The little Moogle, Philicia by name, gaped in surprise when she saw the tall Hume approaching. It had been less than two days. Then her expression turned as dark as the storms of the day, and she firmly placed small fists on her hips.

"Given up already, have you, Kupo? Don't expect me to pay for your time! I-" She suddenly stopped as the tall man calmly removed a feather from inside his cloak and held it in front of her eyes.

"Oh! Yes…yes…I see…"

Anger turned again as quickly to excitement.

"Where, Kupo?"

The Hume's blue-gray eyes shifted a shade, and the little Moogle snorted in exasperation, "Oh fine. I'll let you have a very valuable item from my inventory to add to your bounty. That's more than fair."

"I keep the mark." His tone was neutral.

Philicia scoffed, crossing her small arms and tilting her head scornfully. But the tall Hume only stared back at her with steeled eyes, and the merchant sighed and waved him impatiently away.

"Fine, fine."

"I'll return by the evening."

The little Moogle watched him go with a mixture of admiration and irritation and watched him only hours later return with the same conflict.

Rain-soaked strands of honey and wheat peeked from beneath the hooded cloak that might have been useful for disguising his face from unwanted study but whose thin material had proven useless against the weather. He rode into sight on a large Chocobo, accompanied by no less than a dozen more. Eight were females, and four were accompanied by their young. The herd in total was twice plus one as many as the little handler was missing.

The small Moogle's jaw dropped, and then she began to bounce in glee with eyes sparkling like gems as she saw her profits skyrocketing with this increase.

Just outside the Moogle's camp, the big Chocobo whirled and shook his neck angrily, reminding his rider that just because he'd been outwitted, captured, and coerced into bearing a Hume across muddy hill and rain-drenched plain did not mean he should be mistaken for tamed. The Hume lithely stayed with him, not disgracing his mount with an embarrassing pat but keeping a steady hand on the makeshift rein and a firm seat, returning the reminder as he stayed with every move that he too was a worthy opponent. The understanding again in place, the Chocobo's silvery feathers smoothed and his struggle eased as he accepted his rider's request to move forward.

"Ooo…ooo, Kupo! What a find! This will make me a wealthy merchant indeed! …You know, Kupo…for such a splendid find as that one, I would make you an impressive reward!"

The Hume's face darkened. "The others are yours, but this one I keep- as we agreed."

The little Moogle reached a hand toward the large Chocobo's head, and his iron-hard beak flew toward the tiny being, stopped just before the fatal blow by his riders matched grip on the rein.

"He stays with me."

There was no room for negotiating, and the little moogle, aware of how close she'd come to losing more than her newfound wealth, hurriedly nodded. "Of course, of course, Kupo. As we agreed!"

Noah dismounted and held firmly to the reins as her hired hands secured the flock within the pens.

The small moogle disappeared and then reemerged from behind the counter of her tent with the pouch of promised Gil, a sheathed blade, and a metal box which she opened and held out to him.

Noah was basically unconcerned with the contents of the box. He wanted the Chocobo as a mount. It would allow him to move farther and more swiftly. The Gil was not unappreciated. A necessity if he was to exchange this awkward clothing and armor for something more suited to his taste and fit. All else was unimportant. And then his eyes lit on a cuff.

"Ah! I see you have good taste, Kupo! A priceless one of a kind. Yours if you want it."

The little Moogle was secretly ecstatic. The item was valuable, true, but not so much as several other pieces she'd reluctantly included.

Noah took it indifferently and rode away, only out of sight stopping to turn the piece over in his hands and follow the lines of the engraved signature with sober eyes.

"It was a bold move, my lord."
Basch commended in the voice of Gabranth as he moved to stand quietly at Larsa's side.

Newly returned from a tiring session of the Senate, Larsa was eager for the results and yet patience was required.
To that end, Larsa and his guardian had retired to the palace gardens where the young lord hoped to find repose.

