sage watched this figure, and when it didn't just fade away, as it so often had before, he crept around the corner, making his way towards it, though slowed by an urge to go the opposite way. He couldn't face her. He couldn't. Not when all he had been doing lately was letting her down, putting off work that could accomplish their goals. What kind of brother was he, that he put off his sister's wishes, her dreams of several centuries? What kind of brother wanted so desperately to do otherwise, even when, at the same time, he still wanted what her plan would accomplish? He did, he still did. But, not like that. What kind of brother was he indeed?
He stopped not far behind her, his hand moving to join the other in grabbing the fabric of his coat, gripping it tight, his breath growing even shorter than it normally was as his heartbeat picked up, as he thought over what to say. Could he explain himself to her? Would she even hear of his excuses? She was never swayed by excuses. She was strong. He was not.
"Dear sister…" he said, but she made no response, still standing there, watching something unseen in the distance.
"I…I was going to get back to work. In the morning. I promise." He watched her longer. She wouldn't hear of it. No… "But…" Was she even listening? Did she even hear him? Or did he let her down, and… No, she couldn't even know, could she? She was gone. He couldn't disappoint someone that wasn't even there.
"Dear sister…does it…" His legs grew weak, shaky, and he slid to the floor, sitting on the leg that never healed right, that had an ache he usually learned to ignore. "Dear sister, must it really be done this way? Must it really? You saw her here just now. Don't make me kill her. That's…" What would she think? That he was choosing that woman over her? But, he wasn't. She had to know.
"Sister…please…"
She looked to the side, and he flinched, and when she began to turn, he looked away, eyes pressed shut and hands grasping each other. "Do I have to do it, dear sister? Is there really…no other way?"
As before, no response met his ears, and he opened his eyes, chancing a look upwards to see she was gone, the specter, as that's all it was, as it would always be. But, he stayed on the floor, panting for air, hands still locked together. What could he do? What was expected of him, when those that were gone asked him to lose what was left? Of course, in any other circumstance, he would choose his sister, but this was…this was no different. Even when she was here, he fought her. He didn't choose her even then, when she was here with him. Why didn't he choose her? He did as she asked, yes, but he didn't want to.
He forced himself to his feet, head hung low, shaky, and it took some effort to catch his balance, and then he continued down the hallway again, hugging himself for warmth. But, this time, he had an actual destination in mind, and that was where he would head, once he got his bearings again. After a time of searching, he found an intersection he recognized, and then his pace picked up, and it wasn't terribly long before he had reached the place he had in mind, heading through the doorway and stopping before the incomplete frame of the bomb, the large object giving a dull glimmer in the failing light, as even in this room, a good number of candles were burning low, with no one bothering to replace them.
He gave one final shiver before forcing his hands away from himself, picking up a wrench in one hand and returning, at long last, to his work, to begin the second half of the bomb's shell and the final stage of a plan that would result in him losing everything and gaining the world all at once. Because the only way he could stop obsessing over this conundrum was if he just got it over with.
I was not happy with the first half of this chapter for a while, and it took a lot of editing before I was more pleased with it. There is always more pressure when writing such scenes, and I hope I did it justice. Please review.