How good it is, to sit in a field just like when we were young. Where we gathered and joked, we now laugh and reminisce.
I spread my wing unthinkingly, blocking the rays of sun from touching your skin. How have I not noticed the way joy and laughter has creased your face. How the silver growing through your hair makes it look like jewellery.
I am in awe of features I have yet to acquire, if I even will. Thoughts of immortality are pushed aside, for now, I am in awe of something so simple yet so beautiful.
“Sister Pema, Honored Lin, please bear with me a moment. Let me get him prepared for bed, and I’ll join you in the sitting room.”
The wives looked at each other, and saw each other’s face, drawn and defeated. When Lin dropped her eyes to the floor, Pema placed her hands on her shoulders. Gently, slowly, they guided the wheelchair to the sitting room.
Pema found a spot where they could sit at an angle. Lin was close enough to touch, but didn’t have to be obvious about avoiding eye contact. It was a sign of her distress that she hadn’t wiped away the one tear.
Pema knew better than to draw attention to it.
The silence stretched.
Pema startled when she realized Lin was reaching out for her hand. But even her hand, still so warm, was slack with dejection.
Her heart broke all over again.
They heard the scuff of acolyte shoes at the threshold. Lin startled and jerked her hand away.
It hurt, just like it always had. Even here, where everyone know what they were to each other, Lin still feld the need for propriety.
Pema squelched her sigh. This wasn’t the time.
Brother Yonten stepped around Lin’s wheelchair until he could face them both. Pema gave a passing thought to how little his expression ever changed - rarely smiling, but never frowning, either. His downcast demeanor, as he knelt in front of them, emphasized how unhappy he was to be part of this unwelcome conversation.
“Sister Pema, Master Lin. We are all saddened to see Master Tenzin struggling so frequently with his verbal expression and his kinesthetic balance. I remember watching him demonstrate so many advanced forms to your children and the Harmonic Benders. It hurts to see him unable to stand without support.”
A new tear glistened on Lin’s cheek.
“You have shared with me how difficult it has been to keep him in your family quarters, how often he has stumbled against the steps of the kang in your room. You are wise to recognize that a change is for the best.”
He paused again, granting them time to consider his words. She met his eyes, and the way he gently raised his brow assured her that he shared in their pain.
Beside them, Lin snorted. “I tried that contraption Varrick’s kid sent over, but I couldn’t manage those braces and my wheelchair at the same time. It’s not like I’m that much younger than he is.”
She looked over at Pema, her lips as tightly pressed as they used to be, years and years ago.
Pema reached up to caress Lin’s cheek, and rubbed the tear away. She felt the faintest pressure from Lin before she knew to withdraw her hand.
But when she did, Lin had relaxed the tension in her face, leaving only sadness. They gazed at each other until Lin slowly closed her eyes and turned back toward Brother Yonten.
He inclined his head and continued, “When I left him, Master Tenzin was already asleep. The draught I gave him is very dilute and gentle, but still effective. He is likely to remain asleep for most of the night. One of our staff will check on him every hour tonight, and for the next week. We expect him to experience some disorientation, but that will likely wear off as time goes by.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, I expect you will experience the same.”
Pema was so focused on the window she could see over Yonten’s shoulder, she was caught off guard by Lin’s sudden grip on her hand.
“Thank you for trusting us with Master Tenzin’s care. My experience in assisting elderly firebenders may be useful, but he will be our first powerful airbender to care for in his elder years. We are not entirely sure how his bending will change as he continues to age.”
Pema very much wanted someone to shake her awake, reassure her that this was all just a bad dream, and that life would return to normal. Her tall, imposing husband, and her tall, imposing wife, both focused on the future, ready at a moment’s notice to answer the call.
But at the sharp squeeze from Lin, Pema looked up, and she breathed away the fantasy of it all.
“It is for the best,” Lin said with resolute regret. “We have to let him stay here, where he can be safe.”
Pema searched Lin’s eyes. “Walking away is the price of the peace we all need.”
