He had found Rick, Michonne and Carl. Why did he not feel any relief? As he sat on the ground next to Rick that morning and told him about how he had ended up with those men he wanted to tell Rick the truth, but every time he tried to find the right words his mouth went dry and his mind blank.

How could he mention what they had done to him, how say the words to Rick? To his brother? Daryl felt sick to his stomach with shame whenever he thought of Rick calling him that. How he had said that all that mattered was that he was back with them, that he was not to blame for throwing his lot in with these people when he had been all alone.

Daryl knew this to be untrue. He was to blame, and if Rick ever found out what the men had done he would turn away from Daryl in disgust. As they walked on towards Terminus Daryl kept to himself.

He tried not to limp as they continued to clamber over the tracks. That bastard Len had kicked Daryl fiercely in the ribs and stamped on his knee and hip that first night when Daryl had still fought back with all his strength. He was sore all over but as long as he concentrated on where he was stepping and how he moved nobody had to know.

He half wished Rick had let Joe and his gang beat him to death, like they had promised. But Rick didn't know, would never know, that Daryl had wished it, and why. Daryl would just have to learn to live with it. Somehow.

A few days before

Daryl sat on the road by the tracks, despondent and exhausted after chasing the people who had taken Beth, knowing he would probably never see her again. He didn't hear the man who jammed his rifle butt into his temple. Consumed with the misery about losing yet another person Daryl had paid no attention to his surroundings. He was aware for a split second of a sharp pain to the side of his head, and seemed to hear someone shout "Claimed!" before blackness took him.

When Daryl came to he couldn't see anything at first. He could feel cool concrete beneath him, and smell motor oil and sweat. As his senses slowly returned he could tell his hands were bound behind his back with handcuffs. He was lying on his front, and his head was throbbing fiercely. When he turned his head to the side the room tilted sickeningly. He persevered, blinking away the blood that had been clouding his vision.

Maneuvering himself onto his side took several minutes. When he had finally managed it he was breathing hard. He could now see that he was in some kind of garage or warehouse, and he could see five or six men busying themselves around several cars.

Next Daryl's view was blocked by a pair of jeans clad legs and battered boots. He squinted up at the man standing above him, the movement making his temple throb even more.

"Look who's up." Daryl couldn't make out the man's expression, but he could see a mane of straggly graying hair.

"Lemme go, y'bastard!" Daryl spat.

The man crouched down next to Daryl. He could see the other's face clearly now. His eyes were hard as steel. Daryl recognized what type of man this was. His brother had brought that kind into his life regularly whenever he came out of prison long enough to remember his little brother.

"Now, now, don't be rude. If you misbehave things will only get worse."

The older man was lightning fast. He gripped Daryl by the collar, pulled him to his feet and shoved him roughly in the direction of the other men. Daryl struggled, but it all happened so quickly. The man gave him a hard push and Daryl fell back to the floor. With his hands behind his back he couldn't catch his fall and landed hard on one shoulder. The impact made his ears ring.

"I know I claimed that little weasel, but anyone who wants to use him after me is welcome to him."

Daryl couldn't make any sense of the words, but he struggled harder as the man placed his foot squarely on his back, forcing him flat onto the floor. Daryl couldn't see much beyond several pairs of shoes. He fought against the heavy boot on his back, but the older man was surprisingly strong.

"Dan, Tony, hold him down." The pressure on Daryl's back vanished and was immediately replaced by two pairs of strong hands. Daryl couldn't see their faces from his vantage point, but could feel them dropping to their knees on either side of him. He was getting afraid now and redoubled his efforts to get free. One of the men cuffed him on the side of the head. "Hold still, weasel."

The next thing Daryl could hear was unmistakably the sound of a belt being loosened and a zipper opening. It dawned on him then what these men were planning for him. Daryl arched his back, fighting with all his strength against the two men. One of them grunted and shifted around. Daryl felt the weight on his right arm increase as the man dropped to the floor and leaned on him hard.

"Billy, Len, get his pants off." The man behind Daryl clearly was the one calling the shots, and Daryl could see two more pairs of feet step around him and out of view. His cuffed wrists were very sore now as he tried desperately to pull them free, to no avail. The arm pinned under the heavy man to his right was on fire but Daryl hardly felt it, his mind was consumed with the dread and horror these men had in store for him.

He tried to squirm away as he could feel more hands on him, but he was almost unable to move now. "Le' m' go!" Daryl's voice was pleading even as he tried to sound menacing. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

Daryl felt his pants being ripped down over his hips. The men didn't even bother undoing the buttons. His underpants followed a moment later. Daryl felt movement behind him, and panic rose like bile in his throat. There was a grunt, presumably from the older man as he went down on one knee. Daryl felt calloused hands on his bare hips and increased his attempts to squirm away. His heart beat frantically, he tried to buck away from under all the hands, but it was no use.

The man behind him grunted. "Len, get him to hold still," he ordered. The next thing Daryl felt was a searing pain in his left side as steel toed boots kicked him in the ribs and kidney several times. The air was forced out of his lungs, and Daryl ceased his struggles. There was no way he could get away and he knew it. He tried to brace himself for what he knew would come next.

His lower body was roughly pulled back and up by strong hands. When the older man forced himself inside him the pain was like nothing Daryl had ever known. He tried to remain quiet, to not give them the satisfaction of revealing how much it hurt, but he couldn't suppress a scream. Tears were running down his face; his body was no longer his to control.

It seemed to take forever. The man behind Daryl grunted as he slid in and out. The pain that had started out as sharp stabs dulled to a steady throb and the torture continue. Daryl could feel something warm run down the inside of his legs and he was sure it was blood.

The other men were almost silent. Every so often Daryl could hear the one half lying on top of him snigger or leer appreciatively. After the first scream Daryl managed to keep almost quiet, he just bit on his lower lip until he could taste blood.

Finally, the man behind him shuddered and moaned. Daryl could feel rough hands gripping his hips hard, pulling him back. Then another sharp pain as the man pulled out. Daryl collapsed as the man let go of his hips.

"All yours, boys," Daryl heard from behind him. There was a rustle of clothing as the man tucked himself away. He heard heavy steps, then saw the battered boots again which he knew belonged to his tormentor. Daryl didn't look up, but knew that the man was looking down at him.

"Name's Joe, by the way."