"Dying" (Took prompt literally, so consider this the warning :)). Characters aren't mine.
"This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper." T.S. Eliot
She'd always thought they'd go down in a blaze of glory. Losing him in the field had been the worst nightmare of her youth. She'd asked him to promise not to die and spent years delaying their happiness because of that fear.
But in the end, she'd had no need for that fear. He'd been patient, been persistent and led her by the hand into their home, their family, their life. And it had been a good life, a long life, a full life.
Still, she sat in this sterile room, stroking his hand, which had long ago weathered with age, as he slept, wishing for a do-over on those early years. For someone to go back and tell that woman that she had no idea what real fear was.
If someone told her it'd be far worse to lose him slowly then all at once, she would have laughed at them. She would've had said 'you can prepare for slow.' And he'd still be there to lead her, showing her how she was supposed to cope, comforting her even as he was dying.
But she'd never know how to look into those blue eyes, slightly clouded with time, and see no recognition, no love returned. And the day was coming soon where he'd be gone completely, no more good days left. He'd still be here, but she'd cease to be Fern; she'd be just another face that visited him in the home. She'd never been so afraid of anything in her life and for the first time in forty years, he wasn't there to take her by the hand and lead her to the other side.
