It Doesn't Matter Now
by Tripleguess
23 May 2005

A chime at the door signaled more visitors. Inwardly, he groaned. Yet another wave in the long stream of well-wishers who had flowed through the otherwise lifeless mansion since his wife died. Sometimes, more and more often lately, he wanted to tell them all to just go away and leave him in peace.

But his will was strong and his heart great, and their genuine sorrow touched him in a way he would never admit to. She had been neither impressive nor talented, yet her gentle kindness and generosity had made her both the center of his world and the pride of theirs. Such honorable grief would not be denied expression while he ruled his own mind -- not even if he had to brace himself anew for every well-intentioned assault on his peace and privacy. He was master of both his house and himself. What he intended to do, he always did.

An elderly servant swept in to announce the newcomers, holding their card but reciting the names without consulting it. She showed them in, brought refreshments, and then withdrew to leave him alone with his guests.

He found himself on edge, all his good intentions notwithstanding. This particular pair always made him uneasy, and the one no less than the other. The father smiled too much and sympathized too little, and his leopardess of a daughter only sat stone-still and smoldered, rarely speaking unless spoken to. Somehow, somewhere, there was something so very wrong about them both. But it was simpler to bear their brief calls and wait for their departure to restore normalcy than to ferret out a problem that was none of his business.

So they sat and talked, these three, and strange and stilted was their conversation. The father asked more than was necessary while the ruler of the house answered less, and the maid said nothing at all unless compelled to by a long, hard glance from her father.

The minutes dragged painfully by until at last they went away, but they left behind a thorn in his side: a private invitation to the girl's debutante festival, which, her father said with grim humor, would be kept brief, for the safety of all concerned.

The ruler raised his eyebrows at this latest display of ill-timed rudeness, then reminded himself wearily that the man had never been noted for his discretion or courtesy. For the girl's sake, he accepted the invitation graciously.

X X X

The appointed day arrived, as certain and unwelcome as the first winter storm. Still, the festival proved to be slightly less discomfiting than their visits, if only because its main object was conspicuously absent for much of the event. Well, good for her, he thought; he didn't feel like socializing either. He retreated to the gardens to avoid the crowds and was surprised to happen on the daughter herself, lurking alone by a lily pond. He was sure she did not want company, but withdrawing in haste didn't seem like the right solution, somehow. So he sat down, for lack of anything better to do, and skipped pebbles over the water, finally venturing a comment on the festival.

To which she retorted with a snarl that it was a private auction, not a gesture of fatherly goodwill.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, really, but it still displeased him. Arranged marriages were normal among the city's upper class, but most parents did consider their children's wishes. True to form, though, this one intended to simply parade the goods and then scrutinize subsequent offers with an eye to his own political benefit.

It was the first time he had heard her true voice. No wonder her eyes were so hard -- though the bitterness festered so deep that he wondered if there wasn't more to it than that. It was none of his business, he reminded himself.

And yet...

He spoke to her then, spoke as he had never spoken to her before -- citizen to citizen, with no stifling presence to rein his words. He told her that life was harsh and unfair, but her choices still belonged to her alone. He told her that she could make the most of what came her way, and shape a world of her own out of the pieces that were given her... or take the easy way out, throw up her hands, and die the passive death of resignation.

He spoke to the fighting spirit he sensed inside that splendid female body, to the angry survivor burning in her eyes, and said more than he'd first intended to, because he sensed that she was... listening.

When servants finally searched her out and relayed her father's request that she open the dances with a certain count, the ruler informed them that he had already claimed the first dance himself. He half expected her to object, but she only smiled wickedly.

And she danced with a grace that surprised her beleaguered instructor, for whom each lesson had been a battle royal.

X X X

It might have stopped there, if word hadn't reached his ears that her father intended to give her to the austere and fanatical count. But to the city's great surprise, the ruler put aside his longings for peace and solitude and gave a counteroffer; not for his own sake, but for hers; to give her a way out in a culture that offered few. The count, for all his influence in other spheres, could not begin to match the ruler for wealth and power. So it was that he married again to a girl not quite seventeen.

He gave her her own room and did not ask her to share it. He had no child, no heir, no near relatives, and was content to have it so -- but he did not want her alone and helpless when he was gone. So he oversaw her education in the traditionally male fields of accounting, finance and estate management. And when she surprised him with her avid interest in combat and weaponry, he did not hesitate to show her the fighting skills he had once hoped to teach his son.

Those were good days; waking early to take her on hunting trips, sharpening her marksmanship and already keen observation skills; rigorous martial arts sessions until both of them dripped sweat under the hot sun, sharing unexpected laughter when she scored an especially painful or embarrassing hit; discussing tactics and weaponry late into the night until she fell asleep on his shoulder. He never would have guessed that he would smile again because he felt like smiling, or look forward to more than simply getting through each day on sheer willpower.

Still, he had married again for her sake, not his, and kept his distance physically. Until a sparring session during which she made it clear that she did not object to being touched.

He was never quite sure what had prompted that change on her part. Was it affection? Gratitude? Something a little more complicated? He might never know.

But in any case, their son was born a year later. As suited the product of such an unlikely union, the child was a throwback, resembling neither parent. He sported the hair and eye color of some long-forgotten ancestor, though his wiry toughness was his father's and his surprising physical grace his mother's.

An anomaly he might have been, but they immediately agreed that the boy was the best thing that had happened since the city was founded and named him accordingly.

Those were good years, then; of fondly watching his son appropriate much of his young wife's affection, holding the tiny hands until the boy took his first steps alone, and of planning his future together.

Until they took him.

"He should have been mine," the note read.

Twisted logic from a twisted mind... but though he had his suspicions, he could prove nothing. Only search, and suffer.

Cold winds blew from other parts of the city. Sensing vulnerability, his father-in-law moved in under the cover provided by the chaos surrounding the kidnapping and the subsequent frantic searches. With cool precision the Baron planted evidence, accused the ruler of collaborating with the Metalhead threat, and had him thrown out in the unforgiving Wastelands.

For a lesser man, it would have been a death sentence.

Somehow he convinced them not to do the same to his young wife, though her father insisted that the marriage would be annulled. She screamed and fought and demanded to go with him until he held her close and whispered that someone had to stay and look for their son, who was probably still in the city.

One final, serious look and handclasp, and they were parted.

Perhaps they'd never had the kind of romance idealized by the city's young people. But they'd shared trust, respect, affection and loyalty; helped and supported one another. Called each other to live out of the ashes of pain and futility...

They left him in the burning sand, stranded in the arid wastelands to die. Still on his knees, he gazed across the heat-rippled dunes and then bowed his head, silently gathering strength for one last petition to the desert skies.

My son...

Please let me see my son again.

The End

A/N: Farfetched and crazy, perhaps. But given the canon's own inconsistencies, I think it's a possibility.

No flames, please, but honestly thoughtful feedback is just fine. I am most interested in reader reactions. Did you react to or identify with -- were you surprised by anything? And so on. Keep in mind that this is a one-shot, so I'm moving on after posting it, but your responses will contribute to future works. Share your thoughts. I'm listening!

Special thanks to those who reviewed my last entry here, as it encouraged me to post this one as well. Thank you all! Your responses are valued. Under the new rules, I have no way of responding to anonymous reviews, but I still appreciate them.

Disclaimer: This story is not created, anknowledged or endorsed by Naughty Dog. Jak II and all relevant characters and trademarks belong solely to Naughty Dog. It Doesn't Matter Now is fan domain and may be freely recopied and archived. Also, anyone interested in taking the idea and running with it is welcome to do so.