I’ve been doing a lot of writing today and here’s some more
Sad shit under the cut
I’ve been tired, like physically and emotionally tired. The holidays are hard and have been getting harder as the years go on. And this year is even more sad. Of course, there’s the being single aspect and the romance of the holidays that’s been getting me down and it’s been a lot to deal with in that regard.
And the thing that’s been really getting to me is seeing everyone that makes Christmas special, deal with aging. My grandparents have dementia and Alzheimer’s and they were staples of my Christmas experiences and it’s all different. Nothing is the same and it’s frustrating to sit back and realize there’s nothing I can do!! They barely remember me and things are only getting worse.
My parents are also getting older too, both of them over the age of 65. There’s so much they can’t do anymore or do as well. They don’t see it, but their memory is also starting to go. There’s things they don’t always remember and I’m seeing it all happen in front of my eyes, in real time! Im watching them age and change and get weaker and!!!
And my dog!! She’s 10 and she’s having struggles with peeing and energy and it’s clear I only have maybe a few years or less left with her. All these people have been monumental in my life and I’m seeing all of the people I love age and see their health changing in the worst way and I can’t stop it! I can’t stop any of it and there’s nothing I can do and I’m losing everyone in my life!! My friends, my family, I’m losing them all and I can’t stop it or do anything about it because it’s life!! How am I supposed to cope with all of this??
A/N: For the Fall Fluff Autumn Angst Content Creator Challenge and one of my best friends @aquagirl1978 🍂 Thanks for the request
Comte x f!reader, angst
Word Count: 1582
There is nothing quite like the Autumn Harvest Festival. A sleepy little town just a few kilometers outside of Paris transforms from rows of tiny white cottages and rolling fields to a bustling marketplace full of bright colors and smells and sounds: the red, gold and orange garlands of fall leaves and wreaths, the smell of cider and pies and warm soup, the voices calling out for visitors to stop by their booths, inspect their wares, buy their vegetables and berries and baked goods.
You squeeze Comte’s hand as you try to take it all in, to allow all the glory of fall on full display to sink into your bones and wrap itself around you. You could live in this tiny bubble, this moment of time, forever, surrounded by incredible color and liveliness, with the love of your life by your side.
You are so enraptured by all that you see that you don’t notice the softness in his golden gaze, the smile that never quite leaves his lips as he watches you. Seeing you so joyful, cheeks slightly pink from the cool breeze and your own excitement, fills him with a warmth that rivals any flame.
“Ohh look at these!” Pulling him by the hand, you stop in front of a booth laid out with ribbons of all sizes and colors. The merchant, a portly woman with eyes as green as shamrocks, offers you a bright smile.
“Welcome, welcome. Feel free to inspect any of them up close. No finer silks, satins, velvets and linens in all of France!”
Her hyperbole makes you smile as you take in the medley of colors and textures laid out before you. They are all so beautiful. You glance over your shoulder at Comte and he offers you an encouraging smile.
“We have plenty of time, ma chérie. Look as long as you like.”
Affection widens your smile as you turn back to the lengths of ribbon, your gaze running over them with an appreciative gleam. And then you spot it. A sumptuous velvet ribbon of deep ochre, trimmed with black lace. The merchant sees where you have stopped and reaches for it, lifting it and offers it to you, eyes twinkling at the anticipation of a sale.
“A beautiful choice indeed, mademoiselle. A fine match for your lovely hair.”
You take it from her, holding it in your palm as if holding a rare gem. Carefully, you run a finger down its length, marveling at how soft it is. How luxurious it feels to your skin. And the touch of black lace feels like an almost scandalous edition. You touch that too, imagining Comte’s elegant fingers pulling the ribbon free from your hair by touching that provocative trim.
You clear your throat, scattering the sensual thoughts.
"I'll take it!"
*
After a warm glass of apple cider and fresh apple tart, you stroll with Comte, arm in arm, until you come to the edge of a park you have visited many times when making the trip to this particular village. There is no need for words as you walk in-step together down a smaller dirt path, one that winds a bit away from the main promenade.
