This was written for NewPaladin for her prompt 'stitching'. Originally posted on my LiveJournal; I've made a few minor changes.

Although it's not specifically stated, Ephraim is sitting with Lyon for a wake. It's not a formal one though, simply one Ephraim chose to do.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem or any characters therein. I make no money from any fanfiction.

Warnings: gore and death

But All the King's Men Couldn't Put Humpty Together Again

The journey home should be victorious and happy. No doubt some people are happy – L'Arachel is as joyful as ever – but Ephraim finds that he can't really muster true happiness. He can plaster a smile on his face, laugh at jokes, but his smiles feel brittle and his laughter sounds hollow. Eirika is much the same, really. She is coping better, somehow. Perhaps it is her circle of friends, her loyal knights or perhaps it is that she is simply better at dealing with grief.

Ephraim half wishes he had never chosen to carry Lyon home. But he couldn't leave Lyon in that place, and he couldn't have him buried in Rausten. Lyon's resting place will be in Grado, like his father's before him.

The first night, Ephraim had had the men raise a separate tent. Lyon had been covered with a shroud. When Ephraim had entered, Knoll had been hovering nearby, a tome clutched in his pale hands and his face drawn and bitter. He had uncovered Lyon's face, and was staring at it desperately. His eyes had been red. He had looked up to meet Ephraim's eyes, and then he had resumed watching Lyon.

"A spell of preservation," Knoll had murmured, "because it does little good to have rotting corpses on the battlefield."

"They were rotten though, those monsters," Ephraim had replied.

Knoll had shaken his head and covered Lyon's face again. "Some of them, yes. The ones pulled from the ground after years buried beneath it. But once they moved and fought, they did not rot until they were destroyed again. If they had found more recent bodies, then they would have looked... human," he had said. "I take my leave." Knoll had bowed and made his way from the tent, leaving Ephraim alone with Lyon.

Eirika had come by eventually, and had spoken soft words about fixing Lyon's clothes. It had felt wrong to bare Lyon's deathly pale skin, but Ephraim agreed; it would not do to have Lyon brought back to Grado wearing bloody rags. But without his clothes covering him, Ephraim could see every wound they'd inflicted upon him. Ragged gashes on his legs, the stomach wound that had finally ended Lyon's life, myriad small wounds from his less damaging battles.

Ephraim did not know what had driven him to it. But he recalled when he was younger and had taught Eirika the sword; she had said that he should learn a womanly pursuit as well, and had taught him how to mend clothes. Ephraim had never been any good at sewing, but he thought perhaps he could tidy up the gaping wounds. Fix them enough that Lyon would not look like... like... like he was dead.

"A needle and thread, Franz," Ephraim had asked, and Franz had hurried off to get some. And then Ephraim had touched Lyon's pale, dead skin and slowly started to stitch. It was easier than Ephraim had thought, fixing Lyon's leg wound. The bloody gash looked horrible; Ephraim could see the muscle, and, if he moved it too much, the stark whiteness of bone. That wound would have killed Lyon anyway, or made him a cripple at the very least. His other leg was better, the gash not so deep. His stomach was the worst, of course. Ephraim could still remember how it had felt, how his lance had driven into Lyon's stomach, jarred against bone and when he'd pulled it free Lyon had coughed and fallen to the floor, clutching at his stomach. There had been so much blood, staining his clothes so badly. As Ephraim had quietly sewn the wound up, he tried to forget. He wanted to remember Lyon as he was in life, but all Ephraim could see was Lyon in death.

The thread was stark against Lyon's skin, stained red and black with blood. Ephraim had used a cloth to try and clean it up, but the drag had threatened to pull the stitches free, so Ephraim had left it and simply dabbed around the edges until Lyon's skin had little blood left on it. He'd turned to the other wounds, but most of them weren't deep enough to warrant the stitches; one shoulder had an arrow wound in it. The arrowhead was still lodged inside, and Ephraim had no choice but to pull it out. Lyon's skin and flesh tore around it and Ephraim's fingers were slippery with blood by the time he'd pulled the arrowhead free. Too slippery to hold a needle, so Ephraim had washed his hands. There had still been blood caked under his nails, but Ephraim didn't care about that. He'd picked up the needle again, and slowly sewn the wound shut. His stitches were nowhere as neat as Eirika's, but they would do. Lyon's body looked whole again. It was enough for now. Ephraim had looked at Lyon's face then, and Lyon looked as if he might be sleeping. There was a shallow graze on his cheek; Ephraim's lance had missed that time, but an inch or two higher and it would have taken out Lyon's eye. Ephraim had cleaned the wound out and then he had simply sat and watched his friend's unmoving face. He could have almost believed Lyon to be sleeping, if not for the lack of breath and the pallor in his skin.

He had waited then, until Eirika came back. She had cried out at the blood covering him, but then she had seen the stitches and she'd sighed and asked one of the knights to come in and help Ephraim redress Lyon in his fixed robes. Eirika's stitching was so much finer than Ephraim's, he could barely see the holes. He knew where they'd been though. He would always remember exactly where those wounds had been.

It is now a day before they reach Grado. They have been to Renais, they have shown the citizens that they live, and now they must show Grado that Lyon does not.

Ephraim can still see the stitches.

Thanks for reading.

Rethira