CHAPTER ONE

Six months before the fall of the prison

He had wings. It was the first thing she noticed.

Everything else around her was so vague, yet incredibly busy. Herds of people, breathing people mind you, were roaming around her in the prison. They were settling in after having left Woodbury for good. People were bumping into her regularly as she stood still in the middle of the hallway. Yet the only thing she noticed was the worn pattern on the back of his leather jacket.

She wrinkled her freckled nose in curiosity. Intrigued by what – and who she saw, the girl shyly tucked a long stray piece of her flaming auburn hair behind her ear so she could observe him better. Nervously twisting and playing with the loose threads of her sleeve, she watched the winged man as he guided people to their new cells. She could tell that he was uncomfortable. The shifting of his feet, the tensing of his muscles and his defensive body language told her he was still very much an amateur at human interaction… Although, she doubted anyone else would notice. He simply was too good at pretending to be okay.

She had heard his name was Daryl, but somehow found it unsuitable for him. It was too simple, too plain for a man with rough edges and untamed hair. As he started smoking a cigarette like his life depended on it, he turned towards her, abruptly ending her stare with the wicked wings. "Do ya want one or not?" He spoke up gruffly, holding out the package of cigarettes. She had to control a smirk, finding it amusing how his grumpy words contradicted his kind gesture. "You've been eyein' me like you want sumthin' from me." The tone of his voice sounded slightly annoyed, mostly confused but also - and most remarkably -oddly inquisitive for a man who had so far shown little interest in her presence. Taking another quick glance in her direction, his eyes scanned her figure from tip to toe like he was trying to measure her for something bigger. And even though she did not smoke, the girl accepted his kindness, knowing it took him a lot of effort to offer it to a stranger. "Ain't gonna bite… All ya gotta do is ask." He stated, his curious gaze finally meeting hers.

He had fierce blue eyes. It was the second thing she noticed.

Three months after the fall of the prison

With great difficulty, Daryl's fierce blue eyes focused on his target. Down by the riverside sat a rabbit still unaware of the Hunter's presence. Never in his life had Daryl thought he would ever find himself envious of a creature as petite and insignificant as a rabbit. But seeing the small animal quietly stuff its round cheeks with grass, Daryl Dixon admitted that he was very much jealous for it could find food to its taste so easily. Granted, Daryl knew that humans could, in principal, eat grass, but eventually their digestive system would stop functioning and they would die a slow and painful death. A dreadful lesson he had once learned as a young boy during a history class in high school.

Being in his mid-forties, Daryl only had vague memories of his time in school. As a boy Daryl had been rather bright for someone of his low economic and social background. Though he recalled how difficult it had been, paying attention to the teachers' lectures while he was wiggling in his chair in pain due to the beating he had received from his father the night before. More often than not did Daryl consider not going to school, seeing the pain and humiliation of having another black eye as too much, but regardless of the disrespectful teasing of his peers and the patronising looks of his seniors, the young man decided against skipping school once more when realising he needed the discipline to keep himself on the right path. After all, Daryl didn't want to end up in juvie like his big brother.

It was Mr Peterson's history classes that Daryl enjoyed attending most. Next to the lessons of the Native Americans, World War II stories had been his favourites. There was something about the cruelty of it that disgusted yet at the same time intrigued him. He remembered seeing the black and white pictures of prisoners of war who were slowly killing themselves by eating grass as every other alternative for suicide had been taking away from them by the Nazis. When the first moments of revulsion had vaporised and Daryl really took his time to analyse the images, he somehow found beauty in the slow decay of mankind. Their visible ribs, blackened teeth and void eyes suggested a certain level of defeat yet they were posing for the picture in a brave and proud way, not wanting to show the enemy or future spectators the horrors in their minds. In a strange way, Daryl thought, they had been the walkers of the 20th century. Sentenced to a certain death, but determined to keep on walking.

After weeks of malnutrition, Daryl imagined that was what he would start to look like. It had been at least three weeks since Daryl had last had a taste of meat. After an incident with the leader of The Claimers, Joe, during which Daryl tried to cut his ugly grin of his face, the Hunter was no longer allowed to have a gun or a knife, at least not without supervision. The lack of ammo, decent arrows and other hunting gear made his hunts difficult – if not, nearly impossible. Dandelions, nettles and nuts were easy but distasteful and monotone alternatives to meat. Occasionally the Hunter could spoil himself with some berries, but all in all, those edible plants were not enough to satisfy the hunger of a grown man. Contemplating the slow and painful POW's choice of suicide, Daryl also never thought the day the idea of no longer being around would actually make him consider sitting down next to the rabbit and start chewing grass if it promised him a certain death. But it made him realise that he was losing his mind, slowly but surely.

