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nausicaamusiclover20 · 2 days ago

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I don't know if you do angst or not, but this idea has been in my head for a long time...

James (possibly MOP or BA era) and the reader love each other very much, but at some point the reader finds out that she has an incurable disease and doesn't have much time left. James is always by her side, helping her and making her happy even in the worst of times. In the end, the reader dies, which upsets James very much, because he lost his love :( (I didn't come up with anything specific for the ending, but it's clearly VERY sad)

It may sound really strange, but I really love sad stories. For me, they are stronger and, let's say, I've always loved them because I don’t know, but they leave something inside of you compared to a happy story (obviously, this is just how I feel). That being said, I hope you like it, and yes, it's sad, but I hope you can still enjoy it. ❤

_____________________

The wind rises

Life on the road was always unpredictable. Late nights, roaring crowds, and the endless hum of the tour bus felt like chaos to some, but for us, it was magic. James and I made it magic.

I remember the first tour I joined him on, a whirlwind of lights and sound. Back then, I wasn’t sure how I’d fit into his world. But James made it clear I wasn’t just in his world—I was his world.

The happiest days were the quiet ones, tucked away in dressing rooms or backstage corners, where it was just us. He’d pick up his acoustic guitar and strum a soft tune, one he swore was inspired by me. I’d tease him about being a big, tough metal god with a soft side, and he’d laugh that deep, infectious laugh that could melt every worry I had.

But then came the day everything changed.

It happened during a break between shows. I had been feeling off—more tired than usual, some lingering aches that wouldn’t go away. James had been the one to insist I see a doctor, and I could tell by his furrowed brow that he’d been worried long before I admitted something was wrong.

The doctor’s office was sterile and cold, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence after the diagnosis. The doctor cleared his throat, his tone gentle but unyielding.

“Miss Hetfield” he began carefully, “you’re suffering from a rare condition—one that, unfortunately, we don’t have a cure for yet.”

I felt the words settle over me like a heavy fog. James, sitting beside me, stiffened.

“How long?” I whispered, barely able to form the words.

The doctor hesitated, his kind eyes filled with a sympathy I didn’t want to see. “It’s difficult to say. Months, perhaps longer, depending on treatment.”

James’s hand found mine, squeezing it tightly. His voice was calm, but I knew him well enough to catch the tremor beneath the surface. “What do we do now?” he asked, his jaw clenched.

The doctor explained what little could be done—pain management, options to slow progression—but I barely heard him. All I could think about was the life James and I had built, the dreams we hadn’t yet chased.

Later, when we were alone in the car, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” I choked out, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I didn’t want this to ruin everything.”

James pulled me into his arms, his chin resting on top of my head. “Hey, none of that,” he murmured, his voice breaking just slightly. “This doesn’t ruin us. Nothing ever could.”

He held me tightly as I cried, his strength the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. “We’re in this together, Y/N,” he whispered. “Every step of the way. I won’t let you alone throught this.”

The doctor’s words echoed in my mind long after we left his office. “It’s a rare condition. There’s no cure… but we’ll do everything we can to keep you comfortable.”

James hadn’t let go of my hand the entire drive home. The silence between us wasn’t cold; it was heavy with unspoken fears.

When we got home, he finally broke the silence. “I’m canceling the rest of the tour.”

I shook my head quickly. “James, no. You can’t. The guys, the fans—”

“They’ll understand,” he interrupted firmly. “This isn’t up for debate, Y/N. You’re what matters.”

Despite my protests, he called Lars, Kirk, and Jason that night. They didn’t hesitate to agree, their voices filled with concern when James explained.

“We’ll pick it up later,” Lars said over the phone. “Family comes first.”

In the weeks that followed, James stayed by my side, his love a constant source of strength. I wanted to be strong for him, too, so I tried to live as normally as I could.

There were quiet mornings when we’d sit on the porch, sipping coffee and watching the sunrise. He’d bring out his guitar, strumming softly while I rested my head on his shoulder.

“Play something new,” I’d tease, and he’d grin.

“Something new, huh? How about a song for you?” he’d reply, making up silly lyrics that always ended with, “I love you, babe.”

The good days were a blessing. But the bad days came more frequently as time went on. Simple tasks became exhausting. My body grew weaker, and I could see the worry etched deeper into James’s face.