Your boots begin crunching over fallen leaves, beautiful bursts of red and orange and brown crumbling underfoot as you both walk towards the wooden bench you know and love. It isn’t the shiny white of the newer benches along the main, paved paths of the park. This one is old, brittle, just barely seating the two of you. It’s rough wood scratches and pulls at your clothing every time you sit and you’ve been given a souvenir splinter once or twice, but it is your favorite place in the whole park. Something about it feels like it has always been there, as if the surrounding trees themselves are offering it up as a prize to adventurous travelers who dare explore the path less taken.
Settling down next to Comte, you snuggle against his side, reaching into your beaded reticule, your fingers exploring until they feel the soft velvet of the ribbon and you pull it out with a satisfied smile.
He glances down at you, at the way you touch the soft, deep orange length of it, your fingertips skimming over the black lace once again.
“Shall I put it in your hair, chérie?”
Immediately you straighten up, excitement buoying your spirits like a burst of wind to a kite. You turn your back to him, anticipation walking along the tight line of your shoulders, painting the pale pink flush of your cheek. Comte finds the silver combs currently tucked into your tresses and gently pulls them out, one side then the other. A sigh escapes you, soft as a rustle of silk, when he pushes his gentle fingers into your hair, helping it shake itself free and flow naturally down past your shoulders. It feels familiar and comforting, something he has done for you hundreds of times and yet you never tire of it. You close your eyes, indulging in the finesse of his touch, when it suddenly stops.
Comte leans forward, murmuring to himself in French, his fingers parting strands of your hair until he says with triumph swelling his voice, “Ah ha! I have it.”
You feel a tiny tugging at your scalp and then he is holding the end of a single, soft hair, still attached. He pulls it carefully around, reaching for your hand so you can take it yourself and see what he has discovered.
“White as snow,” he says with a small smile, his eyes warm with amusement.
“A gray hair?” You turn your head to try and get a better look at the offending strand. There it is, a single hair, a thin sliver of moonlight between your fingertips.
“Perhaps I should start calling you ‘Mémé’,” he says with a grin that is full of warm-hearted affection.
Words become stuck in the desert of your throat. Your eyes are unable to look away from the thing caught in your grasp. It is only when it disappears, vanishes behind a wall of blurred autumn colors that you realize you are crying. Angrily, you pull, violently yanking the pale hair from your head. Part of you imagines that you could pull and pull and pull and it would never end, an endless spool of white inside of you, waiting for the right moment to blossom, to grow over your head like some kind of oppressive, blanched ivy climbing a wall, burying whatever is underneath until all you see is white.
Comte’s arm around your waist tightens as he reaches for you with his other hand, turning your face toward him. Even though his face is half in shadow and swimming behind your tears, the concern there is bright as a journeyman’s flare.
“Chérie?”
You turn, throwing yourself into the safety of his arms, burying your face in the soft folds of his beige coat.
You want nothing more than to stop the march of time, to stay right here on this uncomfortable wooden bench, under the protection of arboreal guards in their jackets of red and yellow, within the circle of Comte’s embrace. To pretend that time can be ignored, that age isn’t stalking you slowly from the shadows of every passing day and every dream-filled night.
His hand runs down your back, methodical, rhythmic, and you shudder. It reminds you of the steady ticking of clocks. Minutes that are born and die and with each breath push you closer to separation. A single white hair becomes two. Then ten. One wrinkle births many. These first few decades of your life were a river, flowing over rocks and curving around many unforeseen bends. But each year the water moves faster and faster. A river forms rapids and leaves you breathless, holding on for dear life. Life that for him will never end. And for you, has but one inevitable conclusion.
You don’t know how long you sit there, clinging to his strong frame as your body wrings itself of tears. He never forces you to explain. He never stops holding you. He allows you to feel what you are feeling and offers you an unwavering bastion of comfort and support. Eventually the waters calm and the wind inside your aching heart stops roaring. When you finally pull away, the last drops of sunlight are dappling his face. You reach up, cupping that beloved face in your hands, your eyes finding his.
What you find there is a love as luminous as the harvest moon, forcible enough to withstand even the most destructive of storms. A love that transcends something as trivial as seconds and years and centuries. A forever that belongs to you both, no matter if its form is a tender embrace right now under a darkening forest canopy or the warmth of this memory on a cold, autumn night somewhere around the riverbend.
