Chapter Text
Sig remained silent as they descended back to ground level, the loud rattling of the lift mirroring the white noise in his mind-- Damas was right; there was no other likely explanation for the misconception (at least as long as they were ruling out 'marauders are idiots') but it wasn't one he liked. 'Jak... always seemed like a good kid,' he said slowly, as the lift bumped to a stop. 'I can't see him gettin' mixed up in somethin' like this, least not on purpose...'
'I don't want to believe it either,' said Damas. 'But I will not let that cloud my judgement-- I only want the truth, and this is the best lead we've had since he was taken.' Damas stepped off the lift, the door sliding open before him. 'Whether Jak had some hand in it, or simply picked the amulet up by chance, not knowing what it was...'
Sig fell into step beside Damas as he started back towards the shore at a brisk pace-- the pain and uncertainty in his eyes were all too clear; there would be no turning back now, even if a part of him feared what they might discover. Sig wasn't blind to the way Damas had come to care for Jak in the months since he'd turned up in the desert-- it had always been Damas's nature to reach out to young people who had been cast aside, to ensure they wouldn't suffer the same chilly neglect he had endured all throughout his own childhood, and Jak had needed that guidance more than most. Sig had thought that was good for both of them, a chance to let old scars heal... until now, when it could very well come crashing down on their heads.
A betrayal from Jak would cut deeply, more than Damas wanted to let on and possibly more than he even realised himself-- he would be fine, eventually (because Damas was nothing if not resilient) but Sig still worried about the immediate fallout, didn't want to see his oldest friend hurting like that. 'Damas... What do we do, if...?'
Damas shook his head, seemed to pick up exactly what Sig was thinking without him needing to say more. 'By our laws, all who come to Spargus have the right to earn a new start free of their past actions, and as Ruler of this city I must honour that. I will not lose sight of my duty.' He glanced at Sig, a look that said he knew that wasn't really what Sig had been asking; his integrity as a leader had never been in question. 'But... there are some things I personally cannot forgive.'
'Fair enough,' Sig replied softly-- after all, he was in much the same position. He loved Damas's son as his own, had been willing to drag himself through the worst of Haven's filth for the sake of the bright-eyed child he still remembered so vividly, to go where Damas could not... he'd risked and sacrificed so much just for the chance to bring the little mar home safely, and would have done it a thousand times over if that was what it took. Sig might have grown fond of Jak and Daxter during his time in Haven, but it would be for nothing if it turned out they had done the unthinkable.
Sig started to say something else, some attempt at consolation, but then Damas's communicator buzzed, and he automatically reached for it and accepted the call. 'Yes?'
'Lord Damas! The war party's nearly back at the gates.'
Damas halted abruptly, silent for a couple seconds, then he turned and started back along the canyon road. 'I'll be there,' he said into the comm, then clicked it off again and returned it to his belt.
Sig caught up to him. 'You sure? I can see to it if--'
'No.' Damas didn't slow down, his expression firm. 'I still have a promise to keep.'
Sig paused, and it took him a moment to remember-- the marauders' slaves, whom Damas had offered a chance at citizenship. Of course Damas would want to welcome them in person, as he always did. Sig said nothing more, followed Damas to the gates.
They arrived just before the war party, and all at once the vehicle pit was flooded with activity-- warriors reporting in with their accounts of the battle, monks and medics treating the wounded, drivers pulling their cars into parking spaces, Kleiver showing up only a couple minutes after Damas to berate those who had damaged their vehicles and muster up a small team of bleary-eyed mechanics to begin repairs... Damas stood at the centre of it all like the eye of a storm, untouched by the chaos around him, his own personal turmoil carefully hidden beneath the calm surface.
As the vehicle pit began to clear, Damas turned to address the small group of ex-slaves-- he knew from the reports that none had refused his invitation (as it was clearly a better option compared to the uncertainty of the open desert) though there were fewer here than at the river-fort; not all had made it through the battle alive, and most had sustained some injury in the fight. The woman Damas had singled out as their leader would have a few new scars to show for it, but there was also a faint glimmer of respect in her eyes-- she had not entirely believed that he would make good on his promise, perhaps not until this very moment.
To most, this introductory speech would have sounded indistinguishable from any other-- Sig could tell that Damas's thoughts were elsewhere, but only thanks to nearly two decades of experience reading him. This was an important survival skill, the ability to put personal feelings away until the danger had passed. Damas had become very good at it over the years.
