Disclaimer: I own nothing from The Walking Dead.

Archer's Burning

Chapter 1

"She's my little girl. I should be there!"

"You ain't got no business out there. I work better alone."

Daryl shrugged the strap of his crossbow up his shoulder and held his knife tightly in his hand. With each footfall came a crinkling leaf or a snapping twig. Then came the screams of preying birds, the various chitterlings of woodland animals scurrying along the forest floor for food and shelter.

"I can't sit here and do nothing."

"Sittin' right here is where ya need to be. Ain't gonna be no help to me out there."

It was a fact, after all, he told himself as he squinted into the filtered sunlight streaming down through the tree branches. She didn't know how to handle a gun. She'd be a burden out there. It was just the truth, and it wasn't her fault at all. It was just the way it was.

"What if something happens to you? What if you go out there and get yourself hurt? Then what?"

"I can take care of myself. You just sit tight."

"Thank you. Daryl, thank you."

Rick and Shane had urged him not to go, that hope was dwindling. Two days they'd been stuck up in that traffic snarl without a clue as to where Sophia was. T-Dog was becoming feverish and everyone was itching to do something, to go somewhere. Out on the road, they were sitting ducks, and it was only a matter of time before another herd came along.

But he'd listened to that little girl's mama cry all through the night, and never in his life had he witnessed such heartbreak. It was alien to him, like a foreign word on his tongue. He'd never seen the kind of love and protection for a child that Carol had lavished upon Sophia. He'd only ever known his mama's screams as his daddy beat her, the slurred words after a fistful of pills and a stiff drink. He knew the pain of a belt buckle snapping and clawing at his skin until his skin was pulpy and raw.

Ain't nobody's hero. The way she was lookin' at me, you'd think I just cured the whole damned planet of this plague.

He flinched as a hawk screeched somewhere off in the distance, and he heard the flutter of wings and the scream of a field mouse as it became nothing but a memory.

"Sophia!" he called, ducking under a low branch as he made it to a clearing. He took a few heavy breaths, lungs burning from the walk. He'd gone at least a mile.

The snap of a twig nearby startled him, and he moved, pressing in close against a tree when a walker stumbled into sight. She was dressed in blue jeans and a white top, dried blood spattered all over her long, auburn hair. He watched as she stumbled over a tree root but didn't fall. When she turned, her lips were peeled back in a snarl, half of her face bitten away as dead, white eyes searched for fresh meat.

His throat tightened as his hand curled around the handle of his buck knife, and as she turned away, he turned out from around the tree and buried his knife to the hilt in the base of her skull. She went down like a switch had been turned off, and her skull cracked as he pulled the blade from it and wiped the brown muck on the side of his boot.

"Sophia!" he hollered again, tucking his knife into the leather sheath on his belt. He pulled his crossbow out from behind him and held it up, steadying it as he listened and waited. A cool breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and his breath grew hot against his arm as he held his bow steady, strong. It wasn't long before the woods grew silent, and he could make out the faint trickling of water. If anything, he could take some back to the group.

He felt along the back of his belt for the canteen he'd hooked on, and he lowered his crossbow. He turned toward the sound of water, making his way down a steep decline as the scattering of trees became more sparse and the earth became softer.

He stumbled as the toe of his boot got tangled in some brush, but he steadied himself and hoisted his crossbow back over his shoulder.

Before long, he spotted the creek, wide but surprisingly high considering the drought they'd been under since before the Turn.

He climbed down slowly, carefully, finding his footing in knots and hollows in the thick tree branches and roots that spider-webbed down the steep embankment.

Once he was down, he looked up and downstream, looking for signs of walkers. When the coast was clear, he knelt down at the edge of the water, gravel crunching as he slumped to the ground to rest. He rubbed his hands together under the cool, clear water, staring down at his own reflection for a moment. He looked filthy, hair slick with sweat, a layer of dirt and grime seeping with sweat that he quickly washed away.

He gulped large handfuls of water, gasping for breath between each drink. He knelt down, dipping his whole head under the surface, feeling the cool rush fill his ears and his nose, and he sputtered, pulling himself back up to breathe again. He brushed his hands over his hair as the water slipped down his neck and dampened the dirty neck of his torn old shirt. He knew he needed to press on, but if he was going to be any help in finding Sophia, he had to have water. And food. His grumbling stomach reminded him of that as he peered up at the sky, feeling the cool evening air settling in as the day began to wind down. He had an hour—two at the most—of sunlight left, and he couldn't waste it. He had to push on.

...

"It looks better," Carol murmured softly, gently dabbing at T-Dog's injury with a clean, damp rag.

