"No, no! Not there! To the far wall! Come now, young man! Can you not move with more quickness?" Father Tarachande's voice was impatient and sharp.

Noah struggled to once more move the heavy wooden bookcase. It had become all the heavier after the fourth time across the room. There was a touch of sweat across his forehead and beneath the hair that now swept the base of his neck.

"Here?" Noah asked, wiping his forehead and stretching his bruised back.

"Hm. Yes…I think that will do. Now get the books back on the shelves. I'll return momentarily."

Noah patiently withstood Tarachande's prickly manner while Faolyn stood watching, his arms full of books and a frown on his face.

"You don't have to do this!" Faolyn insisted, worry in his eyes, after Tarachande had left the room.

Noah smiled casually. "No, I don't have to. But he did have somewhat to do with saving my life-although I give the greater credit to you." He winked amicably at Faolyn, who grinned in embarrassment for the praise. "And he has allowed me to shelter here. I have few ways of repaying. This I can do."

Faolyn's frown deepened. "He used to pay people to bring in just a part of the spoils you bring for free. And all the work you do here? I-I don't think it's really right…"

Noah left his task to pat Faolyn's tense shoulders. "It's okay, Faolyn. I'm willing." Noah craned his neck to make sure Tarachande wasn't close by and continued. "Faolyn…children grow up…young men grow old. I have strength to do things he is no longer able. If ordering me about makes it possible for him to allow my help, I can endure it." He did not burden Faolyn by saying, I endure it for you.

Faolyn made a rough, disgruntled sound in his throat, and Noah laughed and pulled him into an easy embrace. "Thank you."

Faolyn pulled back and looked up at him questioningly.

"For wishing to defend me. You have a kind heart."

Faolyn flushed, and turned from Noah, avoiding his eyes by taking the stacks of books to the shelf.

Noah let his eyes follow the boy for a moment before he turned away and gathered his arms full as well.

Basch was always like that…

"It's just not right, Noah! We have to do something! Come on!"

The air was thick with smoke, and there the woman stood, outside of her burning home, with one arm gathered protectively around two young children and a babe nestled in the crook of the other arm.

A haughty man, clothed in garb the woman and her family could never afford, stood to the side, flanked by bodyguards with torches in their hands.

"You must stop this, please!" Basch ran toward the man and Noah followed, fearful for his brother's safety and unwilling to be denied his part in whatever would befall him.

"Stay back, whelp!" The man motioned quickly and one of the guards caught Basch midstride and brutally knocked him away. The two brothers collided and fell, a tangled mess of arms and legs, into the mud and muck and straw.

The guards laughed as their leader directed them take their mounts over the boys. The twins lay still, holding their breath that the mighty clawed feet would not fall upon them until they were safely passed by.

"Are you okay?" The woman came to them, the infant held tightly to her breast, her children hiding their faces in the skirt they were clutching. Tears had washed paths through the soot on all their sad faces.

"Have no fear for us, my lady. What might we do for you?" Basch, all of nine years age, asked the question with sincerity and serious eyes, and the impoverished woman knelt beside him in the mud, holding the mortified boy, like her babe, to her chest, sobbing into his muddied hair as dark columns of smoke rose behind and above.

Later Basch would tell Noah the lady's story of how her husband's sudden ill health had left them indebted. Of how first her husband had been arrested and then the men had come to burn down their home because they could not pay. He would tell his brother, with concern vivid in his eyes, of how she feared for her children. And then Basch would pour out his own savings, and look to Noah to do the same, so that they might invest in the little family's future. They'd made their contribution in secret, but the woman had met their mother at market, where the lady had been working to sell goods the boys and her two older children had worked to gather, and told of the compassion she'd been shown.
So moved their mother had been that she'd spoken to their father and between them it had been agreed that the fon Ronsenberg's would assume the debt of the less fortunate family, though the mother had vowed it would only be until such a time the debt could be repaid. The fon Ronsenbergs had amended that to be "repaid without hardship."

At that time it had seemed a truly small thing...

In those terrible early days…after…
When Basch had gone and with their mother failing…
When the crops and businesses had either burned to the ground or been looted by raiders, or their own countrymen-most in as much need as they…
When they'd sold at a loss or bartered away all possessions of value that had not been destroyed…
When their neighbors and friends had forsaken the ruins, gathering their families and fleeing to safer lands…
And when the only person left who seemed not to suffer was that one person who had sent the unfortunate family to ruin and the fon Ronsenberg boys into the mud…
Then, on that dread day, it had seemed a great sacrifice indeed.