But it was eating at him, and the new Spargans still needed to be assigned temporary quarters for the night-- not to mention adding them to the training and work rosters, ensuring they received treatment for their wounds and basic equipment, explaining how the various city systems worked-- a dozen little time-consuming details. Sig smoothly took over, giving Damas a look that said he had somewhere else to be, that he'd done his part-- Sig half expected Damas to refuse, but he simply nodded and put a hand on Sig's shoulder, then slipped away into the darkened streets.
---
Daxter sat on the rocky outcroppings overlooking the sea, sick with worry despite the monks' reassurances that Jak would be fine-- it wasn't enough, not until he'd seen Jak with his own two eyes. Even if his friend was asleep, even if it was only for a minute... but no, the monks had been very firm on their no-visitors rule, so here he was, alone and without anything to stop his mind from turning up every single possible worst-case scenario (as well as a few that were entirely illogical, just for good measure).
Of course he had intended to stick around at the wards until they finally let him in, but the healers had rapidly lost patience with his frenetic pacing and the incessant questions about Jak's status. In the end, the monk in charge of the ward had informed Daxter that he was being a Disturbance to both healers and patients alike, and if he couldn't calm down and wait quietly he would have to leave.
As much as Daxter had longed to fight back, demand to see his friend right now... he just hadn't had the energy to argue. He tried to tell himself that there was no chance he'd be able to change their minds anyway, and making a scene here would only get him in even more trouble, and the healers really did have Jak's best interests at heart (even if they went about it in the most stiff and insufferable way possible)... but deep down, it still felt like giving up.
He'd tried to wait on the steps outside the entrance, found even that to be utterly unbearable-- he'd wandered aimlessly at first (couldn't bear to return to the small room he'd shared with Jak since the first arena trial either) and finally he'd wound up here, at Spargus's rocky shoreline, staring blankly out at the waves that surged tirelessly against the cliffs in the vain hope that the rhythmic crash of the sea might drown out the endless cycle of exhausted worries running through his mind...
It was dark here, far darker than the seaside near Haven had ever been-- something about the close proximity to the city lights and its haze of smog had ensured that the nights were never truly dark, even on the far side of the shield-walls, with only a handful of the very brightest stars making it through the pollution. Daxter had never quite paid attention before, but he supposed he'd taken the stars for granted back in Sandover (he didn't think back home, because Sandover had been Keira's and Jak's home but he, Daxter, had never been wanted or welcome-- he wasn't sure 'home' had ever been a place so much as the presence of even one person who wanted him around-- but that thought started to lead him some strange places and he quickly dismissed it). In any case, the night sky over Spargus contained many more stars than Daxter had seen in years, enough for him to lose himself in their half-formed patterns...
Daxter's efforts to distract himself had probably been a little too effective, because he was jerked back to the present by the sound of worn boots on the rocks, and realised he had lost all sense of time passing (aside from the fact that it was still dark out, still the same long night as when they'd arrived back) and he looked up to see that Damas had stopped beside him, staring out to sea as well, his face as inscrutable as the dark waters.
After a moment in which neither of them spoke, Damas crouched down (sitting on his heels in a way that struck Daxter as rather unkingly). 'Daxter... there is something I must ask of you,' he murmured. 'Can I count on you to be honest?'
There was something odd in those violet eyes; Damas seemed troubled, uncertain even. After the events of the past day, when he'd always moved forward with aggressive determination and absolute certainty, it was chilling to see him look so... lost.
'Y-yeah,' Daxter managed. 'Uhh, is something wrong? Jak's... gonna be okay, right?'
Damas stared at Daxter for a couple seconds as though the question had been entirely incomprehensible-- but then he shook his head and answered, 'I am certain Jak will make a full recovery. His injuries were not overly severe.'
Daxter let out a breath and sat down again; somehow it was a lot more reassuring coming from Damas. But... 'What's eatin' you, then?'
'Months ago, when I...' Damas paused, decided to start over. 'You seemed to know something about Jak's parents-- I know it is a sore topic for him, so I wondered if you could tell me more.'
If Daxter found the question odd, he refrained from commenting. He shrugged slowly, looking into the distance. 'Not much, really... just that he's an orphan, as far as anyone can figure. He was always really bothered by it, back when he was a little kid-- got better over time, but then after everything that happened in Haven...' Daxter shook his head. 'He was worried about what they'd think of tall-dark-and-gruesome if they turned out to be alive somehow. Dunno what those bastards said to him in there, but they sure put some crazy ideas in his head...'
