When Robert Plant and Jimmy Page entered the chapel, time seemed to pause. A ripple of recognition and awe swept through the mourners — not just because two titans of rock had arrived, but because they came as grieving brothers, not legends. Jimmy held his guitar close, not slung casually as in years past, but reverently, like a relic. His fingers rested lightly on the strings, as if they, too, understood the gravity of the moment. Robert’s golden curls, now silvered with age, framed a face marked by sorrow and grace.
They approached the altar in silence. Robert stepped to the microphone, his voice hushed but unwavering. “We came here for Ozzy,” he began, the weight of the words anchoring every breath. “Because without him, none of us would have had the courage to be who we were.”
Jimmy’s fingers moved slowly, coaxing out a mournful riff that hung in the air like mist. The melody was bare, raw — a blues progression that ached with memory. Then Robert began to sing. His voice, still wild and commanding, carried decades of history, now laced with heartbreak. It wasn’t a performance. It was a eulogy set to music, a conversation with a friend who could no longer answer.
The song flowed between them, filled with fragments of Zeppelin, echoes of Sabbath, and the aching blues roots they had all drawn from. It ended on a suspended note — not closure, but continuation.
When the final chord faded, Robert stepped forward, placed a hand on the casket, and whispered, “You’ll always be with us, brother.”
No one clapped. No one moved. The silence that followed was not empty — it was full. Full of music, memory, and the echo of legends mourning one of their own.
