Chapter 2

It was odd how pieces of paper can tell you so much someone, without really disclosing that much at all. Archived accounts of past deeds and misdeeds only intrigued him more, for despite days of perusing all the documents he had gathered about the late Judge Magister Drace, to him she still remained a mystery.

He visited her nightly, trying to reconcile the image before him and the image he had visualized, only to come to the conclusion that it was impossible. On paper, Judge Magister Drace was cold, methodical. She adhered to the letter of the law, and was ruthless in enforcing it on criminals, regardless of their social rank. She sent hundreds to the dungeons, and an even bigger number to their deaths. Many thought she would be more merciful as compared to her male counterparts, and perhaps she truly was that – for despite the number of malefactors she had punished, all of them met their fate for a just cause after a just trial.

Yet in person, at least as she remained in her sleeping state, she seemed so much…gentler, kinder. Her soft features and lithe body made him wonder how she managed to don her armor, why she was made to don such a hideous armor, when she could have been in something else, somewhere else. She seemed so delicate, almost like porcelain, with her pale skin and even paler hair. This image made him think more of how she could have affectionately shaped the young Larsa. She seemed so soft, so motherly – an image that probably contributed to the young lord's gentle nature despite his family's dark past.

Under close scrutiny he noticed more battle scars in her body, almost like tattoos that looked completely out of place. Eventually, he concluded that it was not a complete contradiction, for he had been surrounded with such strong women in his life, even when he was still Basch. Perhaps Drace was akin to those women. They were not perfect, and that just made them even more beautiful.

He was starting to admire her, perhaps more than he should. He still knew so little about her, whereas his brother knew so much, and this made her seem more untouchable, almost forbidden.

As he continued to watch her in her slumber, he figured that was probably the closest they could be. In that state she remained to be his snow queen, as he tried to be a deserving knight. While he already was firm in his decision to care for her in his brother's stead, in his heart he still had a doubt.

Will he ever be able to melt the snow queen's heart?


He did not have the grace his brother had, nor did he have the "agreeable nature" their female peers often saw. To them he was the scruffier one of the two, for he preferred to show his strength instead of his charm – frankly he thought he did not have any of the latter to show off in the first place. He just liked things as it were, and keeping up appearances was not really his concern.

He had accepted his supposed "inadequacy" relative to his brother, partly due to his mother's reassurance that he had his own finer points as well, yet it still bothered him when people continued to expect them to be more alike, or when they rubbed it in his face how different they truly were. He was often called aloof, inconsiderate, or even overly gruff – in contrast to his brother who was amiable, friendly and courteous to a fault.

At any other given time, he would have just let the simple matter slip, yet their blatant distinction angered him somewhat whenever it was time once more for the winter festival.

The surplus of pies and knitted scarves had always been a definite indication; surely more than half of the girls their age were already eager to have his brother ask them out for the festival. Yet he was indecisive, as he was every year, and he claimed he merely feared to break the others' hearts. So he in turn became his brother's saving grace, for it had been his unspoken duty to take out the girl who had been hurt the most by his rejection.

"Estelle's pecan pie gets better every year," he told him, hoping he did not sound too eager. He was determined not to go out with her this year, after how miserable she seemed to be the year before. "Perhaps you should thank her by asking her out?"

His brother smiled at him wryly, already reading his mind before he said more, "We both know you like pecans more than I do. You ask her out."

Whoever thought his brother was the more amiable one was clearly mistaken. He was the one who put up with gloomy dates every year. "I'm not going to ask someone… just because of … food!"

"Exactly," his brother replied as he carefully folded the last of the scarves he got that day, "It is no surprise that we think the same way."

He grumbled as he stuffed another spoonful of the pie to his mouth almost grudgingly. "So have you finally decided?" which broken hearted girl I must ask this time, he added to himself.

"I… I don't know."

"If not Estelle, then you could always go for Lufia, I would advice against asking out Fleur for clearly Geolg likes her. You wouldn't want him picking a fight with you again," He told him as a matter-of-factly while gesturing with his spoon. "I saw the sword he obtained from Nalbina. It was quite sharp, believe me."

"Perhaps I shall ask no one at all. Let us go out with our cousins instead. Let us pelt the wyrm statute and raid Uncle's wine stash. We could even help those in charge of the fireworks, for old time's sake."

He remained silent as he thought about what his brother just said. While the idea pleased him immensely, he suddenly realized how the pies that had his brother's name on it would inevitably be wasted. They would probably eat it for days to come, and somehow he already felt his stomach ache at the thought.

