In the high chamber of a great healing hall in the city of Londinium, upon the fifth tier where quiet dwelleth and mortal breath runneth thin, there lay a man once mighty in song and rhythm — Sir Phil of House Collins. Once did he command the stage as a lion, his hands swift upon the drums, his voice stirring the hearts of countless multitudes. But now, brought low by cruel afflictions of spine and heart, he rested pale and still, his strength all but spent.
Lo, on that solemn day, there came unto him another noble minstrel of the age — Sir Rod of Stewart, whose hair, like flame kissed by silver, did flow with time’s passage. In his hand he bore a relic most cherished — a lyre of electric make, aged by many journeys, seasoned by countless songs. Silently he trod the marble halls, past watchers in white robes, until he came to the chamber where Sir Phil lay.
When Sir Rod entered, the sick man’s eyes did flutter as the wings of a resting dove, and though his lips did tremble, no voice issued forth. Yet no words were needed between such brothers of melody, for their bond was forged not in speech but in song.
Sir Rod, with gentleness befitting a bard of his renown, did sit at his brother’s side. He set hand to string, and the sound of his playing rose softly as incense in a temple. The song he chose was not new — nay, it had been sung in many courts and lands before — “I Don’t Want to Talk About It”, a lament of sorrow, of love unspoken, of hearts laid bare.
The tones filled the air like balm. Yea, even the healers, who stood silent as sentinels at the threshold, were moved to tears, their eyes glistening with that ancient ache that only music can summon. The sterile chill of the chamber gave way to warmth, as though the very breath of life returned for but a moment.
And lo, when the final chord was struck, when the echoes had fled to the corners of the stone, a single tear was seen upon Sir Phil’s cheek — not of pain, but of memory, and of knowing.
Then Sir Rod took his hand, frail though it was, and spake with a whisper full of grace:
“Thou art still a legend, even though the last stage thou walkest be life itself.”
These words, simple though they may seem, did carry the weight of eternity. For what is legacy, if not the echo of kindness and craft, long after the song is sung?
In the days hence, word of this meeting spread swift as fire through straw, carried by minstrels and scribes to every corner of the realm. The hearts of many were stirred, for in an age oft ruled by fleeting fame and idle chatter, this act of quiet brotherhood shone bright as a star o’er darkened hills.
Let it be known: this tale is not of spectacle, nor of grand performance, but of a holy moment shared between two of music’s knights. Sir Phil, though weary of flesh, yet lives on in the hearts of those he touched. And Sir Rod, by this humble act, hath shown the world that the finest songs are oft sung without audience, in rooms where silence reigns.
Thus shall their tale be passed from mouth to ear, from lyre to lute, a testament not only to music, but to love, loyalty, and the noble spirit that binds all true artists.
So say we all.