Damas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. '...Any parent who would reject their child over something like that is undeserving of the title,' he muttered-- more to himself than Daxter, the remnant of some old half-buried grievance. Daxter almost asked, but Damas glanced over at him and continued. 'Is there a particular reason why Jak is worried about that? Did he remember them at all when he was younger?'
'I... think he might've, at least a little,' said Daxter. 'But I never asked him about it-- couldn't even if I'd wanted to. Jak didn't really talk when he was a kid, and it took me a while to learn how to read him well enough, and by then I never really thought to ask...'
Damas blinked. 'He didn't speak? Not at all?'
Daxter shrugged. 'Jak used to be a mute-- never said a single word out loud the whole time we was growin' up back in Sandover, though he didn't really need to, at least not with me. Guess he would've been at least fifteen before he started talking...' Daxter looked down at his hands, missing the odd expression in Damas's eyes at this revelation. 'Can't imagine what finally pushed him over the edge... You know, I said to him once, way back when we first met, that he should never feel he had to talk, not unless he chose to-- and then in the end he was pushed to it by those bastards.' Daxter's hands curled into fists. 'I shoulda been there sooner, made sure he never had to...'
'We all have times in our lives that we regret,' Damas murmured. 'Things we wish had played out differently...' He looked up at the sky. 'And so we must make the most of the time we do have, live every day in defiance of those who would take everything from us...'
Daxter swallowed hard and nodded, rubbing the back of his forearm over his eyes. 'Y-yeah...' He glanced up. 'Hey, uh, if there's anything we can do... you know, to help you find your kid... I'm sure Jak'd do anything, and I... I want to help, too.'
Damas turned at that, fixing Daxter with a piercing stare-- and not for the first time, Daxter reflected that Damas had a way of looking at you like he could see straight through you. 'Daxter. A moment ago, you mentioned that you and Jak grew up in a place called Sandover. The only 'Sandover' I know of was destroyed centuries ago, before Haven City was founded.'
'Oh. Uhh... did I say that?' Daxter kicked himself mentally; he must have let the name slip out without thinking-- and just his crappy luck, Damas was apparently one of the few people to recognise what it meant. 'Well, ah, it's... you know...' His ears drooped back against his head; the steely glint in Damas's eyes indicated that he wasn't going to give up until Daxter answered the question properly. 'I mean, it's a crazy story even by my standards-- couldn't come up with something this weird if I tried, and believe me, that's saying something.'
Damas raised an eyebrow. 'Having lived quite a few crazy stories myself, I find that's often the case. However improbable this story sounds... I would like to hear it.'
For once in his life, Daxter paused to choose his words carefully. It was still so strange and new, not something he'd ever expected, but over the past day Damas's trust had grown into something he valued deeply... and he knew that if he screwed this up, he might very easily lose it forever.
'...We did grow up in Sandover,' he began slowly. 'You know I wasn't always fuzzy, right? Well... turns out falling in dark eco has pretty weird side effects sometimes. And, long story short, we went on a big journey to try and get my old body back-- you can see how well that turned out-- but here's the important bit: at this old citadel place way to the north we found a super-sized transport ring all covered in runes, and a weird little machine kinda like a zoomer but chunkier. And we shipped this crap back home and got it all set up, cause Grandpa Green said it was important, and...' Daxter took a deep breath. 'Well, first of all, we might've kinda started the whole metalhead invasion thing, cause when we activated the transport ring a whole mess of the buggers came swarming out-- and then when we drove our zoomer-thingy through, we landed in Haven. That was a little over three years ago now.'
'So... you are telling me that you and Jak originally came from hundreds of years in the past, just happened to stumble upon some sort of time machine, and used this device to travel to Haven City,' said Damas, his tone carefully neutral.
Daxter winced at this blunt summary; somehow it sounded a lot more absurd when he wasn't the one saying it. 'Uh... yeah, that's pretty much it-- we didn't mean to end up in Haven, had no idea what the tech was even supposed to do, but-- yeah.' Daxter paused. '...Well, except for one thing-- turns out Jak actually came from Haven to begin with, and the old geezer took him back to Sandover so he could grow up someplace safe, away from all this.'
