He does not think he has dreamed since he became a Judge Magister. Now he manages it, and the dreams shift back and forth from one subject to the other.
Lord Larsa is everything that his brother cannot possibly be, for Vayne Solidor does not possess enough of a heart to know kindness or compassion. He is an innocent in a den of vipers, and Gabranth has always tried to preserve that. Vayne has always tried to preserve that, though the Judge Magister never understood how murdering the elder two Solidor children and keeping Archadia at war and conquest was protecting Larsa. He does not ask. Vayne does not tolerate questions, particularly not now that he is in power, now that his father is dead.
Vayne does not tolerate much in the way of speech from the the Judge, his human hound.
His dreams of Vayne are vivid. The shapes of bodies are sharp and wickedly angled, with spikes of rage and pain and lust. The Archadian Emperor takes what he wants, as he always has. He cares only for absolute power. Gabranth understands that. He knows now why Gramis feared his son.
Of course, fear is not exactly what the Judge Magister would say he feels. He cannot comprehend what it is, and he does not question it even within the confines of his own mind.
Dreams of Larsa are softer, and faintly out of focus, like the hallucinations of a dying man.
He still remembers when he was charged to watch the boy (when he killed Drace), when protective instinct hit him like an anvil. He had never felt that way about anyone. Vayne had never needed to be protected. Gramis had, but he had refused any sort of guardian. Of course, that was why he was dead now.
He remembers as days turned, as time went on. He remembers the night when his protected young lord reached for his hand, in grey eyes a scared question. Larsa made certain that Gabranth wanted what he did; Vayne never had.
He remembers porcelain skin flushed as if with fever, a smattering of kisses along warm, bare flesh. He remembers breathless renditions of his name, and the sweet scent of feathery brown hair. He had never known anything so fragile.
The Judge Magister presses a kiss against his little lord's forehead and departs in shadow, already feeling the flames of hell licking at him for destroying such innocence. He moves to the window and breathes in darkness, face lined with tension, eyes clouded with self-loathing.
"I love you," Larsa breathed, the words holding more weight than his childish years could account for.
"You love me," Vayne laughed, supremely confident and unquestioning.
And when he whispers, "I do love you," into the night air, it is unclear to which Solidor brother he speaks.