Lo, it came to pass on a night cloaked in solemnity, that the lights of the great hall were smitten into darkness without herald or warning. A hush, sharp as the blade of sorrow, fell upon the gathered multitude. Yet ere the people could draw breath anew, the lights did blaze forth—and a cry rose up from every throat.
For there, upon the stage, sat the elder bard, Sir Paul of the House of McCartney, his countenance stained with tears, his hands trembling o’er the keys of his venerable instrument. Beside him stood Catherine, Princess of the Realm, she who is called of Wales, her hands white upon the stem of the speaking horn, her limbs as reeds in a storm.
For a moment naught moved, save the burdened breath of those who bore witness. The silence was heavy as the grave, pressing upon the hearts of all present, as though the very stones of the hall wept unseen.
Then, with a blow as of thunder, the bard struck the first lamenting chord. And lo—out poured the voice of the Princess: unpolished, unguarded, torn from the breast like a wail from the abyss. It was no song of courtly grace, no dulcet lullaby of kings. Nay, it was a confession, a soul laid bare, a psalm of grief and defiance intertwined.
The people were undone.
Strangers clutched one another in the dark. Many fell to their knees as though smitten by divine reckoning, unable to bear the sorrow that poured like blood from that stage. Together, legend and lady did entwine their lamentations, and their voices did rise, rough and radiant, against the shuddering chords of the piano, like angels cast down from heaven, singing yet weeping.
Whispers spread among the folk, as murmurs borne upon the wind: “This night, history did crack and crumble. The dead of generations past have been awakened to song.”
And when at last the final note did fall—silent was the hall. No hands clapped, no tongues cried out. There was only the sound of sobbing, as if the sea itself had crept into the chamber and washed all decorum away.
Sir Paul did bow his hoary head, and the Princess, still gripped by some unseen tempest, held fast to the horn, as though it were the only thing that anchored her to the realm of the living.
Thus ended not a performance, but a reckoning—an elegy wrought in flesh and sound. A wound made music. A testimony, that even those cast in stone and legend may yet tremble beneath the weight of grief.
And in that trembling, a new history was born.