Damas gave Daxter a long searching look. 'Haven City is full of orphaned and neglected children-- a problem that I'm certain Praxis has done nothing to improve. Why would this... 'geezer' go to such great lengths to protect one child out of so many?' There was something strange in those violet eyes, something Daxter couldn't quite identify-- under other circumstances, he might've thought it was fear, but that didn't make any sense, and Damas didn't leave him time to wonder about it. 'What was it that set Jak apart?'
'It's cause he was...' Daxter squirmed; Jak hadn't wanted his identity to be widely known, but Daxter couldn't see any way out of explaining now that he was already in this deep... though at least, Damas was probably the last person to treat Jak any differently based on his ancestry. '...Jak was the heir to the city, descended from Haven's founder,' Daxter explained, ears lying flat against his head. 'Or that's what they all seemed to think, even though no one had the faintest idea where he'd come from or who his parents were-- just a big load of mystical crap about him opening some dusty old tomb, and I guess when they found him he had this big fancy necklace with Mar's seal on it, but that's still pretty weak proof if you ask me...'
Damas sat in silence as Daxter trailed off, then very suddenly stood up and started walking.
Daxter had to scamper to catch up, jumping to a low wall nearby and then up to Damas's shoulder. 'W-waitaminute, where are you going?'
'I must speak to Jak.' Damas glanced sideways at Daxter, but made no attempt to dislodge the ottsel from his shoulder. '...I suppose you may come, but only if you promise to remain silent until I say otherwise.'
'O-okay...' Daxter fidgeted, drumming his fingers against the edge of Damas's pauldron. 'Uh, if it's about him being Haven's heir... he's kinda touchy about all that, ya know? He's happy here, more than he ever was in Haven-- he never wanted to be king of anything, least of all that mess of a city. Most of 'em got no idea who he is-- I mean, they all thought the Kid was the heir, but we hardly told everyone about all the time travel nonsense...'
'Mm.' Damas's stride was long and purposeful, his violet eyes sharp-- like a hunter stalking prey.
Daxter laughed weakly, as though he hoped it might alleviate the tension. 'Heh... I mean...' His ears drooped, his normally loud voice trailing away to something barely audible. '...Who'd believe in time travel, anyway?'
Silence, save for the crash of the sea in the distance and the soft rhythmic crunching of Damas's well-worn boots against the sandy streets of Spargus. When he finally spoke a minute later, he hardly sounded like himself-- his voice too soft, too broken.
'Daxter. I... do not take you for a liar.'
He looked up, startled, mind buzzing with a thousand questions but none of them quite made it out. 'Then... why...?'
Damas shook his head. 'This is something I must hear from Jak.'
'But...' Daxter finally found his voice again. 'Even if he's descended from kings, or grew up in the past... does any of that change who he is now?' His small hands curled into fists against Damas's shoulder. 'I thought you'd be the last person to care about that sort of thing.'
'I don't,' Damas answered bluntly, slowing down as they neared the entrance to the healers' ward. 'At least... not in the way you are implying.'
Daxter frowned. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
'I will explain later.' Damas waved to a Spargan at the door, following them inside. 'Remember that you promised to remain silent.'
Daxter grumbled something inaudible, but he settled down on Damas's shoulder and didn't protest further. He still didn't understand what was going on, but he could detect the sense of purpose in Damas's voice-- whatever was troubling him, it was deeply important to him and apparently had something to do with Jak, and Daxter hated the prospect of being shut out entirely. If there was ever a time to keep his mouth shut, this was it.
They passed through the small antechamber and into the darkened ward beyond-- unlike when Daxter had tried to come alone, the healers made no attempt to stop Damas from passing, and simply nodded to him as he strode towards the screened-off section at the far end of the long narrow room. A single lamp had been lit, its light visible through a gap in the screens; as they approached Daxter was relieved to see that Jak was already awake-- and clearly alert enough to be bored out of his mind, because he was glaring daggers at the monk-healer who was sitting watch. His scowl only deepened when the monk blandly suggested (for what sounded like the umpteenth time) that he should try to sleep.
Damas glanced at Daxter (giving him a final warning look) then pushed one of the screens open. The monk (who had the clearest view of their entry point) immediately stood to attention. 'Lord Damas!'
Jak's head snapped around, and his expression brightened upon seeing Daxter; Damas held up a hand and looked to the monk. 'You may leave us-- I will call if we need anything more.'