Who was to say how long the players would yet be discussing, debating, and haggling over the details of the proposal set before them?
But the atmosphere remained in Larsa's favor, and beneath caution both he and his protector were privately confident the plan would not fail.
Yes, some minor changes were to be expected. The Senate did have its pride to consider and would not altogether capitulate.
Still, it was unlikely they would long hold out. The people were with Larsa and would not easily tolerate such pettiness.

Larsa was not unaware of his current bargaining position or of the power of the people in this time. To that point he had first revealed his proposal in public address, hedging himself with their support.

It was not without risk, though Larsa's tone, and indeed most sincere intent, was reconciliation at home as well as abroad, including with the contentious Senate.
The grumblings were muted for the moment but they were still there, heard less in words than dark glances and silent stares of resentment.

The idealism and bright, hopeful nature of Larsa Solidor did much to draw the eye of the people from the ominous visage of the Judge standing in his shadow, but the hand of Gabranth never strayed far from the blade in case any were to dare test the young lord.
Such was the duality of these times.

"It will succeed. We must succeed." Larsa spoke with determination and a trace of worry. "It is imperative to see trade established between Archadia and Dalmasca if we are to make permanent this new alliance."
His youthful face was grim with seriousness, but still young Larsa held out his hand to catch a blossom that wafted in the breeze. A gentle smile brushed over his lips before the petal was whisked away on the wind and the gravity of the task returned.

"I believe the matter is likely to come about as you wish. Yet we must be prepared that in turn for yielding this point the Senate may refuse to give way to your desire of providing funds toward the rebuilding of war damaged areas."

"Yes, although to do so benefits all." Larsa was downcast, turning expressive eyes to his protector. "And the matter of our relationship with Rozarria is yet left unresolved. I would bring all our countries together in discussions toward our new goal, but it is difficult to know the way. If we move too slowly we risk losing the good will that affords us this influence and so squander our fortune, but if we act too quickly we risk seeming arrogant, alienating our own people and renewing conflict. Ivalice can ill abide either."

"Don't despair, Larsa," Basch reassured in his own low voice, "There will come a way. If they reject this approach, you will find another."

Larsa smiled gently, gratitude in his sad eyes, "Thank you, my friend. I-I don't know what I would do without you."

Basch, uncertain of the right words, was silent, but he moved to stand nearer the young man, his very presence itself a comfort, as if to say, "See, you are not alone, Larsa. I am here."

And yet the face of the Judge was overcast.

"What is it?" Larsa's eyes became at once concerned.
The lines of thought on Basch's forehead deepened, but he was silent.
Larsa turned to face Basch directly. "Please."

Basch's deep voice was made rough as he forced himself to speak, "My lord, it is not only the enemies of the Empire who suffer but also friends."

Larsa's eyes sought his guardian's carefully, seeking the truth in the tone of sorrow, listening carefully to words that came slowly.

"Not all sons of the Empire who went to fight at country's call returned, and more there are who live with daily reminders of the trials they have faced. Others have surely come home to find family gone or livelihood destroyed. Does not the Empire have a debt to these? Is it not the duty of the Empire to see them remembered and by some means repaid for their sacrifice?"

The soft blue eyes of Basch were grim and troubled as he stared past the drifting blossoms and saw again the artist in the marketplace.

But Larsa's eyes softened, and he reached out to touch Basch's arm gently, with understanding.
When he spoke his own voice was husky with emotion. "I miss him too, my friend. His sacrifice becomes our beloved debt. We will make provision for their remembrance and aid. And though it must remain unsaid, we will know that we do so in his name. For our Gabranth."

The grief that was in Larsa's eyes seemed to clench in Basch's stomach as surprise turned to guilt in a flash of pain that shot through his veins.

