The applause inside the church had not yet dissipated, but Victoria was already slowly rising.
When she first stood up, there were traces of nervousness on her face, but after a few steps, her expression returned to normal.
She did not look up at the altar nor did she signal behind her. Instead, with an unusual calm, she walked straight towards the podium.
She did not stand behind the podium, the place where priests and politicians often stood, but in front of it, choosing a position neither a priest nor a person of power would stand.
Under the shadow of the cross, she looked around.
The police officers stood straight with their backs, their faces solemn, showing no emotional fluctuations. Yet from the eager eyes of these strong n, it was clear—they had high hopes for the future Queen of Britain.
The murmurs among the citizens gradually quieted, and everyone fixed their gaze on the Princess, whose na frequently appeared in newspaper headlines.
Although many residents of Wales and Southern England had seen her true appearance during the Crown Prince’s national tour last sumr, for many London citizens, it was their first ti seeing what the Princess from Kensington truly looked like.
Her face carried the roundness of youth, but her features had already revealed a clarity and calmness. Under her slightly high bridge nose was a softly lined mouth, as if once closed, it would refuse any false words. Her eyes were large and resembled her mother’s, yet they carried an unexpected solemnity, like a lake not yet thawed—crystal clear, yet deep.
Victoria stopped at her position and slightly raised her head. Her gaze lightly swept over the formation of police officers, past the church’s wooden pews and the shadows of pillars on both sides of the altar, finally pausing beneath the shadow of a stone pillar on the right.
There stood a man, dressed in a well-tailored black morning coat, without any military insignia or dals, holding a pair of white gloves on his left arm while his right hand hung quietly at his side, clutching the familiar dark-handled Fox’s umbrella.
Sir Arthur Hastings.
This event organizer did not stand at the front of the crowd nor close to the royal seating but stood with journalists, police officers, and so late gentlen under the church’s outer cloister, deliberately avoiding the light, as if intentionally stationed there.
Arthur made no unnecessary movents and did not display an exaggerated expression.
He simply gave a slight nod, as he would in his usual classroom manner.
It was neither a command, nor encouragent, nor flattery, but a very familiar confirmation: You can go on because you are ready.
Victoria’s gaze shifted slightly, but her entire temperant seed to transform in an instant, as if there were no audience before her, as if she was back at Kensington Palace’s Rose Hall classroom.
She took a gentle breath and spoke.
"Please allow to say a few words as well."
She did not announce her identity, nor did she use "In the na of the Crown Prince" to assert herself; she simply articulated the facts in the most straightforward manner: "I don’t know if I have the right to stand here, for I am neither a minister, nor a writer, nor a King. I have no right to define a hero. As a child, as a girl, I don’t fully understand the aning of glory, responsibility, or sacrifice. I don’t even know Officer Cali, I haven’t spoken to him, nor have I ever encountered him in the garden. But, I know..."
Her voice did not rise, and the first syllable carried a unique youthful tremor: "He sacrificed himself to protect us."
Her voice still echoed in the church, but subtle changes had already begun to spread among the crowd.
Among the officers standing by the aisle, so looked down at their arms wrapped in black satin armbands, their knuckles turning white with tension. So gazed towards the Cali family standing alone by the flowerbed, eyes shining yet unwilling to let the tears fall freely.
Those citizens seated in the back rows, who initially ca just for the spectacle and even muttered about "what the Princess had to say," now straightened their backs, so n removing their hats and pressing them against their chests, while so elderly won quietly drew handkerchiefs from beneath their cloaks, silently wiping at their eye corners.
Victoria paused gently, as if confirming that her voice truly reached every corner of the church, then continued.
"He did not sacrifice for personally, I know. But what I want to say is, if a person is willing to step forward in the face of danger for strangers, for a city that is not his birthplace, for families he will never receive thanks from, then I believe, he deserves to be called a hero. A true hero does not need others to erect statues for him, nor does he need others to praise him. He simply stands there, without shouting slogans or demanding rewards. He may be afraid, but he does not leave the place he should be."
She gently took a breath, perhaps having said too much in one breath, her voice tightened a little for the unexperienced speaker Victoria, but she did not stop: "I, I am also very afraid."
This sudden confession abruptly changed the atmosphere in the church. Not just out of surprise, but because the words were so candid that they didn’t seem to co from those often showcasing their bravery and responsibility to the public as mbers of the royal family.
User Comments
0 comments from readers