The monk inclined their head and bowed out-- it was a clear dismissal, and the look in Damas's eyes said that he did not want to be disturbed.
Jak picked up on the nonverbal cue as well, the odd tension in the air, and his smile slipped. 'Dax...?'
Daxter instinctively bunched up to leap to the bed, then caught himself and looked sideways at Damas. 'Uhh--'
Damas picked up the stool recently vacated by the monk, setting it near the bed. 'If you are feeling well enough, I would like to talk. Is that all right?'
His voice was perfectly calm and neutral, but the request still made Jak squirm. 'Sorry... guess I really caused you a lot of trouble this time...' Jak looked up at Damas. 'I tried to tell them they'd made a mistake, but they wouldn't-- they just kept saying-- they wouldn't listen.'
'When the marauders assumed you were my son?' Jak twitched at those words, as though he'd been slapped, and Damas sighed. 'I am not angry with you, Jak.' He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. 'Tell me what happened-- the marauders ambushed your party in the caves, correct?'
'Y-yeah...' Jak shook his head. 'I don't... remember much, but at first they were just going after all of us, and... must've drugged us, somehow. I tried to make sure Dax was safe... fight didn't last long, after that.'
'They used sleeping-gas,' Damas explained. 'The cave was rigged with pressure pads, buried in the sand near where they'd left Dannik's corpse, so that the weight of any vehicles sent to investigate the beacon would activate the gas.' Damas snorted. 'A remarkably sophisticated trap, for marauders-- without Daxter's warning, we may very well have fallen for it, too.' Jak blinked at him, and he waved it off. 'What came next, after you woke up?'
Jak took a moment to collect his thoughts. '...They'd taken all my stuff, my gun and knapsack and ammo pouches, my boots and all my armour... even went through my pockets.' He spoke as though he meant to sound indifferent, but the look in his eyes told a different story-- he'd felt violated, deeply disturbed at the thought of strangers grabbing at his unconscious body. '...They must've already got that idea into their heads, somehow, because they were acting all weird around me by the time I woke up again... sort of frantic, I guess? And when they saw I was awake, they shoved some strong-smelling stuff in my face, kept me mostly unconscious like that until we got to the fort...'
'Did they say anything to you?'
'The big one... the leader, I guess, he kept taunting me. Gloating about how they were finally going to catch my... I didn't realise they meant you, at first. I tried to tell them I never knew my father, but they just laughed, and...' Jak hung his head. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled again. 'It must've been terrible, thinking you might actually find your son, and then...'
Damas shook his head. 'Jak, you are not to blame for what happened-- and to be honest, we suspected it was a trick from the beginning.'
Jak's head jerked up again. 'But... you still came...?'
'As I would for any of my people,' Damas finished. He pulled one of the recovered beacons from his belt-pouch and held it in the palm of his hand for Jak to see. 'That is the purpose of these war-amulets, which every warrior of Spargus has earned the right to carry-- so that in our greatest need, we may always call for aid, and know that our allies will answer.' Damas's gaze was level, sincere. 'This is my first duty as Ruler of Spargus, and this same loyalty is all I ask in return.' He set the amulet down on the edge of Jak's bed. 'There is one more topic I must address-- can I trust you to answer truthfully, Jak?'
He sat straight, as much as he could against the cushions. 'O-of course-- if I can help, I want to--'
But he fell silent again as Damas pulled a second small object from a pocket, held the coppery-coloured amulet up so its polished surface caught the lamplight. 'Do you recognise this?'
Jak started to reach for the amulet, but Damas held it back, placed his free hand gently but firmly on Jak's shoulder and pressed him back against the cushions. Jak huffed out a breath and let his arm drop. '...It's mine. The marauders took it, so I thought I'd never...' He tore his eyes from the amulet, looked at Damas as though he really wanted to ask for it back but didn't quite dare. '...How'd you get it?'
'Later,' said Damas. 'Do you know what it is?'
'The Seal of Mar-- Haven's founder,' Jak mumbled, with a sullen look that seemed to say, And what's it to you?
Damas ignored Jak's silent challenge, turning the amulet idly between his fingers. 'These Seals... for many generations, it was tradition among the royal lines of Haven City that all young Heirs would be given one of these amulets-- far more than a simple piece of jewelry, they function as master-keys, allowing their bearers free access to most restricted areas within the city... and whether by chance or by design, they also work on many of the Precurian ruins found all over the world.' Damas's hand went still, and he looked over at Jak. 'You may have noticed this effect on your explorations.'