Yes, a great sacrifice… Basch could see it clearly, the blood that slipped from pale lips as Noah struggled desperately to relay his final request. He could hear it, the faint catch of shallow breath as his brother fought to manage the pain that consumed him and ate away his remaining strength. He could feel it, the yet warm touch of a tired hand seeking comfort and finding rest in his. And it called him again, the enduring bond that had eased those last painful moments before the faint breathing was no longer heard, before the lips went still, before the hand slipped, and the eyes that had been fixed on his dimmed.

But then other memories rose within and fought back the tenderness with dual blades.
King dead.
Prison bars.
Shame.
Betrayed.
Reks.
Trust destroyed.
Spirit broken.
Vaan.
Ashelia...
Grief.
Anger.
Pain...
Captain
Traitor.
Enemy.
Disgraced.
The artist in the marketplace.
Scars that twined like barbed lace.
The alarm in the young woman's eyes.
Fear.
Eyes that looked away...

Larsa saw the eyes darken and the lips tense and sorrowed for the grief he perceived as Basch held his gaze, but Basch simply echoed somberly, "For our Gabranth."

For a week of nights Noah rode the Chocobo across meadow and field to the border of the property on which lay the old man's estate.
He could not seem to stay away.

Each night the same, at the border he eased his mount to a stop and sat somberly in the dark stillness, looking out across the field into the gloom of night.
Somewhere at the end of many long hours, too soon before the break of dawn, the pair would return to the stretch of land beside the river, where the Hume would dismount and find a secure enough spot for a makeshift bed. There, at last, he would ease his aching body for awhile.
And sometimes the proud Chocobo would graze, though not wander too far away, or stand in sleeping. But, more often than not, the creature would at some point fold his legs beneath his large body and lay beside his sleeping so-called master, sharing warmth with the Hume who'd dared think to subdue him.

Each night passed restlessly, with the Chocobo roused from sleep by intermittent moans and cries, as the Hume tossed and wrestled some great sorrow that would not let him be.
Each morning saw dark circles beneath the Hume's tired eyes, and still he arose just the same. He washed his injured body in the icy river, bound his wounds with supplies from those sent with him, and set out, face shadowed by stubble and cloak, to occupy his day and so also his mind.

The town was becoming busier with each day. The locals were sending for added supplies as they stocked up for the big festival. Early arrivals were making camp and preparing their goods for sale.
All of this meant one thing: vigilance, either from old habit of maintaining secrecy or fresh need.
Noah was careful to remain a stranger in this place.

…This place…Where...?
Noah looked to the stars and calculated, waiting for his usually keen powers of observation to move back into sharp focus.
It was more difficult to concentrate than it should be. He found his senses disoriented and abstract too often.
Still, old instincts and knowledge would not be denied, and his mind gathered details from what he surveyed, mapping out the area.

They were inside the once-Kingdom of Nabradia and closer to the border of Dalmasca than to Archadia, but he'd been here many times.
That was to say he'd often flown above on his way to some other location, or found himself descending through the underground Nalbina Fortress Dungeons not so far away and yet so far beneath.
His chest tightened, and he pulled his arms over his chest, rubbing them for warmth though it was not cold, seeing his brother, bruised and thin, shamed and suffering, before him...
"Basch…"

By sheer will he forced his thoughts elsewhere. The aching in his chest eased somewhat, and his eyes drifted onward.
…It would not be too great a journey from this vanquished Kingdom to the vanished borders of once Landis…

No. A piece of land did not a home make but those within it, and all he loved there were long gone.
He shut his eyes to the stars and turned them instead over the meadow, imagining a warm hearth and the sound of a boy's laughter mixed with an old man's petulance.

The movement of a distant creature prowling through the grass caught Noah's eye, and his hand went to the sword at his side.

Too restless for sleep, Noah summoned his mount with a low whistle, and they rode out like a shadow.
He would see to the boy's care in such ways as he had.

Dwen walked into the shop, nodded to Madame Ranel, and slipped into the back to find Kasan tiredly working on a line of identically matched swords.
"Evidently the war's end didn't put weapons out of style."