"…that is of course unless you reconsider asking out Estelle."

Perhaps he and his brother were more alike than he thought after all.

"I shall think about it," he finally replied, feigning indifference.


The snow queen was on fire.

She shivered violently, as though her body wanted to compensate for the months she spent immobile in her slumber. Her skin was too warm to his touch, even as he tried to douse her forehead with cold compresses which did not seem to work at all. Yet he continued to wipe her brow nonetheless, in a feeble effort to comfort her, as he watched her convulsions helplessly with his tired eyes.

Doctor Wells already warned him beforehand about the high fever that would come as a direct result of her operation. He told him that it would look quite severe, when in truth it was far from fatal, for the medicines would continue to bring her bodily functions under control. He had anticipated it, but that still did not stop him from worrying.

She was close enough to be touched but her delirium still kept her away from his grasp. She mumbled incoherently, seeming to fight a nightmare from within. He had wanted to cheer her on, for he knew how difficult it was to endure such a battle alone. Yet he was too exhausted to even speak after yearning to reach her amidst her fever for so long. He swore not to give up, nonetheless. He would see her through in her most desperate hour.

Blindly, she reached out, her fingers seeming to ache, hoping to feel. He clasped her hand in his without any hesitations, relieved for having an opportunity to finally do something for her. He silently watched her take one labored breath after another as her eyelids moved, as if she wanted to open her eyes. He squeezed her hand gently to show his encouragement – and was finally gifted with seeing her hazel eyes for the first time.

Her eyes remained unfocused, opening and closing as she breathed. Without really thinking, he reached out to stroke the side of her face with his free hand, wishing she would let him see her eyes once more. She seemed more alert that way, and so he wanted to keep her eyes open, so he could reassure himself that she was far from death as the doctor had said.

After much prodding, she finally acceded to his unspoken request, groggily moving her head towards his direction and finally focusing her eyes to look upon his own gray ones. She did not seem to see him at first, as the fever continued to cloud her vision. Yet soon, small creases were formed in her forehead, and he was sure she was trying to make out his face in the haziness.

"Is … is that you?" she asked, her voice barely inaudible, "Gabranth?"

"Aye," he replied, as he squeezed her hand gently. Her tortured expression mellowed down considerably, and for once she did not look like she was in pain. She closed her eyes briefly, blinking away unshed tears, only to open and gaze upon him once more.

"I sought you… in my… dreams?" She coughed weakly, yet her eyes continued to smile, "I could not find you there… but… here you are. You were with me, after all."

He nodded, as he was unable to do anything else. How was he to tell her that he was not the man she was looking for? How was he to tell her of what happened to him, now that he just stole her from death? She should have been with him now, had he not intervened. Then again, he possibly did not want her to be with him in the first place. After all, his brother went to great lengths to keep her alive.

Idly, he pushed the loose locks of hair away from her face, lingering slightly as he felt pity in his heart. How was he to tell her that the Gabranth she knew was no longer living? How was he to tell her that she was supposed to be dead? He just realized how he parted them. He faintly wondered if going with his brother's plans just enabled him to cause her more misery.

Surely, he could not cause her more pain than what she already felt now.

"Rest, rest and get better," he whispered tenderly, praying his brother's face would be enough to comfort her delirious mind. "Just rest and I will remain by your side."

She held on to his promise as she closed her eyes, donning a tranquil expression for the first time that night.

He in turn continued his vigil, suddenly more troubled than he ever was in his whole lifetime.


Author's Notes:

I want to thank The Brown-ie for encouraging me to write and post this fic. I had this idea in my mind for a while now, but I only had the guts to actually write and post it now. Brown-ie's Basch x Drace fic was really nice and I do hope you check it out as well when you have time (that is if Basch x Drace floats your boat of course)

Drace was quite underdeveloped in the game and I am afraid I might have to erm… wield my creative license powers. I hope I won't overdo it. (If I do, please tell me.) Also, again, I have trouble with eye colors. I see Drace's eyes as kind of yellow… but gray… and green. So I settled for Hazel because according to wiki it can look yellow to gray to green depending on the lighting. *sweatdrop* please forgive my ignorance.

Those who've seen me write before know how slow I am. Uh… It might take me years to finish this, but yes, I will finish it eventually. So there. Thank you very much to those who bothered to read. I would appreciate comments and suggestions (flames, rants, death threats? Oh, but not spam. It's against ff dot net's policy and I'm broke. Hahaha) Thanks again!