A/N: My Brother, the Traitor is a novella for "the_sandsea," an LJ 100 prompt community for FFXII. This story will contain 36 chapters (36 prompts) that tell a tale about Noah & Basch in Landis. The first chapter is a reflective prologue; the rest takes place in Landis when the twins are 17.

I'll update this semi-regularly, in better updating other multi-chapter fiction and some of my series of interconnected one shots. (Because this story plus two stories following it are for a 100-prompt community, the chapters will probably be a little shorter than what I would normally post as an individual chapter).

Reviews are *always* welcome. Enjoy! ^^

Chapter One: Together

Same height, strong legs, sturdy hands, squared nails, freckles splattered across our cheeks, the same clouded hazel eyes. Until my brother dared to grow out his hair, copying the style of Archadian nobility, we could pass for one another. We often did.

In those days when we were young, he was not just another brother. He was my twin, my self, mirrored beside me. Our bones clothed in identical flesh, the same blood coursing through our veins, he and I were born to uphold our family's honor until those duties passed to the next generation. That was how our lives were supposed to be, but not how it happened.

For our first seven years of our lives, he and I were always together. Every adventure, every illness, every memory shared. Even as we grew older, I kept close watch on all he did, for I was my brother's conscience, just as he was my courage. I kept him out of trouble, well away from the stinging slap of our young governess's hand. I saw that he never ran too far afield, tumbling into hollows where malboro bred a horrid stench. And I made sure he never acted too recklessly, especially when I knew my ways were better in the end.

People thought us inseparable. Our grandfather did. One day he arranged for us to share inheritance of our manor and the manor's land. Ronsenburg would pass as one into our hands without cleaving us in two. We should have all remained together, right until the end, but my brother's behavior became too obstinate.

The older we grew, the harder it was for me to right his errors in judgment. He was insistent, forging his own way without thought for others. When I questioned him, he excused his actions as 'his duty.'

'Doing as he must,' he would say. 'Doing as he must do in the name of our manor, our forefathers, and our people.'

One day it became clear that he and I traveled separate paths. And with that thought, two of my limbs were rent from me, and one of my eyes, half of my heart. I was rendered powerless, unable to catch him, to rein him in. I could not quell the wildfires his actions set. The western provinces burned and fell into ruin.

Forehead pressed to my knees, arms wrapped around my head, I sat, I rocked, I cried in my sister's bower. I could not bring my brother back. He roamed beyond the pale of decency, running with Mist-drunk marauders, rebels, and ungrateful sons of lords. Now, looking back, I know that the fault lay partly in our own youth. But then, I thought only of our coming defeat. There was nothing left for me to do except invoke Landis's law, and even in that I failed. My love for my brother was stronger than my wish to see him punished. But that was before he went too far, before I wished to see him dead.

.

For the many years that followed, I refused to look at my face when reflected in a mirror. I hid my hands inside heavy gauntlets and covered my body with armored plates. I became a licensed lawspeaker, just as my grandfather had hoped, but not a lawman for the western provinces. Instead, an Archadian judge and, in time, I sought promotion to the rank of judge magister. Once again I kept close watch on all my brother did, but this time I waited for him to run too far, cause too much trouble, to stray his bounds and provide reason for me to bring him to justice. There were times when I watched him with the eyes of a hawk, when I sent my informants to walk by his side, even though he lived in another nation.

When I rose to head of intelligence, I could do these things without impunity but my foremost duty was to my emperor, Lord Gramis. He relied chiefly on me for his family's security and for information that affected his governance. There came a time when the emperor's eventual transfer of power needed to be planned and, for that, I handled investigations so secret only he and I knew the findings. That was a time when I hardly kept official record of my activities: of whom I spied on, of what documents I read, which places I went, what payments I tracked. And it was a time when I became the emperor's most trusted servant. He was always kind to me. I do not regret my loyalty even though he set me as a chess piece between his two younger sons.

.

There is a day from that period of my life that remains vivid in my mind. Just before noon I was on my way out of the palace, to lower Archades, to meet Ba'Gamnan. Emperor Gramis's manservant caught me before I left. 'Our Lord Emperor summons you to his private chambers,' he said. Without delay, I followed Gramis's manservant through the upper halls of the palace, up to the rooftop gardens where the imperial family kept their private apartments. Gramis's manservant knocked once upon our lord's door to announce my arrival and then he asked me to wait until the emperor was ready to receive me. Then, the man left, and I knew that Gramis's words would be for my ears only, else he would have summoned me to his grand office, below.

As I waited, I stood alone in the long, shaded gallery, my back to the sunlit courtyard and the peaceful reflecting pool. The wall before me was lined with rows of portraits, and the eyes of many generations of Solidors stared back at me. I let my gaze skip from painting to painting, from men with noble noses and chiseled faces, to women dressed in silks, standing in shadow, stately yet demure. To the left of Gramis's door hung a painting that caught my attention. It was a portrait of Gramis's eldest two sons, now gone. They stood together beneath a tree, two great hunting hounds at their feet. The brothers looked as if they were enjoying a holiday outing.

When Miklas and Phlorian had lived, they were almost as close in age as a pair of twins. Even today one can hear stories that recall their vicious rivalries. Such tales are often told over pints of ale, yet I never wished to hear these accounts.

I had seen firsthand the hideous aftermath of their competition. Whatever political lessons Gramis had wished his eldest to learn, those two brothers used Valendia's outer provinces as playthings in their games of war. It is true that controversy shrouded the trials for their war crimes. Yet, I still feel their executions were fully justified. This matter, understandably, was a delicate subject around Emperor Gramis. Thus, I tried never to think of it while in his service.

Yet, on that day, as I stood there, studying the portrait, the painting before me did not depict two cruel, brutal savages. Instead, it was an image of two young men enjoying a pleasant day in the country. They were both dressed in sporting clothes, as if returning from an organized hunt. A banquet of food was set beside them and one of the brothers, Phlorian, held an apple in his hand. Behind the tree that shaded their heads, a lush meadow of wildflowers under a pale blue sky, dotted with cottony clouds. It was a family portrayal, two brothers enjoying a pleasant summer's day.

The painter, no doubt, was talented, and the manner in which he captured the young men's faces drew me in. I realized then that I saw something in their expressions that made me think of my own brother and myself. I leaned closer to study how the artist rendered the gleam in one brother's eyes and the knowing smirk on the other's face. The frames of their bodies were still lanky, young men in their late teenage years.

The more I looked at their faces, both so similar, I could hardly tell Miklas from Phlorian. And then I was struck by a disturbing thought: their names no longer raised bile to the back of my throat. I knew that was wrong. Even today, mention of these two sons spike the tempers of most common men, older women come close to tears, and then a long silence descends. Instead, as I looked at the painting, I thought that if these sons had been towheaded rather than raven haired, this could be my brother and me looking out from the canvas. That was when my hands began shake, my pulse started to pound, my neck broke into a prickly sweat. I wished rip their forms from the portrait and bring the Solidor's two eldest back to life. I wanted to shout at their limp bodies, cursing them for their sins, until they wept their confessions at my feet.

I knew then that I had to step away from the portrait, out of the gallery, out into the sun. As I looked out over Archades' skyline, I asked myself which loss was more acceptable: the deaths of a hundred thousand countrymen or that I had been deprived of the future I had wanted?

I wished then that I could ask my brother the same question.