Noah would never forget the mocking laughter or the victorious gleam in the wealthy baron's eyes as he turned away Noah's shamed, stumbling pleas. "No, boy! I have no work for you; my coffers will not open to your ilk." Then his face had taken on pretense of sympathy. "Ah lad, if only you had better chosen your friends! If only you had proved a more worthy steward of your own trifling resources, then perhaps you'd now have come by enough to care for your dear kindred…What a truly sad state." An exaggerated sigh was followed by a derisive grin, as all thin pretense of concern vanished. "Be gone, pauper-son. I have naught for your kind."

It was the first day Noah had ever truly tasted hatred. It was the first time in his life he had wished, with trembling fury, for a weapon of war; later he'd been glad of his lack of the same-for his mother's sake. Who would have cared for her if he had been taken prisoner or killed?
But he'd never been sorry that Basch had wished to help the small family. It was an act of kindness that had meant all the more when the family, reunited and back on their feet, had come to console them as their own family began to splinter at the death of their father.
That other family had moved on before the invasion, and no one knew where they had settled. Noah was content not to know. It was too hard a thing to wonder if the children they had befriended had grown to be his enemies…

An instinctive realization that something had shifted brought Noah back to his task as a mound of books Faolyn had stacked became overbalanced and slipped from their perch on the shelf above him. The volumes pushed a heavy, ornate vase off the edge as they gained momentum, plummeting toward the floor. Noah instinctively dove for the vase, cradling it in one hand just before it hit the wooden floor of the study, reaching to catch and steady the floor lamp that was rocking on its base with the other hand, ignoring the books that crashed down upon him.

Faolyn gasped, "Oh no! I'm sorry! Are you all right?" The boy was immediately beside him.

Noah felt his back, the same place he'd hit the day before, burning. The pain took his breath for a second and then eased. "It's okay, Faolyn. I'm fine. Mm…how's the vase?"

Faolyn took it from Noah's hands and turned it around carefully. He looked down at his guardian with relieved eyes, "It's not broken!"

Noah exhaled sharply and rolled to his feet. "Good!" He looked at the strewn pile of old books and grimaced lightly at Faolyn, "A little help?"

Faolyn grinned, nodded, and began scooping up books and straightening the rumpled pages.

Noah returned the boy's smile, his heart warmed by the pleasant company. Although in Archadia he had made a place and done all he could to fill it, truly it had been a long time since he felt he belonged. It was a long time since he'd felt it was all right to belong…

Noah picked up a heavy volume to return it to the stack when a handful of pages scattered across the floor. He stooped to reach for the papers, and at once his sharp mind grasped what he was viewing. The particulars were hidden in a web of jumbled sheets, but even at first glance he could see maps and charts and letters and…

Noah's hand stopped on one page. He moved it to the side, eyes narrowed as his mind gathered the information at his fingertips.

"I'll take those. Thank you." The old man was suddenly in the doorway, striding purposefully toward the younger.

Noah was not startled by the interruption. He looked up to Tarachande from where he sat on the floor, eyes scanning the old man with a wary mix of caution and question.

The old man's eyes were hard in return, and his voice was cool. "Come now, young man…"
He said it mildly enough, but there was a touch of something in his voice that caught Noah's attention. Gabranth knew a threat.

Faolyn took up the remaining books and placed them on the shelf, and his movements drew Noah's attention toward him. When Noah looked back to the old man he saw that Tarachande's eyes also had moved to the boy. Noah silently handed the papers to the old man, and the aged eyes held a strange glint that reminded Noah of the man who had laughed in his face and turned him away that fateful day...

The three ate their evening meal quietly. Partly this was due to the fact that Faolyn had made tasty omelets from a Cockatrice egg Noah had brought back from a hunt. The omelets were loaded with cheese, vegetables, and meat and accompanied by toasted bread, seasoned and buttered. It was a meal hearty enough to satisfy the ravenous and silence their hungry tongues.
But there was more to the muted atmosphere than appetite.

The old man seemed to have enough of the awkward quiet and found a need for useless words, talking about the visit from the newlyweds while the others silently ate.
"The young fools intend to sell goods, but I would venture they will end up spending more than they make."

"What kinds of things will they have at the Faire? Do you know?" Faolyn asked the question of Noah and not of the old man. He was not so much interested in the Faire as he was in enticing his guardian into conversation. Noah had not been the same since the afternoon, and Faolyn worried at the brooding stillness that had so quickly fallen upon him.

Noah rearranged the mangled and dissected remnants of the omelet with his fork, "Oh, all sorts of things, as I recall. Artisans from all over would gather to sell their wares and put on exhibitions of skill. You could buy armor and weapons or clothing and various trinkets. There were even players: minstrels, poets, and mummers. It was all very festive. I've not been since I was a boy myself, and I believe the war extinguished the festival altogether for a time, so I cannot guess how large this gathering will be…"

"Still…it sounds exciting." Faolyn's voice was shy and carried a bit of a far-away quality.