At the dry words Kasan looked over to see Dwen leaning against the wall, her full lips twisted into a wry smile. "No. I guess not."

Kasan was clearly exhausted, and Dwen frowned in concern. "You've been working too hard. You need to get away."

Kasan smiled quietly, "I've been away, or had you forgotten?"

"I've not forgotten." Dwen's eyes were serious and sad. "But you can't spend the rest of your life locked up in here creating cheap replicas of your past work. That does nothing for you."

"Thank you. I'm aware of the current futility of my life, Dwen. But thank you for pointing it out."

Dwen ignored her employer's droll attitude and hurried on, "Look, what you need is to be inspired! What you need-"

"What I need, Dwen, is for you to let me get back to work so I can finish these weapons and get on to the next batch. That's what I need to do."
The words were uncharacteristically sharp. Kasan's lips were a tense line, and his eyes were hardened. Dwen looked away, stung by the rebuke.
Kasan lay his tools down with a sigh and stood with his head bowed as he placed both hands on the table, resting for a moment.
Dwen approached him quietly but didn't speak, and when Kasan turned to her he could see the hurt in her eyes. He grimaced, regret strong within him, and went to her.
One hand he placed on her shoulder. The other turned her face toward him. "I'm sorry." He said it softly, and tears filled her eyes.
Angrily she shoved first his hands and then the tears away, but he pulled her into a protective embrace. "I'm so sorry, Dwen. You've been a great help to me. I appreciate it-very much. It's just…I'm tired."
His kind of tired encompassed so much.

"I know. It's okay." Dwen smiled through her tears and then cautiously added, "I just-you're so much better than this, you know? You're Kasan Ranel!"

He laughed softly and backed away, embarrassed, and then laughed more, shaking his head. "I don't know."

"I know!" Dwen raised her chin stubbornly. Her eyes softened as she watched him return to his workbench and the mundane task set before him. "I just…I just want you to remember…before everyone else forgets."

Kasan's head turned, his eyes searching her face. That was what he also feared.
"I think it may already be too late. Things were out of my control while I was away, and no one is knocking down my door for special orders these days. The only orders I get are through Haleine-this kind of thing." He swept his hand toward the unexciting pieces. "I've tried to put out some unique items out at the Market, and it's not only not brought in new customers but the time and materials I spend on those takes away from the work I should be doing here."
Dwen opened her mouth to protest, but Kasan raised a hand. "Listen, it's not like it was before. My father is dead. I have to earn my keep and contribute. I can't only think of myself."

Dwen frowned sullenly, "You never think only of yourself. She never thinks of you. She takes advantage!"

Kasan motioned for Dwen to keep her voice down.

"How can you defend her? She stole from you! She stole your work and your good name! And now she only uses you to get more for herself!"
Dwen refused to be quieted, and Kasan walked past her and shut the door to block out the sound of their conversation

"Please, Dwen." He walked back to her, looking down into her violet eyes, "You're a good friend, but I have to do this my way."

Something in his words hurt her, though she tried to hide it. "Fine. I'll leave you alone. But maybe you could take a look at this when you aren't so busy."

She shoved a wrinkled flier into his hands and whirled toward the door.

"Dwen-"

But she was gone, and he was a little more tired than before.

Basch fon Ronsenberg was lost in thought as he made his way down the cobbled street toward the artist's shop.
Why he'd delayed for days to follow up on this situation was not something he wanted to directly acknowledge, but he could hear even now some part of him whispering, "Leave it alone. The past is the past, and Noah is gone. Let him be. Remember him as you loved him, and let the good Gabranth can now do be enough to atone for past misdeeds. Let it be."
And yet he was driven.

