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Everyone thought he would die.
The odd collection of individuals gathered on the Strahl could not look at him on his pallet as he breathed in heaving, wet rasps through damaged lungs. Lord Larsa shut his eyes tight against the tears that filled them and pulled away from his weakening grip. The boy who was his son in all but blood stood and squared thin shoulders, then departed for the cockpit to try and stop a war. If the boy had ordered him to survive, he would have tried harder to inhale against the pain, to grasp the frayed threads of Mist despite the agony of holding them and cast spells to mend his rent flesh and shattered bone. But Larsa turned away towards his future, prioritizing the many under his rule over the one who served him.
Exactly as Gabranth had taught him. If he could have smiled, he would have.
The orphans followed, joining the Dalmascan Queen and the sky pirates in the cockpit. Basch alone watched Gabranth’s last breaths and held his hand and promised too much and too little at the same time. He whispered, “Stay Noah. Now that you are here, stay for a little while longer. Stay with me.”
Basch could not give him orders and expect to be obeyed. Never had their relationship borne that imbalance of power between them. And yet, Gabranth found himself fighting to do as his brother commanded. To stay, with him. It hurt. He didn’t have the strength.
Everyone thought he would die. He lived.
Judge Magister Gabranth — Noah, I should be Noah now — adjusts to his chance at redemption with difficulty. He does not know who he is, what he wants, what he should do. He knows the concept of his body healing; he knows this is what he is doing in the dark, dirty depths of Lowtown; he knows of the rest and rehabilitation of a limb until each damaged part of him works as it should, but how can he rehabilitate a broken heart?
He spent two decades shrouding himself with metal and fury and a hatred of his father’s name, of Basch’s name. Who is the Solidor Hound when stripped of this armor?
He wanders through the crowd in Lowtown with a pronounced limp, head low like a conquered dog. He feels infinitely old and worn thin and wonders if he is dying after all. “We are always on the march towards death, but some march faster,” his first friend — lover — in the Archadian army had told him the day before the youg man’s airship had plummeted like a stone dropped from the clouds. Noah had lain in his cold bed and imagined that man must have been in a race towards the infinite nothingness that lies at the end of life. He stretches his legs now and wonders how long he has left.
The girl who takes care of him, he cannot remember her name, tells him he’s being morbid. “You cheated death once, you know, which is a chance most people don’t get at all. You can’t cheat it again, so don’t waste this time,” she tells him frankly while flipping a blond braid behind her shoulder. She’s nicer to him than he deserves, but he suspects she, like most anyone who has interacted with Basch, has feelings for his twin.
He has only come around once, early in Noah’s recovery. He addressed the girl and asked how Noah’s healing was coming along, how soon until he could hold a sword, how soon until he could wear his plate again. He had cropped his hair close in an attempt to look more like his identical twin. It made him appear harsher, or perhaps that was only the lines of strain between his brows and the hollowness of his cheeks. Noah was reminded of the process three years ago when he had grown his hair and beard and then killed them, killed them both. A dead man now impersonating another dead man. On that one visit the other one wore Noah’s armor and clanked with each movement and kept his face carefully schooled whenever he glanced at Noah. He did not speak to Noah directly, perhaps because they were both corpses.
Eventually, it became too much for Noah to be ignored.
“How is the Lord Larsa?” Noah rasped from his padded chair where he sits with his right leg stretched out and packed with spelled ice that melted rapidly in the desert heat. He had not spoken much in the weeks previous and his voice caught in his throat like a dry twig.
He turned his tight and drawn face to his brother for the first time in the visit. “Still in his official mourning period, which affords him some distance from demands, but adjusting to his new position with particular grace,” he replied.
“And you are not with him, why? Was that not the only thing I requested?” His animosity towards his brother was a habit he could not break.
His clear gray-blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and Noah only knew it was anger because of years spent in front of the mirror fighting his own facial reactions. They have the same face. “His Grace gave me special leave to monitor your progress,” he said in a carefully flat voice.
“And that could not have been done with a letter?”
“I wanted to see you myself,” Basch responded with barely concealed frustration.
Noah stood unaided for the first time and, despite the pain, masked his face with cold pride. “And now, brother, you have seen me. What do you think of your broken twin? Am I quite as pathetic as you hoped?”
