And lo, it came to pass in the great hall, that multitudes gathered for a feast of song. Yet the hour was not as they had thought, for instead of revelry there was sorrow, and instead of clamor there was silence. The lights of the stage were dimmed, save for a single beam that shone upon the man called Blake of Shelton, who bore in his arms a tender child — the daughter of his departed friend, Charlie Kirk.
And with a trembling voice, gentle as a prayer, he spake these words: “Charlie Kirk, the babe is in mine arms.” And the multitude was still, for they perceived his words were not for them, but for one who had crossed beyond the veil of death.
Then did he set the maiden upon her feet, yet held fast her hand, that she might not falter. She leaned upon him, as once she had leaned upon her father, and her tears were hidden in his breast. And lo, when the music began, it was not as other songs, for it was laden with grief and remembrance.
The child lifted her voice first, fragile and uncertain, yet piercing the silence with truth. Her utterance was not as the polished voices of minstrels, but as the cry of innocence wounded, and it smote the hearts of all who heard. And Blake’s deep voice did join hers, steady as a pillar, surrounding her like a shield, that her frailty might be borne up in strength.
As they sang, the hearts of men were broken. Strong men wept openly, and mothers clasped their children close, whispering prayers of thanksgiving. Yea, strangers embraced as brethren, for sorrow had made them one people.
The maiden sang as though her voice could reach the realms beyond, to call unto her father who was gone. And Blake, beholding her, spake not with words but with his gaze, saying unto her: Thou art not alone, I shall bear thee up.
When the song drew nigh its end, her small voice faltered, and Blake did carry the burden of the last notes, his baritone rising as though to cry unto the heavens. And when the final sound was loosed, there was no applause, only silence vast and holy, as though all feared to profane the sacredness of what had been wrought.
Then Blake knelt beside the child, whispering words none else could hear. She nodded, and clung unto him as though unto a promise unseen. And he lifted her once more into his arms, turned unto the multitude, and with a voice cracked by sorrow declared: “For Charlie.”
Thus did he depart into the shadows, bearing the little one with him, and the people were left in silence and tears. And many spake thereafter, saying: This was no mere song, but a covenant between the living and the dead. For music was turned into memory, and grief into courage. And the words, “Charlie Kirk, the babe is in mine arms,” shall endure as a vow eternal, carried in the hearts of all who beheld that night.