Absentmindedly he nodded to a family who passed by. How they returned his acknowledgment, pulled more closely together, and quickly passed by was not lost on him.
A small gathering of children played on the sidewalk in front of the door and scattered like a flock of birds at the sight of the imposing Judge.
Why he was wearing his helm he didn't quite know, but still he did not remove it.

The ringing of a bell sounded as the door opened, and Basch waited a moment to let his eyes adjust.
A handful of customers occupied the space. One held a sword up to study its blade. The few others browsed with mild interest. All left the store at the appearance of the Judge, the bell sounding out at each exit.

Kasan Ranel emerged from the back of the store, on his face a look of curiosity that quickly turned to shock and moved to wariness. "Ah. Well, that explains the mass exodus..."
His eyes never left Gabranth's helm, as if searching the face behind it.

Basch was silent, and the artist's eyes shifted, looking toward the exit as if to determine his odds of escape.

"Is there a problem, Judge Magister?"

"I have only a few questions for you."

At once the artist's head tilted and his eyes widened like a creature who smells danger on the wind. At the traces of alarm evident upon Kasan Ranel's face, Basch lowered his eyes behind the darkened mask.

"I fear I have served you an injustice." His voice, Gabranth's voice, was heavy with Basch's own disappointment.

The artist's eyes narrowed and hardened. "Do you?"

The words were calm, but there was a touch of anger within the short response, and Basch felt the heaviness of the burden he carried increase its weight.

"I would hear what is required to make right."

The voice of Gabranth was soft and shot with sincerity, but a mocking glint shown in the artist's eyes, a grim smile upon his lips. "I fear, my lord, that time is past."

Basch took a step in the artist's direction, and the artist's fist clenched as he watched Gabranth with steeled eyes.
The shop bell rang, announcing an entry, and the artist raised his eyes and winced, all antipathy ebbing into discomfort.

"And what has our humble establishment done to secure a visit from such a venerated guest as yourself, Judge Magister Gabranth?"

The hostility with which Haleine Ranel greeted Judge Gabranth made the artist's manner seem almost welcoming, and Basch sensed the moment was lost for him.
He nodded to both, making his exit. The bell signaled his departure behind him.

He felt the eyes of the children watching him from across the street, every step a little harder to take than the last…

Kasan silently endured his step-mother's bitter interrogation, "A Judge Magister, here! Here! Why? What do you know of it? Tell me!"
She closed the shop and followed him into his studio, still questioning him even as he gathered up tools, supplies, and Dwen's flier along with them.
She followed him as he made his way, laden with satchels of materials and goods, to the door of the shop, grabbing his arm viciously so that her nails cut into him, forcing him to look at her.
"What are you doing? Where are you going? Answer me!"

A forceful slap rocked him and released a thin line of blood from his lip.

He looked down at her, gentle sorrow in his eyes, and handed her the flier.
She looked down at the paper in her hand, and he kissed her cheek with sad tenderness, "I'm going to the Faire."

The door opened. The bell rang. And Haleine Ranel stood there trembling, the wrinkled paper in her hand and a bloody shadow of a kiss on her face.

The night air hung like a heavy curtain, smothering him. Even his very breath brought tightness to his chest. All about lay a fog-like blanket, concealing from his sight the truth and any escape.

Fear gripped him and chased a scream to his throat. "Naren! Naren!"

But it was not Naren that came but She, wailing like a wild thing, alight with spirit and flame, reaching her arms toward him for a killing embrace.

He called again for the only hope he had left, "Father! Please!" But the eyes that turned to glance his way were a mix of fear and grief and only looked on him a moment before turning as the form slipped away.

"No…please…no…"

But no one came to save him. No one came to his aid.

The room was alive, the air dancing with angry sparks. Her fists closed and so did his throat. Then, in one violent motion, She threw her hands up and out, and everything became instantly bright. The earth beneath him, the wall behind him, the roof above him, all seemed to heave. The sound hit him like a wave, and then everything was silent and fading, his own body seeming to float. This must be death.

He drew the breath that would surely be his last, and two words escaped.