“Let’s go home,” you whisper, your thumbs running over the sharp lines of his cheekbones.
He reaches out with one hand, running it over the softness of your hair.
“Of course, chérie.” He leans forward, placing a gentle kiss to the corner of one eye, then the other, and then another on your lips, love sinking into your skin at every point of contact. Standing, he reaches down for your hand and says in a voice steeped in the honeyed tenderness of loving devotion, “Let’s go home.”
Hey! Can i request Moiraine x reader story? They have a past in Cairhien, reader is in trouble when the Wheel kindly puts Moiraine in her path. You shall decide what to do with the rest.
A/N: Yaaasss! *stupid happy dance* I just woke up from a dream where two dudes were stealing my mom’s and my stuff. Therefore, enjoy two muggers.
Warning: Violence, maybe some blood?
A lone figure traveled through the valley, gripping their horse’s reins tight and looking around anxiously. You hated this short-cut, but it would make the trip days faster.
But the valley was thick with bandits year round. Between the Mountains of Mist and Darkwood, the mystery surrounding both would wade off any intelligent travelers. You weren’t stupid, just impatient and on quite the time limit.
You weren’t young anymore. Wrinkles lined your face and hands, your knees hurt more in the mornings, and your back ached almost constantly. Your calloused hands from years of work instinctively gripped the handle of your sheathed sword. You were shit with it, but the hidden dagger at your waist.... Oh, just let a bandit try.
As if on cue, your horse came to a stop.
You froze, not understanding, and fear lit your insides on fire. “No, no,” you argued. You quickly dismounted, taking the horse’s bit in your hands and pulling the beast to face you. “We cannot stop here,” you insisted, pulling.
Apparently, losing your weight helped the equine get some motivation because he continued trotting so slowly. You huffed a sigh before pulling him to a nearby cave entrance. He wouldn’t enter so you tied him to a tree out there and sat on the tree’s roots.
You were barely allowed a breath before an arrow flew from the treeline and impaled the steed. “Oh, I knew it,” you mumbled. You stood, watching the raised treeline. You took the sword from the back of your saddle and raised it cautiously.
A thump behind you startled you and you’d not had time to more than jump in fright before your arms were brought behind you. “Well, what have we here?” was crooned into your ear through your thinning hair.
“Apparently, not those capable of dental hygiene,” you quipped, turning away from the disgusting man and his horrid breath.
A cold, ragged laugh echoed from the front.
You looked ahead and found another man approaching, his teeth just as blackened at your jailer you were so sure. “Oh, fun. Two against one. Do you often mug your elders?” you asked sarcastically.
The archer (you guessed) started going through your things.
“I have nothing of value,” you explained calmly.
He threw your basket-bag to the forest floor, bringing his own dagger out. He held it to your throat. “Except you life,” he volunteered.
You settled your face to appear neutral.
“Beg.”
“No,” came the simple retort.
The blade dug into your throat, coaxing a slow steady flow of blood.
Your throat caught. After all you’d seen and done, you’d think you’d be ready.
A sword flew through the air, piercing the man before you easily.
Wide eyed, you reacted nonetheless, bringing your leg up to knock him down. The man behind you was in shock at seeing his friend/boss/person die and you wretched your hands free. You unsheathed your dagger, swiping out at the man while you spun. You ducked his consequential attack and moved as quickly as you could to the other side. A quick kick to his calf and he spun with you. You stood face to face when he suddenly slumped down.
A hand grasped his shoulder, shoving him to sleep against the mound of dirt leading up the valley walls.
Behind, in all her glory, stood your beloved. Who you had no seen in over 20 years. “My Lady,” you breathed, stumbling to step back.
Moiraine Damodred, from the House of Damodred, Royal family of Cairhein, had barely aged a day. She followed you insistently, grabbing your shoulders through your shock. She murmured your own name back to you. She held your face in one hand, the side of your oozing throat with the other. The air shifted and a single tendril of what you recognized as her magic flowed over to you.
Your throat healed and the bleeding stopped.
A man stood off to the side. He held out a slot of cloth which Moiraine used to clean you up.