One night, as he tucked a blanket around me on the couch, I grabbed his hand. “James,” I said softly, “I think… It's time. I need more help than you can give me.”

His jaw tightened, and he nodded, his eyes glistening. “If that’s what you need, we’ll do it. But I’m staying with you, Y/N. Every step of the way.”

The transition to the hospital was bittersweet. I missed the warmth of home, but I knew it was the best place for me now. James transformed the sterile room into something comforting—photos of us together, little mementos from our life on tour, and his ever-present guitar leaning against the wall.

He practically moved in, refusing to leave my side. Every morning, he brought my favorite tea, sneaking it past the nurses. Every evening, he’d sit by my bed, playing soft melodies that felt like home.

“You don’t have to stay here all the time, you know,” I said one day, my voice faint but teasing. “The guys need you too.”

“They’ll survive,” he replied, brushing his fingers through my hair. “You’re my priority.”

It had been weeks in the hospital, each day feeling heavier than the last. James remained steadfast, refusing to leave my side. One afternoon, the doctor entered with a solemn expression.

“There’s one option we haven’t discussed yet,” he began cautiously, glancing between James and me. “It’s a surgical procedure that could potentially extend your time. However…” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “The success rate is very low—around 30%. And even if it’s successful, recovery would be extremely challenging.”

James tensed beside me, his hand gripping mine. I could feel the weight of the decision already pressing on him.

“What are the risks?” I asked, my voice soft but steady.

The doctor explained the complications—how the surgery could fail, how it might make my final days more difficult if it didn’t work. The room fell silent when he finished.

“We’ll think about it,” James said finally, his voice tight.

The doctor’s words echoed in the stillness of the room. The surgery was a slim chance—30%. But it was all we had left.

James stood beside me, his hand gently holding mine, his touch grounding me as if I might drift away. “If you want to try, we’ll do it,” he said, his voice steady but filled with an ache that ran deeper than anything I could say.

I looked up at him, my eyes filled with a quiet resolve. "James," I whispered, a small, faint smile tugging at my lips. "Promise me one thing, no matter what happens—promise me you’ll keep living. Keep playing, keep feeling, keep loving, because… I’ll always be with you. Even when you can’t see me. “James” I whispered softly, “f ever you need to feel me closer

just call my name, and I will be the wind. This will be my sign, to make you know that I’m there—whispering in the breeze, always with you, always beside you.”

He paused, his eyes holding mine, and I saw the pain in them, but also the love—the fierce, unrelenting love that had always carried us. “I promise” he murmured, brushing a soft kiss against my forehead.

As they wheeled me into the operating room, I could barely speak above a breath, but I managed, "James, I love you."

"I love you more than you’ll ever know," he replied, his voice breaking as they took me away.

Hours passed. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, the silence thick around him as James waited. The minutes turned into hours, and with each passing second, he felt the weight of the world pressing in.When the surgeon finally appeared, his face was soft, sorrowful, and James knew before the words left his lips.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, his voice thick with regret. “We did everything we could, but her body couldn’t handle it. The surgery wasn’t enough.”

The words hit James like a thunderclap, a devastating blow that left him breathless and trembling. His vision blurred, and for a long, unbearable moment, the world around him ceased to exist. There was only the unbearable weight of that loss.

His legs gave out beneath him. He crumpled to the floor, no longer able to stand, as if the very foundation of the world had fractured beneath him. His hands shook violently, and he pressed them to his face, but it did nothing to stop the tears that poured relentlessly from his eyes. His body trembled with grief, with the suffocating weight of knowing he would never see her smile again, never feel her warmth in his arms.

“I—” he gasped, his breath coming in ragged sobs. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t save her.”

The doctor, knowing there was nothing more to say, placed a hand on his shoulder, but it did nothing to ease the agony. James didn’t feel the comforting weight. He felt empty. Hollow.

____

The days that followed felt like a suffocating fog. James couldn’t bear the thought of performing, of being around anyone. He had promised her he would keep going, that he would continue to live and play music, but everything felt meaningless now. There was no joy in the songs anymore, no spark in the crowd's cheers. Without her, the world seemed dull, and his soul seemed trapped in a perpetual night.