"Naren…"

The pale tendril wound itself from his lips to the sky and then burst into light, and as his body collapsed his eyes closed on the shimmer.

"…goodbye."

Another morning and another curtain of shimmering dew hung like droplets of the last night's stars, strung together like beads on string, obscuring the valley. It seemed the haze was thicker these past mornings, though the rain had been less.

Noah emerged from the familiar cave and looked down at the house below.
He would be gone before the boy went down to breakfast, too soon to be witnessed. He did not want another confrontation with the old man, for Faolyn's sake.
But his concern for the pair had overcome his caution, and he had come early to this place bearing the fruit of a long night's hunting.
The boy would come here, he was certain, having seen his previous gift had been received.

The sun revealed its face and licked up the dew. But still the door below was shut and the curtains drawn.

Two pale, winged creatures circled above the valley, and the silver Chocobo stepped nervously, causing Noah to become alert. What were these? He'd never seen the like, but then the odd beast might appear anywhere, really. One could never know and must always be on guard.
There was something mournful about these even as they soared and dipped and came ever closer.
He stared, strangely immobilized, as the two flew toward him, something pulling him in. The Chocobo let out an anxious cry and galloped away, fluttering his unhelpful wings frantically.

The creatures were transparent and shimmering like the morning veil, and as they flew toward Noah's face they seemed to dissolve into the air so that when they met him he only barely felt the touch of their cool, burning fingers against his cheek. It was enough.

Fear coursed through him like he'd known only a few times-and never for himself.
"Faolyn."
Without thought he ran toward the home below, taking no care with his newly mending body.
He did not stop at the door but kicked it in with a fierce blow, stepping through the gaping hole without pause and taking the stairs to the boy's room three at a time.

Just as he reached Faolyn's door it swung open, framing the old man, his face weary, his eyes red with sorrow. Noah merely swept him out of the way with one arm and was at Faolyn's side.

Noah himself paled and his lips tightened as he took in the boy's ivory pallor and deathlike stillness.
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Faolyn's hair, floating without breeze, at the glow cast about the unmoving form, and at the blue markings on his skin.
But this reaction was swift and then the shock was gone. He scooped the boy up in his arms, cradling his body against his chest and ignoring the old man's protests, and carried him out the door into the warm sun.

Somehow managing to remove his own cloak and wrap it around the boy while holding him gently in his arms, Noah knelt down on earth still marred by the reminders of the battle that had occurred not long past.

There he rocked the limp body, smoothing back the mangled tresses as if there was nothing unusual about them.
All the while he was speaking to the boy in hushed but urgent tones, "Faolyn, do you see the sun? It's a beautiful day, Faolyn, don't you think? Faolyn, open your eyes. Faolyn… please…"

The old man stood back, wringing his hands, hoping, praying, and all the while angry with this arrogantly interfering stranger. Angry too at his own helplessness. Angry at his own blame.
Angry with this man for whatever part, willingly or not, he had played.

At the same time, Tarachande, dismayed, was fearful for the man who dared to intercede.
The eerie, translucent fingers of shimmering, pale light like flames rose and fell. They seemed for a moment to die down only to burst forth once more in anger.
And the old man could see his once patient's body shudder in pain. He could see the face tighten, and the lips clench when the powerful waves came.
But instead of pulling away he would only pull the lad closer into his embrace and stroke his hair gently, saying, "It's okay, Faolyn, it's okay."
And Tarachande wondered if he would be soon made to dig two graves.

One hour passed and then another, and still Noah sat with the boy in the sun, talking with him. As he did so, the pale light lost its violence and began to grow more and more tame until finally Tarachande felt it safe to leave them alone for a time.

He returned to the house, making a new place for the boy's care. He was afraid to dare too great a hope but was heartened by what he'd seen.
Perhaps, he allowed, this man's return could bring a change of tides. A part of him was relieved that another had come to share the burden and perhaps offer a solution.

