Wow, chapter 20! What a milestone.
A serious thank you to everyone who reads this story. It's been a lot of fun to write this, and it's really great to see that the fandom is still thriving even after...(checks notes) almost 20 years? Geez.
Anyway, a thank you to everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I actually split what I was writing into two parts, so the next chapter should be finished soon!
Damas did not head to the throne room once he returned to the palace.
Usually, he would sit on the throne and finish up any business he had left: read any reports, listen to any concerns from his citizens, check in on Seem and her monks. But he found himself unable to focus on the normal tasks, his mind cluttered with memories, thoughts, and feelings.
Instead, he headed down the hallway that led to Mar's bedroom. He opened the door and slowly looked around.
There was nothing here, he thought. Nothing to help his current situation, just memories and ghosts of a life he'd lost. He sat down on the edge of Mar's bed and picked up the stuffed crocadog his son had loved so much. He leaned back, with his back on the pillows, leaning against the stone wall.
How long had it been since he'd sat here, on this bed? It was just as small as ever, not meant to hold an adult body. His legs hung off the edge and the wooden frame creaked under his weight as he shifted. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, memories rolling through his head.
A tiny boy with messy green hair, tucked in Damas' arms, squirming and giggling. "Paaapaaaa, no squish! No squish!"
"I am not squishing you, little one," Damas told him. He tightened his arms in a hug, while Mar squealed playfully. " This is squishing you!"
Mar wiggled so that he was facing Damas. "My turn! I squish, I squish!" He threw his tiny arms around Damas' broad chest, imitating his father's bear hug. Damas pressed his hand to the back of the boy's head, pulling him close. He kissed the green curls and inhaled the scent of the desert itself.
His memories faded, leaving Damas with nothing but his son's favorite toy. He turned the crocadog over in his calloused fingers.
Was Ionna right? Was he really letting his judgement be clouded by fond memories and superficial similarities? Did he really see so much of Mar in Jak, that he was willing to put others at risk?
He clutched the crocadog tighter. No, he assured himself. His logic was sound: Jak was a fine warrior, but he was young . Inexperienced. Rash and foolish.
No, this mission was vital; failure would probably doom the entire world at this rate. He needed to send his best and brightest.
And it had nothing to do with the way his heart twisted when Jak smiled, or the strange pride that welled up in his chest after a successful mission, or the flash of paternal protectiveness he felt when he saw Jak do something reckless.
Damas closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the stone wall. He was tired; it had been a long night. As much as he wanted to get up and head to his own bed, his body didn't seem to want to move. Eventually, exhaustion won out and Damas felt himself falling into unconsciousness.
Through the haze of half-sleep, he felt the crocadog slip through his fingers. And no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to keep a grip on it.
On the other side of the city, Ionna tried to distract herself with her work.
There was an uneasy feeling settling in her chest. Maybe it was Damas' sudden presence, or maybe it was simply the new information they'd deciphered. It seemed the more they learned about these Dark Makers, the more dangerous they were. These enemies were smart, smarter than any metal head or Marauder. And smart enemies made for troublesome ones.
They needed to find the Eco Sphere, and they needed to find it fast. Of course, she mused, that presented its own problems. Mainly that no one knew where the damned thing was.
Ionna had been absolutely certain that the artifact was nowhere in the Monk Temple; she and Seem had searched the place top to bottom. But the fact that the Dark Makers seemed to be circling the temple...well, that was a clue right there. As concrete proof as she would get: the artifact had to be somewhere there.
And she couldn't shake the feeling that Jak was the key to finding it.
Shoving her conflicted thoughts and feelings aside, she began her evening rituals: sweep the floor, fold the blankets, wash the bottles. As she was portioning out medicine for the next morning's patients—the world may be ending, but the Wastelanders still needed their health—she was forced to face the thoughts she'd been avoiding.
Jak.
Of course Damas saw Mar when he looked at the young man. He'd confided in her, not long after Mar's abduction, his breathing still ragged from his injury, that he couldn't stop seeing Mar's face.
Everywhere.
In his dreams, in his nightmares. Anytime he closed his eyes. In the shadows along the walls, in the reflection of the water. In the faces of Spargus' children as they passed by. He'd seen Mar so often, he became blind to everything else.
But when she looked at Jak, Ionna didn't see Mar.
Oh, there were bits and pieces: the way his hair fell, the shade of his eyes, the sly smile he had (whenever Daxter could coax it out of him). Not to mention a certain affinity for trouble-making.
But Mar, at least to her, was the little boy who clung to her hand and hid behind her legs. Mar was a timid child, shy and playful, a cautious explorer of the world. He fiddled with his amulet when nervous and begged his father to read him ancient bedtime stories. He loved animals, chasing after the kangaroos and stroking the leaper lizards' bellies.
But Ionna saw something very different in Jak.
A young man, burdened with power, but unsure how to wield it. Someone caught between what he wanted, what was expected, and what needed to be done. Forced into a role he had not been prepared for. Hailed as a hero, hated as a monster, actually neither.
No, when Ionna looked at Jak, all she saw was Damas.
The people were protesting.
Peering down from the palace above, Ionna asked what, exactly, the huge crowd of Haven citizens was protesting. Damas gave her a cheeky grin.
"Well...me, I'd suppose." He leaned against the railing of the roof, looking down. "Praxis and Ali warned me. Wartime rations make for civil unrest. I suppose they got tired of having to ration eco."
From his other side, Praxis made an almost growling noise in his throat. "Foolish people think that just because they throw a tantrum and scream the loudest, they get what they want."