Something flashed in Basch’s haunted eyes. “Stop, Noah. Please.”
After a moment of strained silence, Noah had to sit back on the chair. “Leave me,” he hissed, his face turned to the wall. He did not listen to the dejected sigh his twin uttered before he departed.
Now Noah wanders Lowtown with a limp that is growing less noticeable by the day. His pride will not allow him to remain ruined any longer.
“You know, Basch is a good guy,” the blond girl — her name is Penelo — chatters as she does her final check of his healing. Noah accepts her chatter and her hands, brimming with green light, on his wounded leg only because it means the end of this interminable purgatory. He can leave now; Basch has arranged for Noah to train outside of Balfonheim with Ffamran and his viera companion until he feels he can return to his duties. First he must suffer through this child fawning over his twin. “Larsa only ever says good things about him.” she adds, as though this might melt decades of ice around Noah’s shriveled heart.
Noah doesn’t respond as he stands and carefully stretches his muscles. Penelo plunges ahead with her attempt to change Noah’s mind. “He’s really doing a good job — Basch, I mean. Not that Larsa isn’t… they’re both doing great.”
Noah nods but says nothing — does anything need to be said? He never was one for useless conversation. Her babble washes over him like flowing water in the river near his childhood farm, meaningless noise as he shoves his spare clothes into a journey-pack. “I think, though,” she looks at him as if she’s afraid he’ll react to this statement, “that Basch isn’t suited for your job.” Noah still does not react outwardly, though now he is interested in what she is saying.
“I mean, I know he was a diplomat before and the King depended on him, and what he did as Captain is pretty much what you did as Judge Magister, but it’s so different in Archades. More cutthroat. He’s not suited for that, he’s so honest. And tired. I think he’d rather settle somewhere out in the wilderness and be a blacksmith or raise chocobos. He’s not really one for politics or intrigue. But he’ll do anything if he’s needed, though — good old reliable Basch. He’ll keep going forever if he has to.”
He’s making up for abandoning his family, Noah thinks snidely. Then, suddenly, But I can never make up for Nalbina.
He shoulders his pack and pretends his wince is due to his injuries.
Ffamran has dictated a strict regime for Noah, though he suspects the viera came up with it. He carries engine blocks in the mornings for Ffamran, back and forth across the hanger. He’s unsure of how Ffamran benefits from Noah’s exertion and his arms are tired and sore after the first morning. As the days go on, however, he is less sore, and then able to carry more. He steadily regains his old strength and relishes its return. The speed and agility he depended on return more slowly, but he could feel his gait and balance improving daily, along with his endurance. His lungs no longer protest so quickly and he resumes his morning runs, albeit at a ragged pace and much truncated distance.
In the afternoons, he spars with the viera. She moves exquisitely and fast, and he has no doubt that she can effortlessly kill him if she so desires, but she does not. Instead, he remembers the old muscles and turns of his wrist and stances because he has known swordplay almost all his life. A brewer’s son he might be, but life in the old Republic of Landis carried its share of dangers: bandits, raiders, dangerous wildlife. Most people learned to bear makeshift arms, and their family, while not wealthy, had means enough to afford true swords and lessons on how to use them.
When the twins were children, they would play fight through the barn, annoying the chocobos and goats. They acted out dramatic rescues of foreign princesses and daring heists as famous sky pirates. The air rang with the sounds of their clashing sticks and excited shouts, replaced over time with the clang of steel and the grunts of focused effort and praise for each other’s inspired footwork. As they aged, the bouts turned more serious, more fraught with tension that simmered between them, until the day they had knocked each other onto the floor of one of the unused stalls, Basch’s slightly greater weight pushing Noah down into the sweet hay…
Angrily, Noah swings a wild stroke of his sword at the viera, which she blocks with a strength and precision belied by her slender limbs. “That is enough for today,” she tells him in her strange accent with a smile on her face, and he feels as though she can see the memory reflected in his blue-gray eyes. She offers none of the censure Noah might expect for getting distracted in combat; she gives him a greater measure of grace than he deserves. It irritates him, but he cannot bring himself to treat her with the arrogant rudeness so common to him. He saves that for Ffamran, who good-naturedly gives it back in spades. Noah finds he cannot verbally best the man any more now than he could when Ffamran was a callow youth at the Akademy, charming his way into the leisure groupings of older Judges.