Finally, as dusk was creeping over the hills, Noah appeared in the doorway of the room not so long past his own, carrying the boy to the newly made bed.

The old man felt tears spring to his eyes as he saw the signs of life in the color of the boy's skin and the vanishing of the outward aspects of his episode. He smiled gently, with eyes only for the boy, as he observed Faolyn's chest rising and falling in restful sleep.

Noah stood watch behind, his body screaming with a pain he did not understand, reaching a trembling hand to the door-frame to keep himself upright. He had endured the sickening cut of flesh, the breaking of bone, the blinding, smothering crush of horrific impact. This was different. It hurt worse and it hurt less than any pain he'd known. It was like the caress of something bitterly cold and yet fiercely hot, as if something living had crawled across his chest, licking up a portion of his skin along the way.

Noah's eyes were still on the boy as the old man treated the child, but he let his own trembling fingers tear at the troublesome buttons and pull open his shirt, careful not to be observed.
His eyes flitted downward to see if there was any sign of blood, and he froze in shock.
Across his chest and still spreading toward his shoulders he could see blue lines, some thick and some almost invisible, all wildly tangled like scroll-work. There seemed some spark in the color, like the twinkling of crystals.
For a moment he couldn't breathe. And then he sensed the old man shifting and pulled his shirt closed, folding his arms over his chest to conceal any revealed skin, careful to mask that he was stunned by what he'd seen.

Despite Noah's efforts, the old man noted the wide eyes of the man he faced; however, he took it only as response to the boy's episode.
"He sleeps untroubled. We should let him rest."

Moments earlier nothing would have taken Noah from Faolyn's bedside, but now all he could do was nod and turn to make his way up to what was once the boy's room, arms still folded over his stinging chest.

Basch was ill. He asked for, and received, permission to be dismissed from the evenings dining with Larsa, who yet waited word from the Senate.
It had not been particularly easy. Larsa had not been angry, of course, but was at once highly concerned for his guardian's well-being and eager to send for a bevy of physicians to determine the cause of Basch's malady.
Basch had only barely managed to save himself prodding and testing and partaking of an unpleasant array of medicines, but he did rather wish he had something that would force him to sleep and erase the turmoil of his mind for a time.

He showered and dressed for rest that he longed for but feared would elude him.

Not only his encounter with the artist troubled him.

In truth, the meeting with the artist had been particularly vexing and he'd been futility driven to seek resolution because of the thing that distressed him most.

Soon he and Zargabaath would start reexamining the case of each political prisoner yet remaining in the Empire's hands. Though some had found immediate release, there were still many that remained in the Dungeon, albeit in considerably better conditions than those he'd known.

Of all the tasks he had taken on in his brief time as Judge Magister, this promised to be the most difficult for a once enemy and unjustly made prisoner of the Empire. He could not help but consider that many of those he must judge were from the very rebellion he had dedicated his life and honor to.

He must be clear enough to Judge fairly and rightly.

He must not be Basch fon Ronsenberg. This was the first thing he must establish within himself.
Here he must be Judge Magister Gabranth, Knight of House Solidor and steward of the Imperial Ministry of Law.

Could he succeed in upholding his duties and remain true to that which had led him from home to Dalmasca and now saw him to this place? He must.

Despite the conflict that came with remembering, increasingly Basch found himself wishing he could speak to his late brother, in particular to ask questions of Archadian law.
If only Noah had left behind some record of the duties that were now his.
But of course Noah had moved in stealth, as was necessary and prudent, and there was no paper trail of his involvement in state secrets.

The quarters Basch had come home to were immaculately clean and carefully devoid of anything that spoke of his actions within the role he played. There were only a very few simple and slight traces of Noah himself: an ornately carved candle- half-burned, a book- marker placed three-quarters of the way through. Basch had left such things as they were.

