They think he is one and the same person - that the scar was something gained from the tragedy on the Bahamut, that everything is exactly as it was before the ship fell. That the last Judge Magister is just what he appears to be.
Larsa knows better.
The scar that cuts across his forehead is a legacy of betrayal, the mark of a brother who sent him to die. A brother he hated; a brother he has become. It is the past that weighs heavy in his eyes, the bitterness that at times twists his face, the grief that he pretends not to feel. It is the mark of someone who has both gained and lost their life.
The scar baffles him. It haunts him in dreaming, forces him not to remember what was, but what is. The scar turns Gabranth to Basch, and Larsa is not certain he can forgive that unknowing sin.
Basch swore, at his brother's dying wish, to protect the young Archadian. He took up the helm and the sword that had been Gabranth's, the responsibilities to an Empire that had imprisoned him, called him a murderer, made him a scapegoat for their war. He serves the enemy that had always wanted him dead. No - he serves Larsa.
The difference is slighter than a dragonfly's wing.
Why is it that the Emperor cannot look the scarred man in the eyes? Why is it that he stares, sometimes, as if at a reflection of the past? Basch cannot be Gabranth-- but he is Gabranth. He cannot be Noah fon Ronsenburg, cannot be his brother. Larsa's eyes are too dark when they look at him, too cold and empty. They never were before.
Years pass, and scars fade. Larsa can almost see his guardian looking out of his brother's face. The resemblance makes him shake, something caught in those passing glances. He has grown, but in this he is still as a child, afraid to let go of the past. Afraid that his memory of Gabranth will fade and dim away, until there is nothing left but Basch.
He doesn't want to lose his Judge Magister.
And maybe Basch knows, because that's when he comes and offers his resignation - he's been remiss in his duties, he says. He hasn't been protecting Larsa well enough. He owes his brother a debt, but he can't stand seeing the other like this, or being seen like this. For years he was seen only as a danger, the man who committed regicide against his own King; now he is a different kind of threat, at once a ghost and someone to chase it away.
It would be so easy. Larsa could let him go, leave himself with only the memories he so desperately clings to.
That is when Basch touches his hand. His fingers are calloused and gentle; he apologizes. Larsa can't find his breath. The touch feels like Gabranth.
The brother of a murdered man he once loved, the impostor Judge Magister, the man who is Gabranth to all but Larsa, kisses him. It is bitter because they are bitter, sweet because it has been waiting too long. It tastes of smoke and aristocratic perfume and old memories, and they are surprised to linger in it, each rolling through the other as though they are old lovers. Basch does not taste like Gabranth, and he does not move like Gabranth; he is not as careful, but then, Larsa is not as young.
They are ecstatic and then they are melancholy. They share memories that don't match up: one of a childhood and a brother, one of a childhood and a guardian. They talk and it is late, but they are softly curled against one another, remembering. They hate together, and they grieve together, and then they are joyous once again.
And in the morning, Larsa has not forgotten, but he is not afraid.
He will never lose Gabranth, but he will always have Basch.
