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Roque wakes up under Rocío's body. She's still in pieces, felled by what looks like some kind of cleaving. He isn't sure how much of the blood on his clothes is his or hers, but he picks his twin up in her pieces, and starts back to the castle. He'd better be careful this time. She always complains so about his stitching, even if they come out as quickly as she can put herself back together. Besides, he'll need her scalpel to remove the bullet he can feel rattling around between his ribs.
Along the way, one of the knights joins them. Roque isn't sure if it's Knox or Nyx, under the armor, and the fact that they've lost their gorget, complete with dried blood from the red line on their exposed throat, means they can't answer. He nods at them, and they nod at him. The ragged band pick their way between bodies both dead and reliving, grey in the moonlight with blood black as night. In the sunlight the living will come back, put the remaining together as best they can. Those past retrieving will be collected, burned, for a proper rebirth. Whichever side they end up on.
This time, they have two queens. Roque bows in acknowledgement to both; Nyx curtseys without a skirt. He thinks he recognises the new one. Pancratia or Pandora was her name, and Rhiannon is sewing her finger back on for her. Rhiannon will give her a new name, though Roque isn't sure if she's willing to give up her position yet. It wouldn't be forever -- they've many queens changing in and out, as every piece has -- but on the battlefield, in the cycle of black and white, one never ages. Death comes but never stays, whereas beyond the castle it reigns with its companion Age. And Rhiannon is already old.
All are exhausted, whether from killing or dying, but Regulus seems unscathed. A victory, then. There's blood on his clothes, perhaps someone else's, and Bisera is by his side, painting his crown on his bare head. Byrne's either still dead or due to be burned, then, because he would never let Bisera do his duty when he's capable of doing it himself.
Roque gets himself to his sister's appointed seat, putting her down so he can begin the stitching. Her fingers twitch as the pawn goes running, and he squeezes them gently to make sure she'll be coming back. She squeezes back, very weakly, and he starts to the business of removing her armor, cutting her clothes away. Only the new pieces are ever really body-shy after the battle, and it takes very little time before they're no longer new.
The pawn who comes back with his requested needle and thread looks away from Rocío's bare chest, and Roque smiles at him grimly. Of course, this one is new. He'll get used to this very quickly. They all do; the cycle of death, relife, and putting each other back together turns without waiting. The slow to catch up are lost.
Whatever price that black and white pay, Roque doesn't care, if he ever remembered what it was. The battle was never glorious, but it is always necessary. He still remembers the country outside the castles and the battlefield in between. Someday he'll have fought enough to forget it, and then he'll return to it as a new land, a new man.