"Don't feel better," T-Dog groaned as he popped another antibiotic, courtesy of Merle Dixon's proclivity for unprotected sex.

"The site's clean, and I don't see any infection." She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. "Your fever seems to be coming down."

"You ever hear them say that sometimes it gets better just before it gets worse?"

"You're not dying," Carol promised. "Now you rest." T-Dog gave her hand a squeeze.

"Thank you for this," he said quietly. "You a nurse or something?"

"Or something," Carol said with a sad little smile. "I went to nursing school for a time, but then I met Ed, and he didn't like he working." She cleared her throat.

"For what it's worth, you and your girl are better off without him. My daddy always said that a man who can't treat his woman right ain't a man at all."

"Your daddy sounds like a smart man," Carol said softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You let those antibiotics work their magic, alright? I'll be back to check on you in a little while." She got up to back out of the small bedroom in the RV, but just as she reached the door, he called out to her again.

"He'll find your girl. Daryl will," T-Dog said quietly. "If anybody can, Daryl can."

"Thank you," Carol said gently, as tears prickled at her eyes and threatened to fall. She stepped out of sight to find Rick and Lori waiting up in the front of the RV.

"How's he doing?" Lori asked, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she leaned against the wall by the door.

"He's worried, but I think his fever's breaking. The wound looks better, too. I think if he had any infection, it's starting to clear up."

"Thank God," Lori murmured.

"Or Merle Dixon's clap," Carol pointed out dryly. She wasn't expecting laughs. This was what it was. If God had any say anymore, he sure wasn't saying much. "Any sign of him?"

"No," Rick said quietly. "And if we don't hear something come morning, I'll take a group out, we'll start looking again." Carol felt the strength leave her then, and she slowly sat down at the small fold out table.

"Hey," Lori urged, moving to sit next to Carol, "Daryl's the best tracker I've ever seen. He's gonna find her, and if he doesn't find her tonight, we'll look again tomorrow."

"She's so young. She's just a little girl." Carol shook her head, closing her eyes tightly as her shoulders began to tremble. "She could…it gets cold out there at night."

"Hey. Stop. Don't think about that. Listen to me. You look at me," Lori urged. "Sophia's gonna be alright. You have to believe that." Carol curled her hand around Lori's and squeezed as she bowed her head.

"Thank you," Carol murmured.

"Anytime, honey," Lori promised. "Come on. Let's get some air. Come on." The two women slid out from the small booth and started for the door. Rick gently brushed his hand over Carol's arm.

"Hey," he said quietly, "I know Shane gets riled up, but we're not leaving until we have an answer, alright? That's a promise."

"Thank you," Carol murmured, brushing her tears away. "But you can't…I don't…"

"Stop," Lori urged. "We staying positive, alright?" Lori's hands were firm on Carol's shoulders, and in her eyes there was a determination, a fire, a sense of confidence that Carol had never seen when she'd looked in the mirror. But there was a fear. An overwhelming fear, and no amount of assurance could mask that in Lori's eyes. She was terrified, just as Carol was terrified, and it made Carol's stomach tighten at the idea that no matter how scared she might be, Sophia had to be more frightened than she'd ever been in her entire life. As a mother, she felt utterly helpless. She'd let her little girl down too many times, what with going back to Ed time and time again and not protecting her from the volatile, hostile environment that went on behind the white picket fences that gated their home. She couldn't let her down again. But she felt absolutely powerless, as if Ed was still right there with his disapproving glances and his firm hand pushing her down until she couldn't get up again. She hated who she was with him, but he was dead now.

She took a deep breath and promised herself that if—no, when—Sophia came back, she would spend the rest of whatever time she had left making sure Sophia was prepared to fight and survive in this world. The child had already paid the price of her mother's mistakes. She had to be strong. She had to be.

...

The thirst was overwhelming, but he drank until he felt satisfied, but the hunger still rumbled in his belly. The sunlight was dwindling as dusk began to settle in, and Daryl stood, adjusting his bow across his back and topping off the canteen before clipping it back to his belt.

A flock of birds took off from the treetops not even a half mile away, and Daryl paused, staring down the stream as a deer came walking out for a drink. He watched it, unmoving as the creature stood peacefully at the water's edge, drinking its fill from the stream. He grabbed his bow, aiming it at the unsuspecting creature, figuring he might just be able to clean the animal and take some meat back to the others. If he couldn't come back with Sophia, at least he wouldn't have been completely useless.

But at shrill scream down the way startled the animal, and it took off, disappearing from sight before Daryl could get his finger on the trigger. Another scream. It was a girl. A child. Sophia! All thought of the hunt—of food—was gone.