“My Lady,” you repeated in much the same state of awe.
Her eyes crinkled a bit at the corners as her lips turned up and her eyes came alight. “I’ve not been your Lady in some time,” she argued, finishing, again with your name. You weren’t the only one affected by the new presence. Good.
“You will always be my Lady,” you concluded stubbornly.
Her smile seemed to turn up like adding grease to a bonfire. She took your hands, guiding you back into the open valley. “Come, it is not safe here.”
“Moiraine,” came the vocalization of her companion. So he did speak.
You both turned to him and what he was facing. Your horse laid on the ground, your bag beside him, its contents spilling out. “No!” you shouted, racing over to both the beast and herbs. You gathered the plants in your bag, holding the deceased equine’s face tenderly. You murmured a prayer in the Old Tongue and pulled the bag over your shoulder. You took the cloak off the back of his saddle, the valley’s humidity warming you just fine previously. A hand on your shoulder prompted you to stand, though your croaky knees argued and that hand provided more support upon realizing.
Your Lady Moiraine took your shoulders, forcing you to face her. She called you again: “You’ll ride with me, but we must make haste from this place.” It wasn’t a question.
And just like in the old days of a servant and her mistress, you nodded and followed. You helped her onto her own horse and she held out a hand to lift you in return. Just like the old days....
*~*
The sun had set by the time the three of you came to a stop. The mystery man disappeared into the night and Your Lady sat beside you. She’d been touching you non-stop. It had reignited that which you’d thought you’d killed so long ago.
“Why were you in the Valley?” Moiraine asked softly.
You sighed. “My niece, in Baerlon, she’s ill. I was sent to fetch the herbs to cure her, only found in Alcruna.”
She winced. “That’s a long ride to make on your own.”
“Someone had to. My sister insisted she stay with her daughter in case I failed. Her father must work if the family is to stay in their lodging.”
Moiraine sighed. “My Warder and I need to make a stop in the Edmond’s Field, but we could easily follow you to Baerlon. How bad was it when you left?”
“She was bedridden.”
“How long have you been gone?”
You shook your head. “Too long.”
She breathed your name like she had so many years ago. The depth of shared emotion resounded in you.
You took the hand on your knee. “Moiraine,” you sighed in response.
Excited by your use of her given name, she answered your name once more, this iteration so, so deep. She leaned into you.
You raised your head, catching her lips easily. The brief moment you allowed yourself to fall into the passion, it was like every part of your body came alive. You jerked back with a gasp. “It’s been 20 years. So stupid of me. You must have-”
Her fingers gripped your chin, bringing your lips wherever she desired.
Those of you who know my husband have already seen him posting about part of his issues, so I'm not going to go into much detail there. He starts treatment tomorrow morning. I'm hoping this goes well, because he's been through so much already... He's had a really, really rough couple of years.
Meanwhile, I'm having health problems of my own. My doctor started me on iron supplements for anemia, and on a recent recheck of my bloodwork, my iron levels are actually worse than they were when I was diagnosed about six weeks ago, so we have to figure out what's going on there.... Meanwhile I'm just tired and cold constantly, which is great.
On top of that, my grandmother, who lives with my parents and I help care for, fell a few weeks ago and was hospitalized for three days, after which she was discharged to a rehabilitation facility... She's being sent back to my parent's house at the end of this week, so I'll be back to looking after her... She also fell three more times at the rehab facility for a total of five falls in the last month, so I really don't know how much her care needs are going to have changed until she gets back. She's under hospice care (she's 98), so at least we have other services in place, but it's still a lot.
AND because my life couldn't get any crazier.... My grandfather on the other side of the family was just moved into a nursing home and placed under hospice care as well. I went to see him yesterday, and he's in good spirits, but very clearly approaching the end of his life. So I have two of my three remaining grandparents who currently aren't doing well, and we're just kind of... Taking that as it comes.
I'm also working full time, which is fine because that's nothing new, but on top of everything else that's happened, plus my own mental health bullcrap? It's a lot.
