When Robert Plant and Jimmy Page entered the chapel, a hush fell over the room like a velvet curtain. A ripple of recognition and reverence moved through the mourners — two titans of rock, arriving not as legends, but as grieving brothers. Time had softened their edges, but the gravity they carried was undiminished. Jimmy held his guitar not slung across his back, but cradled in his arms, like a relic from a vanished age. His fingers hovered gently on the strings, as though even the instrument mourned.
Robert moved to the microphone. His golden curls had long since silvered, but the fire in his eyes still flickered beneath the grief. His voice, once untamed and soaring, now carried a weight that time and loss had etched into every note.
“We came here for Ozzy,” he said, his voice low and steady, reaching every corner of the chapel. “Because without him… none of us would’ve had the courage to be who we were.”
There was no applause, no cameras — only the quiet breath of those gathered, waiting.
Then Jimmy began to play.
A slow, mournful riff spilled into the room — a melody full of ache and remembrance, each note bending like a prayer. Robert followed, his voice weaving through the chords in a stripped-down blues lament that seemed less like a performance and more like a final conversation — between old friends and the one they had lost.
There were no theatrics. No wails or screams. Just music: raw, sacred, and impossibly human.
As the final chord rang out and the last echo faded into the silence, Robert stepped forward. He rested his hand gently on the casket, fingers trembling just slightly.
“You’ll always be with us, brother,” he whispered.
The room didn’t move. No one dared break the moment. It hung there — suspended between grief and reverence — a single, shared breath of loss and love, where even rock gods were simply men, saying goodbye.
