<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ff99">Only proper training in Court protocol kept Cameron from pushing open the doors himself.  To have journeyed this long under the weight of such grief, only to be held back by the herald's need for pomp?  That was anathema to a heartworn knight.  Still, he would do nothing to undermine little Gwen's honor here.  <br/>
<br/>
The doors were finally swung open, revealing Cameron in his court finery.  Despite his o'erweening need to get to the princess, he'd stopped in his quarters here to change into something appropriate -- mourning black, edged with the silver of his knighthood.  Though it was a right afforded to precious few, he wore his sword at his belt -- an honor granted him years ago by King Tiberius, to guard the lives of his children.<br/>
<br/>
The last of those children stood before him now.<br/>
<br/>
She was no longer a child.<br/>
<br/>
Cameron sank to one knee before her, reaching up his hands in supplication.  "Your highness -- Princes -- no."  He smiled then, full of sadness and sardonic amusement.  "Forgive me, my Queen.  You are most properly 'your Majesty' now, methinks."  From his position in front of her, he could see new marks of time upon her face and hair.  It had been years since last he'd laid eyes on her -- years that laid heavily on her.  "It is likely not proper nor appropriate to say it, but -- by the Gods, you look like your mother."  And that admission brought forth the tears he'd been restraining since he'd first heard of the Queen's -- her mother's -- illness, and the subsequent illnesses and death of each member of the Royal Family.</span></span>