It was the summer of 1977, and the skies over Worcestershire were thick with rain, a cruel mirror of the sorrow weighing down on Robert Plant’s heart. His five-year-old son, Karac, had died suddenly of a viral infection. No warning, no time to say goodbye. Just a quiet evening shattered by a phone call, and then the abyss.
The funeral was held at a small, ivy-covered church not far from Robert’s countryside home. Friends, family, and even fans lined the perimeter of the grounds in respectful silence. But one man was notably absent.
Jimmy Page.
The absence was like a tremor beneath the surface, an unspoken question hovering in every glance between mourners. Jimmy, Robert’s closest collaborator, his brother-in-arms in Led Zeppelin, had not shown. Not even a message read aloud. No wreath, no black-clad silhouette standing beside the grave.
Robert noticed, of course. How could he not?
The two men had shared more than just stages and studios—they had shared visions, dreams, music that summoned gods and demons alike. But in Robert’s darkest hour, Jimmy had vanished like smoke in the wind.
—
Days turned into weeks, and silence remained Jimmy’s only reply.
Some said he couldn’t face it, that grief had lo