"There have been no reports of property damage or injury," Yasir interjected. "So far, these protests have been peaceful marches through the city. I doubt they will escalate."
"No excuses!" Praxis snapped. "These people should listen to their leaders, not rebel against them. Your Highness, we should call in the guards, have them disperse the mob. Put a curfew in place to keep the peace."
"..." Damas hesitated, then shook his head. "No. Like Yasir said, they're just protesting, making their voices heard. Let them shout."
"You need to be more forceful!" Praxis argued. "You are the king! You must make your power clear. If you do not put your foot down—!"
"You've made your opinion known," Damas said curtly. "I'll take it under advisement, but right now, I want to focus on more important things." He turned around and leaned his back against the railing. "Antwon, you had an update from the eastern outposts?"
"Yes, sir." Antwon nodded and straightened his shoulders, always the perfect soldier. "The metal head nest near the eastern mine is dwindling. The metal heads have begun to retreat."
Yasir nodded to Ionna, a graceful smile on his face. "It would appear our young sage's idea was correct. Clever thinking."
"Great. That gives us some breathing room," Damas said, relieved. "Have the foreman figure something out to reduce runoff from the mine. Then we can start operations again."
"Maybe they'll stop protesting then," Ali muttered. Damas gave a dry smirk, but said nothing.
"We should still station troops near the eastern mine." Yasir folded his arms, looking out at the horizon thoughtfully. "To ensure the nest is purged of metal heads."
Antwon made a noise of agreement. "If we drive them out, they would be less likely to settle there again."
"I will begin to pull some soldiers together," Praxis said. "Twenty-five men should be enough to clear them out."
Damas hesitated, then said, "I will lead the troops."
Praxis huffed out an aggravated sigh, while the other men eyed each other warily. "We have discussed this, Your Highness," the general said gruffly. "You are a child, the last heir of Mar, the king of Haven City. You are far too important to die in battle!"
"I am far from a child!" Damas jerked his head towards Praxis; his crown slid a bit to the side of his head. Still glaring daggers at Praxis, he adjusted it smoothly. "I have a duty, to my people and my city. I have fought the metal heads before, I am not afraid!"
"You fought in skirmishes along the city walls," Praxis snapped back. "Failed attacks from weak enemies, just scouts testing our defenses! Nothing like this!"
"With all due respect, Your Highness," Antwon said delicately, "the frontlines of the war are a different breed. You have fought well in defense of our city, but this...this is an offensive attack."
Ali was not delicate, nor did he mince words. "Men will die. You have to accept that you could be one of them."
"You are very brave, Your Highness, and it is noble to want to lead your men. But your life is much too valuable to risk." Yasir gave him a sad smile. "The city already lost your father; we cannot lose you, too."
Damas shifted his gaze down, avoiding their eyes. "I know all that..." They were quiet again, waiting for him to speak. He clenched his fists. "But I can't let others fight alone. I will lead the soldiers."
He lifted his head to gaze at them all, violet eyes glinting with steel. Daring them to defy him, readying himself for a fight. Praxis sucked his teeth, but didn't say anything. None of the other guards disagreed, though none of them looked particularly pleased.
Damas nodded in satisfaction. "Then, we will begin the planning of the assault tomorrow. Until then, we're dismissed."
Though none of them looked particularly happy, Praxis least of all, they nodded respectfully to Damas as they headed for the elevator. Ionna hesitated, then approached him near the railing.
"Your Highness. I would like to join you during your fight against the metal heads."
Damas looked surprised. He eyed her appraisingly, probably remembering the sparring match they'd had not long ago. Finally, he said, "If you want to. Far be it from me to keep you off the battlefield, especially after that display."
"Thank you." Ionna hesitated, watching him. He put his hands on the railing, steadying himself as he looked down. "...No one would blame you, you know."
"Blame me for what?" he asked absent-mindedly.
"For choosing not to fight." She looked down, to where his gaze fell. There were hundreds of people, packed into the bazaar, chanting and waving flags. "No one blames you for the horrors of war."
"It's not about blame." Damas turned to her, frowning. "It's about responsibility. Look down there." He gestured out to the protesting crowd. "Praxis sees a mob, but I see people. People who have sacrificed for this war. They've given up spouses, children, siblings, friends. Some have even given up their own health. Now we're expecting them to give up the simple comforts, a hot meal or a light in the darkness?"
"Very poetic," Ionna mused. "Empathy is a rare trait in most leaders. But you aren't making people give up those things. The metal heads, this war, the...situation. That is what is truly causing suffering."
"And it's my responsibility to stop it." He gave her a sideways glance. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm putting too much pressure on myself."
"It crossed my mind." She leaned forward on the railing. The palace was the second-highest place in Haven City, second only to the Mountain Temple. At night, she wondered, did Damas look up and feel like he could touch the stars, just like she sometimes did?
"It's not pressure," he continued. "It's reality. I can't run away from being the king, I can't pretend I'm not the one in charge."
"I don't envy your position," Ionna replied. "A crown is a heavy burden to bear. But always remember...you do not have to bear it alone." She gestured to the door the Guard had just left through. "All your advisors are behind you."
"...Thank you for the reminder." Damas flashed her a grin. "You know, you're pretty wise for someone so young."
"Mmm, it came with the hood." She tugged on the rubber headwear and he chuckled.
"What'd you get with the facepaint?" he teased.
"Acne."
Damas' laughter echoed across the barren rooftops, bold and fearless. And for a moment, with the sound echoing across the glass panes of the windows, he sounded almost hopeful.