the end of a fraud. [ rinoa & larsa. ]

[Gabranth]

He is emaciated, a corpse seeking a coffin. His form is built of bones, brittle and cracking like a piece of parched earth. He is stretched too thin and has been for far too long and he sees no reason to continue otherwise. There is a gnawing hunger beneath the hollow of his ribs, an ache that persists and demands. He cannot remember the last thing that had substance and did not melt into the shrinking knot of his stomach. He endures and the hunger is all but forgotten. It is a demand of the body, easily blotted out by the illusion of the mind.

He eats but once a day. The sustenance of the Gods is all he requires.

There is a strange sense of fulfillment he gains from this act. He swells with pride at this, devouring an imaginary substance as his jaw works to rip and tear and chew and swallow an object without taste, without tangibility. His hand rises to run over the shape of his face, cool metal to meet his burning fingertips. He cannot help but wonder if he still looks the same or if his features have become as worn as the soles of his feet. It would not surprise him otherwise as he dares not look upon his own reflection, fingers curling beneath the visor of the helm to touch the shadowed forehead of the helm. Noah continues to wear this mask for the sake of his own sanity; he has convinced himself this several times over though a part of him believes otherwise. He does this to preserve a part of himself that had died long ago, a ghost that follows in his footsteps.

Gabranth.

They call him this still, even when his brother readily wears his guise in Arcades. He knows how the denizens of the empire behave, turning a blind eye when necessary as it has preserved their very way of life. Still they remain unaware of what goes on around them, but he claims to be no better. He has absorbed nothing from this, only that the areas that were once familiar have now vanished and some strange misshapen hunk of rock has taken its place. A frown creeps over his face, lips cracking as they are pulled back. He exhales heavily, a hiss that falls from the protruding muzzle of his helm. What were once the Ozmone plains has now been consumed with machinery, hissing and spitting smoke and fumes that pollute a once blue sky. He assumes this would have happened in Archades anyways, the machinations of both Dr. Cidolfus Bunansa and Vayne Solidor leaving a lasting effect on the city of Rabanaster.

Sky Fortress Bahamut and aboard the Strahl, this where he took his last breath and the taste of the air lingers at the back of his throat. It is hard to digest and he refrains from vomiting. There is bile that rises to his mouth and washes against the back of his clenched teeth. He swallows again, the burn lingering like a constant reminder of the past. Something that is also hard to swallow, but he does so again and again and again. Noah pushes the memories into the black of his mind, behind the hollow and gaping eyes of Gabranth that manifest in the dark.

His eyes reopen to the bright scenery that manifests before him, black pupils dilating atop golden irises. Still he stares into the towers of iron that belch perpetual spires of smoke, vision straining against the sharp contrast of colors. These rolling hills remain pockmarked with such features of displaced buildings and roads that have crumbled into nothing. A poor mash up of misplaced architecture that reminds him of Archades. How he longs for a home that does not exist, but there is no time for these bittersweet musings.

There is a duty he must fulfill.

“Larsa.” The name pours from his lips, a breath of hot air that gushes from his mouth to spill forth from the sockets of the helmets eyes. It is a heat that evaporates and curls outward, a heat only he is exposed to. His dedication is bordering on obsession and he is beginning to realize that he has already been consumed. Gabranth knows he is close and Noah dreads their meeting knowing things have changed. This premonition has caused a knot to form in his stomach and he feels absolutely sick. A sour expression forms that sucks in the hollow his cheeks to form shadows that stretch the skin.

The fledgling Emperor has changed, but for a reason that is unknown to Gabranth and Noah and both men are incapable of understanding why. The Calamity makes barely any sense to anyone, lest of all to a dead man.

Did Larsa abandon his duty just as he had abandoned Larsa? No, the Judge could not bring himself to believe this should it be the truth.

By now he has stumbled into the city of Midgar and he is feeling terribly old fashioned. With each step his armor clinks and clanks, the looks he receives are less than favorable. It is obvious he is a denizen of one of these ‘other’ worlds though he believes this place to be the intruder, just as much as they believe him to be as well. He continues his search throughout the city that remains foreign and strange, spires of a bizarre metal architecture blotting out the sun.

ooc: you'll totally noticed I jacked some sentences from my fic LOL.