Jak's expression had gone from sulky to utterly stupefied. 'Y-yeah...' But how the hell do you know all that?
Damas seemed to pick up on the unspoken question, and raised his eyebrows. 'You are not the only wastelander to have come from Haven City-- I was born within its walls, and grew up surrounded by legends of Haven's founder and first King. I could not have escaped Mar's legacy if I'd tried... and there were times I wished more than anything that I could.' This threw Jak off even further, but Damas didn't offer any explanation, fixing Jak with an intense look as he ran his thumb over the amulet's surface. 'Tell me, then-- how did a Seal of Mar come into your possession?'
Jak fidgeted with his blankets. '...I don't know. Only that I had it as a kid... They took it when I was first exiled but Ashelin returned it to me a couple months ago. Before that...' He shrugged, uncomfortable. 'They just told me I had it when the Underground found me. I don't remember where I first got it... from my parents, maybe, but I can't... I don't know who they were.' Jak's brow furrowed as he glared down at his hands. 'I don't even know if I'm a real Heir-- maybe I just picked it up somewhere, or-- or someone thought it'd be funny to hang one of those things around some random kid's neck-- I don't know.'
'Hm.' Damas looked back at the amulet, now nestled against his weathered palm. 'I can assure you-- even though one of these amulets has been made for every Heir of Mar to be born in Haven over the past several centuries, it is also tradition that they be broken and buried with their owners upon their deaths.' At that, Jak gave him a startled glance, and he went on-- 'As I'm sure you can imagine, there are very few left unaccounted for, and the keys coded within them are nearly impossible to counterfeit-- especially since that particular function was not widely known outside the Royal Family and their most trusted Priests.'
Daxter gave him a very puzzled look at that, opened his mouth as though to speak-- if it was such uncommon knowledge, how would a guy like Damas know so much?-- but Damas shot him a warning look and he clamped it shut again. Daxter glanced at Jak instead, but (most likely due to his injuries) his friend didn't seem to have picked up on the strange half-revelations.
'You also opened Mar's Tomb,' Damas continued, and two pairs of eyes snapped back towards him. 'Daxter told me,' Damas added in response to the question in Jak's eyes-- he flipped the amulet over in his fingers again, studying Jak's face intently, his own gaze inscrutable. 'The Tomb requires more than one of these to open. Mar's blood, the so-called 'gift', his Legacy... and even then, it's not always enough; the Oracle must determine that the time is right, that the Heir is worthy...' Damas's voice trailed off; he seemed almost to be talking to himself as he continued. 'If the Tomb opened for you, there is little doubt about your lineage.'
Jak slouched low against his pillows. 'What does it matter?' he mumbled bitterly. 'I still don't know who they were, if Praxis killed them or if they meant for me to be some sort of... puppet-king, or if they just...' Jak looked away, fingernails digging into his palms. '...if they didn't want me,' he finished in a whisper.
Damas regarded him for a long moment, something like regret passing across his face. 'I would... like to tell you a story, Jak,' he said quietly. 'I think it will help you come to terms with your own past, if you are willing to listen.'
Jak looked highly doubtful that any story could help him, but he shrugged and gave a faint vaguely-affirmative noise.
'As I mentioned, I originally came from Haven,' Damas began. 'My parents... they wanted nothing so much as a child who would be a credit to them, who would live up to the family name... they demanded no less than perfection, an impossible standard I could never hope to achieve.' His eyes were full of sorrow. 'This is not a fate any child should have to endure, but I suppose history has an unfortunate habit of repeating itself-- I think we are not so different, you and I.'
'I... I'm sorry.' Jak looked down at his hands. 'I didn't know--'
Damas snorted derisively. 'I do not ask for your pity, Jak-- in many ways, I was the lucky one.' Jak blinked up at him, and he quirked an eyebrow. 'My sister, Phobe, was everything they hoped for, so they had no time to spare for a troublesome son who lacked all the skills that mattered. In the beginning I envied her, for the affection and validation I never received, but in time I came to understand that I could never have been content playing the role they desired-- and as lonely as it was, to know I was unwanted, I found a certain freedom in it too. Whatever anyone else thought of me, at least I could say that it was the path I'd made for myself.'