It wasn't that Basch found himself struggling in the new role he'd assumed.
When at Larsa's side he knew what was expected and fell naturally into place.
Protecting and guarding Larsa, listening and comforting the young leader, came naturally.
It was no burden to be in service to Larsa.

And much of Judge Magister could also be found in Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg. Though Dalmasca had been a small country without the level of intrigue found in Archadia, and perhaps in part because of this, his had not been a simplistic role. For the decreased military might and personnel had meant an expanded role for one called Captain.
He'd been trusted by the throne and entrusted with state secrets, as his brother, Judge Magister of the 9th Bureau of Archadia, had also been…

Basch sighed as he remembered his King, dead.
The Captain had failed. The Judge Magister had succeeded. Was that all there was to the story?
He pushed himself past that moment and crawled beneath the luxurious sheets, stretching his long frame.

When given the maps of Archadian territory as it was placed in Ivalice and supplied with record of all troops, Basch easily saw weaknesses and strengths. At once he began to form his own plans as to where to maneuver to keep the country strong.
Suddenly privy to the secrets Captain fon Ronsenberg had always sought, he had been at first taken back to see how far Archadia's touch extended. A part of him had balked at sending orders to strengthen the post-war interests of what seemed an insatiable Empire, but he had seen it done.

There was a question in his mind as to the agents his brother had placed in the field-those shady individuals who melded into a society not first their own, watching, listening, and reporting back to the one who placed them there. They were the eyes and ears who helped to gather the sensitive information that the 9th was responsible for.
This bureau was being restructured to suit Basch's Gabranth, but one could not simply cut off the hand and pluck the eyes. The Empire needed a stealthy presence elsewhere.
In this day he needed to know what the people said outside of Archadia, to know if there was any threat without that could reach within to Larsa. He could use these ties.
And yet there was no record of who these were. No one had known except Gabranth.

…Well, that was not altogether true.
Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg and the Resistance had known of some of these shadows.

Basch's Gabranth had returned some to their task with new orders-restrictions placed upon their behavior within their role to fit his own code.
Some he also knew had died, killed by the Resistance they had spied upon.
But there were others of whom he had no knowledge of. He was certain of this, and it worried him.
Also, those he was aware of he did not know beyond his experiences on the opposition.
He did not know their temperaments and methods and past experiences with Gabranth.

Desperately he needed someone to work for him that he could depend on. But who could that be?

If Balthier were here, a sky pirate might serve a likely agent. But Balthier was gone.
He'd not ask Vaan to work for the Empire, even in the aid of Larsa.
And it was obviously impossible to draw from allies in Dalmasca.
Perhaps time would provide an answer, but did he have time?

Basch yawned, weary, but still he could not get comfortable.

His leadership with the men under his command had not been questioned. The officers of lower rank accepted him as Judge Magister. But then, perhaps it helped that there had also been a restructuring of the military after the war.
It was necessary. Too many Judge Magisters had fallen.
To compensate, other lesser Judges had been given promotions and put into place as Generals over their respective battleships.
Possibly in time these would be promoted to take the place of the Judge Magisters who had died in the role. But at this time Gabranth and Zargabaath were simply made leader of all.

Part of the Judge Magister's responsibilities had been divvied up, giving the lesser Judges under them more of the field responsibility over the companies under their lead.
This left the senior Judge Magisters to handle the most sensitive and important responsibilities, while elsewise they took more of an overseeing role.
This served also to keep them closer to Larsa, free to answer to his call and need, for Gabranth would not leave the young lord unprotected, and Zargabaath also seemed reluctant to far stray.

Yes, so far it went fairly well. Yet he now feared the first time he must look on the face of a resistance member and read the charges against the accused. He would not care, he knew, to see evidence or hear arguments. He would wish to set free. And what would happen if law would not allow…

As his mind worried, his body slowly accepted the rest that the bed offered, and the racing thoughts slipped away into the shadow of dreams.