"Sophia," he murmured, as his breath caught in his throat. He rushed toward the screams. "Sophia!" The screams grew louder with each footfall, and he nearly tripped over a fallen tree branch as he ran along the shallow edge of the creek. Up ahead, he could just make out the form of the walker in the creek up to its waist, reaching out toward something but unsuccessfully moving forward.

The screams came again, and Daryl took off again, bow raised, and his gaze snapped to the flash of a pale blue fabric as a shape pressed itself into the hollow of a rotted old tree that had probably washed down the creek a hundred years ago. It was half-full of water, but he could see one arm clutching at the side, while the other arm held a very dirty, very wet rag doll.

As he grew closer, he could see that the walker was stuck, unsuccessfully struggling to get to the girl. It snapped its jaws and growled, relentless in its efforts to dislodge its feet from the murk of the creek bed.

"Help me!" she cried out. "Help!"

"Sophia!" Daryl hollered, lungs burning as he rushed closer, heart hammering against his ribs. "Hold on! Sophia, hold on!"

"Help!" she screamed again, and that was when he saw her slip. She screamed out just before she slipped under the surface, and the walker fell then, also disappearing under the surface, and Daryl felt his blood run cold.

He dove in then, keeping his bow above water as he struggled toward the old, rotted tree. He heard the snarl as the walker breeched the surface again, and he took aim, firing a bold right through its eye. It fell forward, and the bolt was lost, but it was worth it to know that he had one less threat to deal with, as the body washed away.

He felt under the water, feeling for Sophia's hand, and when he felt the fabric of her shirt, he reached into the water to pull her out, only to find she wouldn't budge. He dropped everything then, dipping under the water, swimming down to find her foot lodged between two entwined roots. His lungs burned as he struggled to pull her wedged shoe free, fingers slipping against the rubber of her shoe sole.

She was struggling, foot thrashing and arms frantically curving out toward the tree to try to pull herself up, and he knew it was only a matter of time and there'd be no helping her, but there was no way he could bring that little girl's lifeless body back to her mother. It wasn't an option, and neither was coming back empty handed.

With one final tug, he freed her foot, and he pushed her upward to break the surface of the water. He came up sputtering for breath, and she was choking and crying, gripping the tree as he caught the strap of his crossbow with his foot, pulling it back up above water.

"Hey. Hey. S'alright. You're alright." She continued coughing, and he reached out for her.

"I don't wanna die," she cried out.

"It's alright. It's alright. Hey. Come here. Grab onto me. You're ok." Sophia flinched, blinking through the tears, remembering the way he'd shouted at her so sternly just the night before at the old folks' home and how her mother had wrapped her so protectively and bit back a warning to leave her little girl alone. She hesitated, but she reached out then, grabbing onto his arm and letting him pull her close. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close as he waded across the water with her and pulled them both up onto dry land.

She lay back against the muddy grass and gasped for breath, shivering. Daryl quickly drew her in close, rubbing her arms to keep her warm as the cool evening breeze drifted through.

"S'gonna be dark soon. We gotta get back," he murmured. "You ok, kid?"

"I…I think so," she panted through chattering teeth. She held her hand up to reveal a deep scratch on her palm. He felt his heart sink, and Sophia wiped the blood on her shirt.

"I cut it on the tree. It hurts bad," she whimpered. With a heavy sigh, Daryl tore a piece of his shirt off and began to wrap it around the wound.

"You sure that's how you hurt it? You weren't bit? Weren't scratched?"

"No, sir," she promised. "Just a scratch." She squeezed her hand shut after he finished binding it up with the torn cloth, and she squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm not s'posed to cry. My daddy always said girls don't need any more reason for boys to hate them, and crying makes girls weak."

"Hey," Daryl murmured, crouching down at her level. "Don't believe everything your daddy ever told you, 'cause most likely he was full of shit." Sophia flinched at that, but she nodded. "You ready?"

"Yes, sir." He helped her up, and they started up the direction Daryl had come from. They hadn't gone more than a few feet when Sophia gasped suddenly.

"Eliza!"

"What?"

"My doll! I named her after Eliza. She gave her to me before she left with her family." She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I have to find her."

"Sophia, we ain't got time to go lookin' for a doll's probably a mile downstream already."

"But…I promised I'd take care of her," Sophia whimpered. And then she was going back to the water, and before Daryl could reach out to grab her, he saw the deer out of the corner of his eyes, frightened and leaping out of the brush just as a gunshot rang out. He heard it then, the gasp, and his gaze refocused on Sophia, as the life left her eyes, and her arms went limp. And all he saw was blood as her knees buckled and she fell forward onto the muddy banks of the creek.