It’s almost refreshing to know that in some ways, little has changed.
Perhaps three weeks later, it is agreed that Noah is ready to return to Archades. The pirates contact Judge Magister Gabranth through means unknown to Noah. They will have to handle the transfer clandestinely so as not to upset the ruse they’ve created. Fortunately, Noah knows of a place that will be perfect. He gives the address, firmly ignoring a pang of loneliness as he thinks about long nights listening to his mother cough away her life.
They sit across a stained and scarred table in the dark, dingy upstairs room of the building where Noah and his mother had lived in Old Archades. The building still belonged to Noah, and while he rents to tenants on the lower floors, this set of apartments remains as vacant as Noah’s heart has felt for years. He does not return here often, but he’s confident the brothers won’t be disturbed.
As Basch wearily recounts the events of the past several months and what the Judge Magister should know, Noah watches the shadows play across his twin’s face. With his hair cropped close and a new hardness to his demeanor, looking at Basch is like gazing into a mirror.
Noah is inexplicably bothered by this. Maybe it’s something the vapid girl in Dalmasca had told him — Basch isn’t suited for your job. Why does he remember that? As much as he tries to deny it, he knows his memory is selective for his twin. He can recall the first time he found information in the Ninth Bureau about Basch, and how he spent hours reading and rereading until his eyes crossed and the candle burned down to nothing. He can remember holding his shaking brother while Basch emptied his guts hours after their first skirmish, the metallic smell of blood thick in his nose and Basch’s bright hair stained red. He can remember Basch’s body stretched above his, the sharp pain blending into warm, intolerable pleasure, and the sheer wonder in his brother’s blue eyes as he found holiness in their sin.
He cannot remember pain in Basch’s expression when they parted, although he knows it must have been there. He cannot remember why he chose to remain hidden in Archades instead of finding Basch upon learning his twin still lived. He cannot remember feeling anything but hatred and bitterness for two decades.
He wonders what Basch remembers. He knows from Ffamran’s barbed jests that Basch has idiosyncrasies he hadn’t when they were truly brothers. Basch avoids reflective surfaces. He rarely sleeps, and never well. He drinks heavily — ah, well, that hadn’t changed.
The gravelly sound of his brother’s broken voice intrudes on Noah’s musings. “A few members of the Senate have caught on that I — you — have been acting strangely. I apologize for that,” Basch says, glancing down at the floor as he admits to a flaw in his act. His eyes flicker back to Noah’s face and catch with his gaze for a single heartbeat. “I never realized,” Basch begins, “how different our mannerisms have become. You have patterns of movement, thinking, talking, that I could not replicate the way I could in our youth.”
His strong, scarred hands twitch on the table as he speaks, as though he resists closing them into fists.
Noah knows it breaks Basch’s heart to say that, because he can see it in his brother’s eyes. Basch had always been able to hide disquiet beneath good cheer, but Noah had once been completely attuned to the nuances of his twin’s thoughts. He cannot read his twin so easily any more, unless Basch allows him to. Once they had finished each other’s sentences, or communicated complex ideas with a glance. Once they had moved in perfect synchronicity, ever aware of how their bodies fit around each other. Once their hearts had beat in time with each other, a doubled pulse that echoed in their veins. They had once impersonated each other with such ease, for fun or to gain something they wanted.
Not any longer. They are not brothers anymore so much as men who look alike.
“Many things happen over twenty years to change a person,” Noah responds. It seems the safest thing to say, and the room descends into silence. Noah imagines Basch is remembering two years caged in utter darkness, tortured for information that mattered little. I did that to him, he thinks, sickened by the admission. We are not equal. What I did is far worse than his leaving us. He let me suffer alone. I made him suffer alone. I broke him. I broke myself. It sticks in his throat, turns his tongue to ash in his mouth.