He stayed at home, surrounded by her things—her favorite books, the half-finished letters she had written but never sent, her guitar that now sat untouched in the corner. The house was empty, and yet, it was filled with her presence, haunting him at every turn. The silence between the walls felt crushing. He could still hear her voice, her laughter, the way she would hum along to the songs they shared. But she was gone. The only thing left were the memories that refused to leave him, reminders of everything he had lost.

He couldn’t bring himself to pick up his guitar. Every note seemed wrong without her. It was as if the music had died with her. Even the band, understanding the depth of his grief, respected his decision to stay home, to step back from everything.

He spent days in solitude, hours staring out the window, watching the world continue without him. How could it? How could anything continue when his world had shattered? He couldn’t even bring himself to turn on the television, to leave the house, to speak to anyone. The thought of facing the world without her made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Every night, he would lie in their bed, the space beside him empty. It was too quiet. He would reach out, his hand searching for her, but there was nothing there. He could almost hear her voice in his ear, telling him to hold on, to keep going—but it wasn’t the same. The warmth of her touch, the strength of her smile, had slipped through his fingers, and no amount of time would ever bring that back.

Months had passed since her death, but the ache in James’s chest had never faded. The world had moved on, but he felt as though he was still standing at the edge of a cliff, unable to take another step. The house was colder now, emptier, even though it was filled with her memory. He couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard he tried.

One evening, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, James found himself standing at the foot of her grave. The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink, slowly fading into purple as the night approached. The cool evening air wrapped around him, but the weight of his grief felt heavier than ever. He clutched a bouquet of sunflowers—her favorite—his fingers trembling slightly.

He knelt slowly, his knees stiff from the long walk, and lowered himself to the ground. The stillness of the evening settled around him, and for a long moment, he couldn’t speak. The silence was all-consuming, as if the world had paused to allow him a brief moment of peace—though it was a peace filled with unbearable sorrow.

“I don’t know how to keep doing this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Every day feels like I’m walking through a world that doesn’t make sense without you in it. I... I miss you so much.”

He placed the flowers gently on the ground, his fingers brushing the cool earth as he traced the inscription on the gravestone. Her name—Y/N Hetfield—was carved into the stone, permanent and unyielding, a stark reminder of what was lost.

“I don’t know how to breathe without you beside me,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to find my way in this world without your light guiding me. I promised you I’d keep going, that I wouldn’t give up... but how can I when everything feels like it’s falling apart?”

James fell silent, his eyes blurring with tears. He let the stillness of the graveyard wash over him. The evening air was warm, but it felt heavy with the grief that had become a constant companion since her passing. For a moment, he could almost hear her voice again, a gentle echo in his mind, like a whisper in the wind.

But then, as if the wind itself were reaching out to him, he felt a soft breeze brush against his skin. It was a familiar sensation, a warmth that reminded him of the touch of her hand, the way she would stand beside him, always. The air seemed to hum with the memory of her, comforting yet heartbreaking.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “When I look up at the sky, are you there, looking down at me too?”

The wind picked up, and for a moment, it felt like her presence was all around him, like she was standing there beside him once more, wrapping him in the same warmth he had always felt from her. He closed his eyes, the tears falling freely, but this time, they were mixed with a quiet sense of comfort, as though she was still there, still watching over him.

“I’ll keep going,” he whispered again, his voice full of love and sorrow. “I’ll keep you alive in everything I do. In every song I play, in every note I sing, I’ll carry you with me. You’ll never be gone.”

James lifted his head and looked at the sky. The last remnants of daylight were fading, leaving behind a soft, dusky glow. The horizon was now a mixture of deep purples and blues, the sky giving way to the darkness of night, but still holding onto the warmth of the day. It was as if the world was saying goodbye to the sun, just as he was saying goodbye to her.

As he stood to leave, the breeze shifted again, gently brushing against his face, and in that moment, he felt her presence more than ever. It was as if her spirit was in the wind, surrounding him, telling him she was always with him. He took a deep breath, and in that breath, he felt peace—peace that her love would never fade, that she would always be a part of him, in every wind, in every note, in every moment.

“I’ll always love you,” he whispered to the wind, the words escaping him without thought, like an offering to the sky. Then, with one final glance at her grave, he walked away, his heart still aching but a little lighter, knowing that she would never truly be gone.

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