No Quarter - A Jimmy Page FanFiction

No Quarter

He hated it. He just bloody hated it. Coming off the stage after rocking and mesmerizing thousands of people and having girls by the hundreds swoon at your feet should be all a man could possibly want, right? Wrong. He was sick of it. He could see Robert smoking pot as he was heading off to his dressing room with a smirk on his face, two pretty little birds on either side of him, surely up for a ménage à trois. He would sometimes join in the fun, maybe add a few groupies his own, oh what a show it could be.

He wanted company, but not that kind of company. He had no idea where Jonesy or Bonzo or Grant were at, probably off getting high somewhere. Did he even care? He decided he didn't give a minuscule shit. He suddenly felt his black dragon suit tighten around him, he saw the world around him spinning, he could barely breathe, adrenaline and cocaine were the only things that kept him up, but the bitches were leaving him, too. He had to get out of there. Somewhere he could be alone. Somewhere quiet. He could not even walk down the streets in London or anywhere else and not be recognized by anyone, everyone knew who he was, or at least they thought they knew. Stories spread like wildfire. But who could blame them, most of those tales were probably true anyway. Somehow, lost in his trail of thoughts, he managed to reach his room. A safe haven, he thought. How wrong he was.

He could hear the crowds and the moans and the screams. He looked around, the walls seemed to have closed around him. Guitars clattered the floors. Bloody brilliant. Had they no sense at all? Didn't they know a guitar should be held like a woman? He needed out. He scrambled for a bottle of Jack. He tipped his head all the way back and chugged the liquid down. He couldn't even feel the burning in his throat anymore. Soon, the bottle went flying towards the door, shattering in a billion pieces.

He lit a joint. Inhaled, exhaled and looked at the bone-white smoke leave his mouth and slowly dance away.  He quickly changed and grabbed his coat. All black, of course. He stumbled out of the building. He was high as a kite by then. Should he be driving in his state? Perhaps not, but for once he was glad he had his own car there. He slipped in his charcoal black Ferrari and drove off into the night. He drove and drove and drove. He had no idea where he was going. Was he even there anymore?

He couldn't hear the noise anymore. He was sure to have left the city by then. He lit another joint. It could have been the third that night or the thirtieth, he couldn't be sure. He reached an isolated pub and decided to head inside. He took a seat at the counter and looked at the clock on the wall. Their show had started at 9 pm and they had played for at least 3 hours. It was now past 3 am.  How could this place still be opened?

"What would you like, sir?" a girl asked. She didn't look at him. She had long brown hair that hid her face.

"Just get me a drink, will you?"

"Whiskey?" Young, but worn out was what she looked like. She was thin, dangerously thin.

He nodded absentmindedly. As she poured his drink, he looked around. Not many people were there and those that were were either drunk or passed out on the old, brown, leather couches.

"Is it always like this?" he asked.

"Yes," the little bird answered "most of them will probably leave in the morning. But at least it is quiet now. Anyway, here you go, sir." With a pale hand, she put his glass in front of him. He wondered what she meant.

He gave a small tired smile and, in a very soft and mellow voice, thanked her. She started cleaning around after that. He stared at her with his green eyes concealed under his thick, curly, ebony hair. She was beautiful, a melancholic sort of beautiful. He had sexy girls throwing themselves at him, but they were daft. If he talked about art or astrology they would never understand. But she was nothing like them. She had nothing sexy to her, yet somehow something about her intrigued him. She looked sad and dark and mysterious.

"Who are you anyway?"

"I'm Lyanna. And you are Jimmy Page." He sighed and looked down at his drink.

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't." He whispered, hoping she didn't hear. Who wouldn't want to be Jimmy Page? They called him the Lord of the Riffs, the guitar god, someone descended onto Earth to create one of the greatest bands in the world. And for that, he could a bastard. He could have anything he wanted.  Fame, money, booze, drugs, girls. Oh, the girls, so easy. They were wild for him. He could play around endlessly with their minds, enslave them, and they would give every part of themselves to him. Everything, so easy.

"I figured as much, if it were, you would not be here." She stated. He was gobsmacked. He believed no one ever could understand. No one ever cared. He emptied his glass. Was it just a dream? He wondered. And then his mind went back to her. She knew who he was but didn't bother him with it. She didn't try to seduce him. Nor did she ask about his sigil or to have his autograph. Why the empathy? What was her story?

"You know, that cleaning of yours could wait. Have a seat and pour yourself a drink, you seem to need one, too." She looked up at him. Blue eyes, she had. Blue eyes with a flicker of grey to them. And rings around them. Grey and black.

And so she did. She took a glass out for herself, got a bottle of whiskey, and poured a drink for the both of them. They sat in the presence of each other for what seemed like hours. Not many words were spoken between them. Jimmy was grateful for that and he was sure it was the same for her. They had found solace in each other.