“Lo, even stars may fall.”
In the waning hours of August’s final eve, in the year of our Lord 1997, under a moonless sky o’er Paris, a sorrowful chapter was writ upon the scroll of history — the untimely end of Lady Diana, Princess of the realm once hailed as the fairest flower of Albion.
The hour was past midnight when the Lady Diana, adorned in grace and shadowed by fate, did take her leave of the grand house of Ritz, hand in hand with her companion, Dodi Fayed, heir to a noble eastern fortune. Much of the summer had they spent beneath the golden sun of the southern lands, and whispers abounded in court and countryside of a bond blooming between them..
To flee the eyes of ever-watchful heralds and the clamor of flashing lenses — those shadow-chasers known as paparazzi — the pair were placed within a noble chariot: a black Mercedes of the house of Benz, driven by Henri Paul, who, unbeknownst to them, was under the influence of strong spirits.
Through the cobbled veins of Paris the carriage sped, its wheels hissing like serpents through the night. As it entered the darkened arch of Pont de l’Alma, fate unsheathed her blade. The steed did strike a pale chariot — a white Fiat of humble birth — and, losing all grace and order, was cast violently against the stone pillars that held the vaulted path above.
And there, in that cursed place of echo and flame, three lives were dashed: Dodi, the lover; Henri, the bearer of the reins; and Diana, the rose of Windsor. Only one, Sir Trevor Rees-Jones — sworn protector and loyal bodyguard — did survive, for he alone was bound by belt to his seat, though grievously wounded he was.
The land fell silent. In Britain and beyond, hearts did break as the bell of sorrow tolled. The Princess, just 36 winters old, had perished not in the glory of age but in the bloom of life, her light snuffed by cruelty and chaos.
Six days later, on the sixth morn of September, the kingdom mourned. Over 32 million souls in Britain — more than half the populace — turned their eyes to the funeral march. Across the wide Earth, two and a half billion wept before the glow of flickering screens. Kings and commoners alike bowed their heads, united by the grief of a dream undone.
Though the crash lies near three decades past, the tale hath not faded into dust. The world, ever restless, still seeks to read the stars of that night, to uncover hidden meanings and unspoken truths. Some whisper of shadows within shadows, of secrets buried deep, of wheels turned by unseen hands.
But one truth rings clear: a fairy tale turned to ashes, and the brightest jewel of a royal crown lost to the mists of time. Diana, the People’s Princess, remains enshrined not merely in memory, but in the very soul of a grieving world.