“Your armor is back in your home,” Basch finally says, shifting as though to stand and pace. He remains seated, though, his arms crossed over his chest to hold in the things he wants to say. “I thought it would be too conspicuous if a Judge were to walk into Old Archades.” Noah nods, but his mind is focused on the long, tortuous hours spent interrogating Basch in Nalbina and how all he wants is to take that back or repeat it over and over again to beat the softness out of his heart. Noah wants his anger back. He’s afraid of anything else.
He wants Basch to be angry too, the mirror image of his bitter rage. He wants this false Gabranth to lift his sword and slice him free of all his doubts. Gabranth took refuge in righteous anger, cloaked himself in betrayal and unfairness, armored himself in judgement. He balanced the scales, the sigil of his order. He brought retribution.
“Your scar,” Noah says suddenly, “did you hide your scar while you were Judge?”
Basch looks away, his lips thinning. “No. I was not thinking of that in the beginning when I… when I thought you would die. I could not hide it after that.”
Noah takes a deep breath and says, “I need your scar.” He reaches down and slides a small knife out of his boot and sets it in the middle of the table between them. They lock eyes, the same eyes.
“No.”
“Basch.”
“No. I will not.”
“I need you to do this.” Noah desperately needs this scar, not just because he has to become Gabranth again. I did that to him, I did that to him, I did that to him, Noah repeats in his head like a heartbeat. He needs his anger and his hatred more than ever now, but they have fled and all he can find is a fear that he will never be able to fix everything wrong in his life. He wants to tell Basch this — I cannot erase what I have done to you, I cannot change the past, but you can make us equal again. Please make us equal again. All he can manage is a strangled, “Please.”
Basch puts his head in his hands and closes his eyes. Noah hears his ragged breathing, and Basch’s fingers clench and tug anxiously on his short hair. Something in Noah is thrilled that this one part of Basch has not changed. Basch’s right hand darts out to the knife and shoves it away to clatter to the floor.
“I cannot hurt you again,” Basch whispers. “I… I abandoned you… and mumma… I cannot, Noah, please don’t ask me again.”
Noah appears calm as he stands from his chair and walks over next to Basch, though his fingers are shaking and his pulse is racing. He kneels next to where Basch is sitting and with his left hand picks the knife up from the floor. He presses it into Basch’s hands. They jerk away, trying to refuse, but Noah holds his brother’s wrist and closes his fingers around the hilt, and Basch cannot drop the knife without cutting Noah. This is about more than a scar, he thinks, and feels his nerves steady with conviction. “I need you to do this,” he repeats.
Basch stares at him, and for once Noah cannot read at all what Basch is feeling in his eyes. Where once they had been mirrors, years and years of hurt conceal them from each other. His twin’s throat works as Basch swallows around a lump and he sighs in resignation. Noah finds he despises the way Basch’s shoulders slump, the defeated noise he makes. He no longer wants to see this man in so much pain. “At least let me put you under,” Basch says hoarsely, and raises the hand not holding the knife to sign a spell.
“No,” Noah replies and reaches up to grab Basch’s hand and still it. He feels a spark shoot through his palm at the contact. He remembers the barn and the field and his bed and even the dark pits of Nalbina and their exploration of each other in each. He squeezes Basch’s hand and lets it go. “I need to feel it.”
Basch stares at him helplessly, but does not profess to misunderstand. “What if I cut you… incorrectly?” Basch’s hand shakes.
Noah almost smiles. “You know where the scar is on your face — there it is on mine.” He closes his eyes and waits, trusting.
The knife hurts; the wound is deep and must be made deliberately ragged. Noah grips the table and feels the hot slither of blood from his brow down onto his eyelid and into his eyelashes, and he feels as though he is crying. “My ear, too,” Noah adds, “it must be exact. Erase the visible difference.” Basch makes a strangled sound and then the work is done and Basch throws the knife across the room. His hands are on Noah’s face and he slides off his chair to kneel next to him. A spell is quick off Basch’s tongue and heat runs through Noah’s veins and it hurts in a bright green flame before the pain dulls to a tender ache and the wound closes and scars.
The rough cloth of Basch’s shirt wipes away the blood tears on Noah’s face. “Noah, Noah,” Basch repeats, over and over, until Gabranth disappears, leaving no trace of himself behind. Only Noah remains, and Basch, and the pain they share equally.
“I am sorry, my brother.”