Noah's moody eyes turned thoughtfully to the boy's wishful face, and a touch of a smile slipped to his somber lips. "He could use some new clothing…" Noah's voice remained neutral and cool as he lightly posed the suggestion. His shadowed eyes momentarily lit on Tarachande's face before turning away.

The old man saw the steel in the blue-gray and the fire lit within the shielded orbs. Tarachande glanced away from the younger man, ill at ease, and then looked to the boy. Faolyn was every hour stronger. There was little hint left to mark his recent brush with mortality. And yet it was somewhat surprising that the child would even be interested in such an event. Always Faolyn had seemed content with, even wishful of, their solitude.

Tarachande looked again to Noah, who this time did not turn his head to meet the old man's gaze. Even so, the old man could see the tension in his set jaw and in the lines of his shoulders. The younger man was aware he was being scrutinized.
…Many things had changed since this stranger, this storm bringer, had invaded their seclusion.
And now, come blessing or curse, the boy would no longer be satisfied with their old ways.

"We will all go. Together." Tarachande's voice held a warning.

"As you wish, of course." Noah spoke softly, and Faolyn was concerned for the grieved darkness he saw in his guardian's features.
As if Noah sensed the boy's eyes, he turned his own to meet Faolyn's and smiled, trying to alleviate the anxiety there. Faolyn returned the smile, knowing full well that it was given for his benefit alone.

"I will prepare for our journey." Noah pushed back his chair and stood, leaving his meal unfinished.

"I'll help you!" Faolyn was at once by his side, but Noah turned his eyes to the old man.

"With your permission…my lord." There was a new formality in his words, a reserve that had not been even that same morn.

Faolyn's eyes were hard on Tarachande's face, and the old man did not miss the accusation there or the way he stood to full height, defensive at Noah's side. The boy had chosen his loyalties-that of all was most clear.

"Go! Go!" The old man scowled and waved his hands impatiently, bothered, as he watched the two exit the back door.

Alone, Tarachande chided himself...
If only he'd left the study locked, as was norm.
If only he'd not asked the young man to move the blasted shelf! It had been fine where it was.
He walked back to the study and sat down in one of the worn leather chairs, taking the folded papers from the pocket of his robe to read the words writ in a familiar hand. Words and writing he knew by heart.
"Dearest Uncle…"

"Your move." Larsa's eyes danced as he sat patiently, waiting for his guardian's decision in their strategic game.

Basch studied the pieces longer than he had need. His years in the war, both as a soldier and as Captain, had given him a keen eye for the strengths and weaknesses of his enemy. Yet Larsa had proven to be quite a worthy opponent with an interesting way of taking the less direct approach to victory.

Always Larsa surprised and pleased Basch as he continued to show that there was more to this young leader than the naive child others so often had assumed the youngest Solidor to be. Here was proof that hopefulness need not equate to blindness.
"That was a very clever maneuver, my lord."
The voice was his own. There was no need of disguise alone in Larsa's quarters.

Larsa smiled boyishly, "Vayne always encouraged me to look for the more subtle paths. He would always..." Suddenly the young Emperor's smile faded and his eyes became grim.. He looked to Basch in distress, "I am sorry, Basch. I forgot myself."

Basch reached across the table and put a hand on Larsa's forearm. "Larsa, for your regret there is no need."

But Larsa was not consoled. Worry and remorse mixed in his sensitive eyes.
"Well I know Vayne was your enemy and brought to you great sorrow. I did not wish to remind you of the past."

Basch's eyes lowered as he struggled for what to say. Larsa's words had unsettled him somewhat. "I did not wish to remind you of the past." These reminders of the past he had himself so often tried to avoid.
It was becoming more difficult with each day…

When Basch opened his mouth to speak he was as yet still uncertain what he would say. Yet somehow the words came. "Larsa, never repent the love you have for your brother's memory. Let those kinder reminders comfort you. And have no fear of speaking to me of such things. I would that things had ended differently-for us all. I would lord Vayne had been willing to make peace. …I would have lent my hand, no matter what had been, for the good of Ivalice. And I will do whatever I can to now help you believe this."

"I do believe you, Basch." Larsa's sincerity was clear. "You are here, are you not? And I know it is no simple thing. I thank you, for my sake, for our people's sake, and for…" His voice softened with compassion. "And for your brother's sake, my friend. I have not forgotten that I am not alone in grief."

Basch looked down at the smaller hand that clasped his. Always Larsa found a way to comfort him when it should be the other way. But he'd known it would come to this. They shared a bond of loss and of wounded love. Separation of loyalties, personal disenchantment, and feelings of betrayal…these were a common ground Basch shared with Larsa.

Basch remembered the first time he'd found himself with these injured sentiments.
They were just children…

"Look, Basch! It's a fire! …Those men...Basch? Basch! What are they doing?" Noah's startled response had turned to confusion and dismay as their young eyes took in the disgraceful scene.

