#980 - Thunderous Applause

"Do you hear the people singing? Do you hear the drums in the distance? Will you join our holy war? Will you walk with us strong?"

Jean Valjean, standing at the forefront of the stage, embodied every ordinary citizen answering the call of Enjolras and his fellow revolutionaries. He raised his right hand high, joining their chorus, swept away by the tide of history.

Actors gathered from all corners, stepping onto the stage one by one, linking hands and forming a semi-circle behind Jean Valjean. Layer upon layer, they created a sea of faces. The stage seemed alive with people—lost souls who had given their lives to the revolution. Now, Jean Valjean joined them, bathed in a holy light, singing with them.

But then, the singing abruptly stopped. A hum of silence filled the air. All eyes turned toward the figure at the center of the stage.

Jean Valjean stepped forward, his body slightly swaying as if carrying the weight of the world. It seemed as though he were fighting against fate itself. He paused, took two large steps forward, and with a single, powerful motion, raised his right arm, then lowered it. He straightened his chest, facing the brilliance of the stage lights, standing strong as if riding the wind.

In that moment, his withered face was transformed by a radiant light—hope and vitality poured through him. It moved the hearts of every audience member, who watched, transfixed, holding their breath as if witnessing the birth of a new world.

Suddenly, his fists clenched. The orchestra surged, and Jean Valjean's voice exploded from deep within his chest, filling the space. His powerful, triumphant voice rang out, "Do you hear the people singing? Do you hear the distant drums? That's the future, brought by the dead, waiting for the dawn of tomorrow!"

The music swelled, rising to a crescendo. His voice climbed higher and higher, breaking free from the confines of the symphony. With each note, he commanded the momentum of the entire orchestra, propelling it to new heights.

The audience was swept away—tears blurred their vision, excitement swelled in their chests, and their spirits soared. The passion in Jean Valjean's voice was infectious, reaching the very core of every listener.

In that moment, Jean Valjean had undergone a transformation—a true metamorphosis. And the era itself had turned. It felt as though they were witnessing the end of one world and the birth of another.

As the music faded, the final notes lingered in the silence. Jean Valjean's right fist was clenched tightly against his chest, as if sealing all his emotions into a single, powerful gesture.

With a swift turn, he joined the throng of revolutionaries, his gaze sweeping across the crowd, taking in the faces of his fellow actors. The entire stage became a vast sea of people, united in their cause.

Enjolras, waving the flag, stood at the center of the crowd. Jean Valjean moved to his side, and together, they stood tall, side by side, leading the people forward, their hands joined in unity, their steps in sync.

The symphony erupted once more, powerful and unrelenting, like a force of nature. The rhythm was thunderous, shaking the very air, as if the stars themselves were falling from the sky. The audience roared in response.

"Do you hear the people singing? Singing of the anger in their hearts? This song belongs to those who refuse to be slaves. When your heart beats in rhythm with the drums, a new life is about to begin—just wait for the dawn of tomorrow!"

The beat of the drums was like the pulse of the revolution, driving the crowd forward, step by step. The momentum was unstoppable, a tide of courage and defiance. The passion was palpable, and the audience felt every word in their souls.

"Are you willing to give everything to let our flag fly? Some will live, some will fall. Are you willing to stand and fight? The blood of martyrs will be poured into the soil of France!"

The emotions surged, turbulent and overwhelming. Mark's heart raced in his chest, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes filled with tears. He was on the edge of bursting, overwhelmed by the sheer power of the performance.

"Do you hear the people singing? Do you hear the drums from afar? That is the future, brought by the dead, waiting for the light of tomorrow! Will you join our holy war? Will you walk with us strong? Somewhere, beyond the barricades, is there a world you long for?"

The actors, standing together at the front of the stage, sang in unison, their voices rising in harmony. "Did you hear the people singing? Did you hear the drumbeats from afar? That is the future, brought by the dead, waiting for the dawn of tomorrow!" The chorus soared, reaching its climax, an eruption of emotion and energy.

At the peak of the song, the actors raised their arms high, and with a final, resounding drumbeat, the lights went dark, the music ceased.

The performance was over.

Mark could no longer contain himself. The tears had been building, and now they spilled freely. He leapt to his feet, his applause deafening, wild, unrestrained. He was lost in the moment, caught up in the power of the performance, unable to stop his hands from clapping.

Yes, he had heard the singing. Yes, he had heard the drums. Yes, he would join the holy war. Yes, he would walk side by side with them.

The applause thundered, overwhelming the space, and Mark forgot everything—where he was, who he was, even his own existence. He was just a part of this moment, clapping fervently, unable to stop.

Tears flowed down his face, but his hands never faltered. Even as they became numb with the effort, he continued, driven by an unstoppable force.

Alistair, moved to tears for the first time in years, joined the applause, his emotions overwhelming him. He had been drawn into the world on stage, walking alongside the actors, feeling the weight of the revolution and the transformation of Jean Valjean. He could not contain his admiration, his awe, his gratitude for the performance.

Arthur, usually stoic and composed, felt his heart stir in a way it had not in years. The singing, the message, the passion—it awakened something deep within him. He stood, clapping, his eyes blurry with emotion.

Elf, sitting silently, could not bring herself to stand. She was afraid that if she did, her carefully guarded composure would break. She was a theater lover, and she understood the greatness of the performance. But she could not show it. Not tonight. Not as a member of the Hall family.

The applause was deafening, a wave that drowned out all other sounds. There were no whistles, no shouts—only the pure, raw sound of appreciation and admiration.

The audience gave their standing ovation—thunderous, unrelenting. This was the only reward the performers deserved. The only reward.