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The Commander's identity the somber man puts on like a costume is a patchwork of the love that echoes in the blistering heat and grains of sand.
He looks at blood on the dunes and sees it's his eyes. His own, and his brother's. The same eyes, one in gold and the other in Imperia Red.
Sheryl once taught Patches how to sew up emergency wounds. He remembers. He doesn't dare re-do the mangled stitches on his brother's neck even with that knowledge. When he puts his brother six feet under the broader man is clad in a christmas jumper and an unfinished quilt from the tailor office. In one cold and stiff hand, their family pendant. In the other hand, a spool of twine and his wedding ring. His thin hands are on his brother's, one last time.
Buried in sand that is a gold different from The Desert's, this is as whole as his brother can get. Only in body. Only in sutures and staples. Only in the way Patches imagines, because he knows only the love his brother left behind in the world. Only in ways he never knew.
They don't know his brother smelled of bread yeast and tangerines, evident when he gave rare hugs that would be tight enough to crush a spine. They don't know how he kissed his wife at the door. They don't know how he braids his daughter's hair.
But Patches knows.
The uniform is a little wide and long for his measurements. This is the jacket of the kid who grew up being made fun of for being short? Time flew like a bird, and Imperia shot his brother like a seasoned hunter.