Point is? I'm here. I'm still interested in writing with all of you. But life is hectic and while I continually have the best intentions of getting as much done as I can, I can't always guarantee how much that's going to be. I can't even put into words how much I appreciate everyone's patience, since I can't really say with any degree of certainty when the chaos is going to let up.
If we're mutuals, you're always welcome to ask for my Discord-- I can't generally do much on tumblr while I'm at work but I can answer discord messages and things between phone calls, and I will absolutely be glad to talk to you there.
Robotus mourning the inevitable loss of his human partner
Would it make his desire to destroy humans stronger?
How would he deal with his grief?
OH GOD <333 this is,,, yes yes yes,, i have waited so long to ramble about this. this is gonna be OBSCENELY LONG.
NSFW bc,,, blood and violence and obscene depictions of gore smndsd. TW for death, the dying process, old age and existential concepts!!
The way he deals with it is,,, definitely dependent on how it happens?
Was there someone responsible?
If he pauses to dwell on it, the guilt will swallow him whole, so he doesn’t.
It wasn't something inevitable - it wasn't old age, or illness, or being swallowed by a force of nature.
You didn’t have to die like that.
He meant to draw out the culprit's death - he really did. He had it all planned out in his head, step by step.
but once his has them in his hands? That he can actually feel their pulse, under his fingertips, in a pattern that is so nauseatingly familiar?
Their neck is mulched - his fingers pass through the skin and bones with so little effort that . The revenge is not satisfying - there's no screaming, no clean snap of vertebra. Too fast. Much better than they deserved.
He's infected by human error, and that feels apparent now more than ever - it's their fault, isn't it? Isn't that the entire problem? Hasn't that always been the problem? A human created him, a human didn't consider the consequences of bringing him to life, a human programmed him with the flaws that stopped him from keeping you safe, that made his revenge imprecise.
The next step is obvious, and expected, and it happens with the clinical press of a button. Any hands-on work is dispassionate at best - he’s completely checked out.
The aftermath is this horrible, monotonous quiet. The kind that just,, seeps into you and fills you out. Every internal process his body is too loud - too present in his mind. Too aware of how empty everything is now.
The lack of distraction gets to him the most - he has no greater goal, or vague Thing he can direct his grief at.
Just the quiet, and all the time in the world.
Was it inevitable? Old age?
He has time to prepare himself for it - you force him to prepare for it. You refuse to let it take him by surprise, because you know damn well he'll do everything to distract himself. You talk him through every step of what he's going to see. You remind him so constantly that you love him.
It still hits like a truck, actually seeing it.
You're somewhere comfortable - your home together, or a nice little area in the Cognito basement so that everything feels familiar.
Shockingly, keeps it together through the whole process - he hesitates to touch you at first, in some subconscious worry that the contact will make you go before its time. Of course, you aren't having any of that - you give him That Look and tell him to Get His Ass Over Here, and he does so without question.
Benefits of being an AI, he knows the exact moment your vital signs begin to wain.
He doesn't stop speaking, partially to fill the silence so he doesn't lose composure, but mostly so that you aren't scared. He keeps careful track of your heart rate - it doesn't jump once, he makes sure of it. He's promised to protect you, and even if he can’t stop what’s going to happen, he can at least make sure its peaceful
He keeps speaking even after you’re, as you go fully cold and your heat signature tanks into inky purple. A black hole.
He can't seem to move himself - if he moves, then that moment ends.
His goals feel distant. He has all the time in the world, doesn't he? He is still here. He's always going to be here. Humanity can wait it's goddamn turn.
People come by, sure, but he won't let go of the body. He won't budge, and neither will you - they try prying, melting, nothing seems to work.They assume he's dead - entirely unresponsive, but,,,, also, they don't want to risk damaging/moving your body in case,,,, he ISNT dead. because nobody wants to piss off the grieving, homicidal robot.
Maybe he will move, in a few centuries. After the world is entirely unfamiliar to him. When there's nothing left in it that will remind him of you, perhaps he'll find it in him to move past this moment.
For now, he'll protect what remains.
I wrote this at 3 am so MSNDSMD FORGIVE ME IF ITS A LITTLE INCOHERENT AND MESSY,, tysm for the lovely ask!!