Jak was looking at him with something like wonder and admiration, but Damas hadn't finished yet, shook his head and continued. 'Unfortunately... fate is not so forgiving, and often it is not enough to want something-- you can only push people so far before they break, and then... there's no going back.' Damas sat straighter, folded his fingers over the amulet in his hand. 'For all her power, Phobe was not immune to that pressure-- and in the end it destroyed her.' He smiled humourlessly. 'I managed to survive, and so they were all forced to settle for second-best-- even if no one dared to say as much to my face, I could see that they would gladly have traded my life for hers.'
'That's... awful,' Jak whispered, his eyes wide with horror. 'You mean-- even your own parents...?' Damas regarded him sadly, nodded once. 'How did you... was that why you left, ended up out here?'
'Not exactly-- in Haven, we were taught that there was nothing of worth beyond our own borders, so leaving of my own volition never occurred to me. I still believed in my home, in all the people who lived there-- I believed that I could make a difference, and could never have turned my back on my people.' Damas gave a wry smile at that. 'Not unlike your own choice to answer their call for aid.'
Jak returned the smile, a little sheepishly. 'Yeah... well, we still had friends there, and even if I was mad at first... I couldn't just abandon all the innocent people who had nothing to do with any of that...' He straightened a little against his cushions. 'But if you didn't choose to leave, then...?'
'Even decades ago, Baron Praxis had no qualms about killing those who stood in his way,' said Damas. 'When I refused to comply with his demands, there was only one possible outcome-- a fight I lacked the skill or experience to win. On the front lines of the metalhead war, there were few to witness it, and he could spin it however he pleased. I was used as a convenient scapegoat to ensure that no one would question his rise to power.'
Daxter squinted at him, clearly trying to work out the missing piece to the puzzle, where Damas fit into all of this-- maybe the exhaustion was finally catching up to him, because his brain felt like it was going quarter-speed... and Jak was even worse off, too caught up in hearing about Damas's past to ask any of the right questions. But Daxter still held his tongue; if Damas chucked him out now for breaking the no-talking rule he'd probably explode--
But maybe Damas picked up on his restless fidgeting; maybe he guessed at the nature of those burning questions. 'Two years before that, my parents died on the first night of the metalhead resurgence-- ambushed while travelling between outlying settlements beyond Haven's walls.' Damas gazed down at the Seal, his expression carefully neutral. 'That was the summer before my eighteenth birthday, so the official coronation was postponed until I was of age, but for all intents and purposes I became King of Haven City on that night.'
Daxter jerked upright as though he'd been electrocuted, his eyes very wide. 'No fuckin way!!'
Damas silenced Daxter with a look, eyes oddly bright as his gaze returned to Jak's face. 'I have long since come to terms with my own upbringing-- it was many years in the past, and there is no seeking reconciliation with the dead.' Damas opened his hand again, holding the Seal in the space between them. 'But bloodlines and ancestry mean nothing to the desert. When I became Ruler of Spargus, it was entirely by my own merit-- and that is the legacy I intended for my son, the right to choose his own path.'
Jak stared at Damas in stunned silence, as though he had suddenly started speaking in a foreign language, and Daxter wanted to jump over to the bed and shake Jak until it clicked for him too-- all the little similarities, all the details he'd very nearly glossed over, the crazy mistake that had maybe turned out to not be a mistake after all; come on Jak he's tellin' you he's your--
'I can tell you exactly where this particular Seal came from,' said Damas, his gaze dropping back to the amulet he still held. 'It was made for my sister-- I kept it after she died, for reasons I never quite understood, but I have carried it ever since. And this--' He produced a second amulet from his belt-pouch, identical to the first. 'This one was made for me. When my son was born, I passed it on to him.' With that, he pressed the Seal into Jak's hands, as though it were the simplest thing ever, as though he hadn't just turned the whole world on its head...
Damas moved his hand to grip Jak's shoulder. 'From the moment my son was taken from me, I swore that as long as I still drew breath, I would never give up until I had found him again-- and not a day has gone by that I have not thought of him. Had I only known where to look, I would have let nothing stand in my way.' His gaze locked with Jak's, burning like the sun. 'My only regret is that it took me so long to see what was right before my eyes.'
Jak's breath caught, tears tracking down his cheeks, torn between a desperate sort of hope and the profoundly ingrained fears that wouldn't quite let him believe what he thought he was hearing. 'You... can't mean...'
Damas smiled and nodded once, the warmth in his eyes far too powerful to be anything but the truth. 'Welcome home, Jak.'