Even in Landis, even in those early days of innocence, there had been those who cared less about their fellow man than their riches. Their father had said, "In every land, in every race, there are those who do evil and those who do good." But standing there, that painful day, watching the flames rising to destroy all that their neighbors had to their name, it was hard to believe any heart could be so cruel.

They had run to help, but not gotten far. Their strength had not nearly matched that of the guards, and in the end he had only been able to stand as the woman cried. Basch could even now almost feel her tears against his chest. …A memory that made him self-conscious.

But Noah had not remained still… He had wandered away after the children, who, unnoticed by the weeping mother, had left her shadow and were slipping back toward the fire. Basch had at first been able to see and had witnessed Noah grab the arm of the little girl, had seen her striking him repeatedly, trying to break free, as Noah frowned and spoke to her words that Basch could not hear. And then Basch had been unable to see anymore as his view was obscured by the smothering embrace.
This until the little girl had cried out in anguish. "Give me my baby!"
It was then the woman had turned and called out in fear, seeing her young standing too close to the flaming structure. There was the young girl, holding a badly damaged doll. And there was Noah, beside her, covered in soot, clothing and hair singed, looking at Basch with a mix of defiance and embarrassment and guilt.

Noah wouldn't say what had happened, had been stubbornly unwilling to explain the little girls angry tears or his appearance, even when they'd returned home and successfully crept up the stairs to avoid their own mother's eyes.
He'd refused to bathe with Basch, as was still their custom at that young age, and Basch had observed him trying to dab ointment on his hand and arms. How Noah had come by the burns he would not say.
And when Basch had tried to convince his brother to combine their savings to help the impoverished family, Noah had startled him by balking. He had in plain fact absolutely refused to give more than a certain part. Though Basch had tried to reason to his brother's conscious and had pleaded on his sympathies, Noah had fiercely held his ground, aggravating Basch's bruised ribs by shoving him aside and running out of the house alone with the leftovers of his savings.

For a week afterward they'd barely spoken, though they shared a room, their own chores, worked together to help gather for the unfortunate family, and sat side by side at the dinner table, unable to fully ignore one another's existence.
Basch had been greatly hurt and offended that his brother could be so selfish.
And Noah had been wholly anti-social, glaring at him as if he dared Basch to question his actions, his tense stance showing he was ready to fight it out if his brother pushed the issue any further.

Their mother had talked to them gently about the importance of working out their differences and had compelled them to at least politely acknowledge one another before they went to bed each night.
But who knows how long the standoff would have lasted if their mother had not ran into the other lady at Market that day…

The woman had explained what Noah would not… How her daughter had been determined to save her one and only doll from the fire, and how Noah, unable to dissuade the little girl, had instead gone through the window of the girls room himself, braving the dangerous heat, smoke, and spreading flames to snatch the treasure… But it had been too late. The stuffed, cloth doll, though not yet reached by the flames, had still been charred beyond repair.
…And then the little girl had come to her mother the very next day, where they were staying in the sanctuary, with a brand new doll in her arms...
"It's not really my baby," the little girl had solemnly explained to her mother, "but that boy told me she needs a new mommy, so I will love her."

When their mother, who worried over the rift between her sons, had taken Basch aside privately and explained what had truly happened, herself overwhelmed by dread thoughts of what might have become of her young sons at the violent scene, she had cautioned Basch not to embarrass his brother with what he had learned.
Basch had promised and was good to his word. He never told Noah that he knew how the other portion of his brother's money had been spent or that he knew how Noah had earned the bruises and burn marks. He had just approached Noah as if he'd forgotten their argument, and his twin had seemed fully relieved to have the entire experience behind.
Within the day they were back to laughing and playing together, comfortable and comforted in each other's company, as if nothing had happened at all.

Still…the question remained…and had disturbed him more than once since...
Not least during those long days and weeks and months caged, when he fought the whispers of the past to keep hold of hope for the future…
Through the tortured expanse of days when time lost its meaning and his heart yearned to stop and ease his suffering…
In those days when he both longed for and despised the dread and dear sound of his brother's steps drawing ever closer, the resonance drawing his own spirit from the crushing depths, the beating of his heart echoing with the familiar footfalls through the chamber of iron and stone…
The question…Why had Noah not simply trusted him with the truth?
How could it have been that his brother, who should have known him best of all, had not known Basch would understand?
And the other side of the question in the echo returned…
Was it too hard a thing, Basch, to say, "sorry," when you found you were wrong?

Basch pressed Larsa's hand. And then his eyes became even more serious than before.
"Larsa, please do not withhold speaking of your brother or father, or of any that you have lost, for my sake. I am honored to listen, as I am glad to stand at your side."

The quiet thanks in Larsa's eyes was clear.

Basch moved the pewter statue of a Knight against Larsa's Emperor and smiled.
"It is your move, my lord."