Within a winged chariot, accompanied by the Knight Fallen from Grace, Lady Fayre returned home. The rank and file scoured her former Champion's countenance for signs of grief. They were not disappointed. Sorrow peeked through the chinks of the restrictive visor he was constantly obliged to wear in public.
Outraged at rumors of meager ceremonials, the masses demanded due honors for Lady Fayre. They hurled down the gauntlet and, to retain the wavering hold on her subjects' dwindling affections, the dour and aging monarch acknowledged defeat. Fitting tribute would be paid.
Satisfied, the people's attention now focused on the motherless young nobles. They wept at the matchless show of courage displayed by the smaller, but it was the older of the two who saddened and yet gladdened their hearts. Appearing in answer to the woeful summons, he symbolized the promise of future hope. They were comforted by the sight of him...a living reminder of their beloved Lady Fayre, whose transgressions had been understood and unconditionally forgiven.
Watching the adoration bestowed freely upon his flaxen-haired son, the Errant Knight assumed a position removed from center stage...mournfully aware that, even before his fall from grace, he had failed to inspire such deathless devotion.
"She was a wonderful woman," they cried. "A fine humanitarian." The boy's gracious response was undeniably sincere...a shy smile and engagingly bashful glance from beneath lowered lashes...unpretentious gestures inherited from his mother.
While he walked among them, Lady Fayre would never truly be gone.