Daryl made the mistake of shaking his skull too harshly at his own negative thinking, the dehydration and starvation making his head rush in temporary vertigo. Glad no one was around to watch him, the Hunter slightly slapped himself on the cheek in a weak attempt to get himself to focus on the wiggly white-tailed rabbit in front of him. In barely there concentration, Daryl shot out his loaded arrow but missed by a couple of inches as he was clearly off his game due to the current situation. Another aim failed. Daryl Dixon considered himself to be a disappointment, not only because he could not shoot an animal six feet away from him, but also because he had failed to keep Her safe. Couldn't save his mother, couldn't find Sophia, and couldn't keep Her alive and well next to him.

With an empty and loudly protesting stomach, Daryl reluctantly watched the white fluffy tail of the rabbit disappear into the bushes. Hunger was what kept him up at night, causing him to practically sleepwalk during the day but Daryl refused to make the lethal mistake of putting his guard down. Instead, he remained wary of these strangers accompanying him as he distrusted the intense eyes of The Claimer's leader and despised the nasty remarks of that weirdo Len.

"Tell me something, was it one of the little'uns? 'Cause they…don't last too long out here."

Daryl couldn't wait to strangle the bastard but tried to control the urge, figuring that time would come when the others of this group were going to want to do the same. He just knew that man was going to cause him trouble. He couldn't stay here with them. He needed to go find Rick, his family, and that fucking girl who had an annoying habit of creeping into his mind.

"Your girl, she had a nice pair of tits?" The disgraced cop, Len, continued his interrogation.

"Don't fucking talk about her in the past tense like she's dead. Shit, don't talk about her at all!" He snarled in the man's face.

Daryl really had to work on his poker face if it was that obvious he was thinking of her. Amid a hunt he found it impossible to think about anything else other than how the blood of his skinned game resembled the redness in her hair. And at night, watching the stars he thought its beauty was nothing compared to the constellation of freckles on her cheeks. Daryl had hated all those things at first. Fuck, he had hated her at first. Even though he found himself unable to recall the exact reasons for his hatred, the Hunter simply knew every bone in his body had despised her. Fair enough, Daryl admitted, she hadn't been particularly unkind to him. But he told himself that this was because they had never had a conversation longer than five minutes alone. During their time at the prison, the Hunter had merely watched her interact with the rest of the group as he stood by. Daryl Dixon simply never took initiative when it came down to something as 'socialising' or 'conversing'. A low grunt escaped his throat at the use of this – to him – unfamiliar vocabulary. Even the mere thought of doing these things made his stomach twirl and his throat tighten. But even though he lacked a serious amount of self-confidence, Daryl found himself wanting to be better at human interaction. In his quiet cell at night the Hunter would sometimes dream of the red-haired girl in the most innocent form. He'd talk to her without suffering from his embarrassing stutters, repetitive grunts and social awkwardness. Waking up in the morning he could never recall the subjects of their conversations, but he always remembered how nice it had felt. He had cursed every time, however, at this strange feeling of calmness that she – or the imaginary conversations with her – could render him. Too often than he had liked, the Hunter found himself looking for her red hair in cellblock B or scan the sound of the noisy prison refectory for her laugh. The girl was a fucking distraction, making him lose his focus during the day as well as his sleep at night. And Daryl blamed it all on her. She had ruined him, and during the time at the prison Daryl had hated her for it, or at least he tried to convince himself he really did.

Three months after the fall of the prison, however, every time his new group was sitting around the fire, each person heating their 'claims' of the day, Daryl felt strangely homesick not being able to see her familiar face. A feeling he had only felt once before, after seeing his trailer and his mother in it burn to the ground. It seemed their separation began to eat at him. But even though he desperately hoped she had found a more respectable company than he had, Daryl also had to suppress the darkest feelings of fear and the mocking tone of his father's voice, telling him that she just might have found someone better than him. Deeply inhaling the cold night air in his longs, Daryl hoped for a quiet night and a dream of her to take his attention from his empty stomach away.

-The Claim-

She was still breathing even though there wasn't much of a life left for her. Roaming around, looking for food constantly, she did not feel so very different from the walkers anymore. Her wobbly legs moving themselves through the forest without knowing the direction they were headed. She was lost - so desperately lost in a labyrinth of trees and thoughts. Crisscrossing her way through bushes and streams, her mind tried to decipher the madness inside her brain.

She spent most of her days singing and talking to herself out of both boredom and loneliness. She had never hated the sound of her voice before. Not until she realised how monotonic her monologues sounded without there being someone else to converse with. She didn't know exactly how long it had been since she had last seen another breathing human being. She had tried counting the days at first but stopped at fifty, thinking it was too depressing and pointless to continue.

It was a sudden rustle of bushes that pulled her out of her train of negative thoughts. In the distance she could hear loud creatures talking and logs of wood cracking in a fire. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of heating flesh. Even though the brown leaves on the trees indicated autumn had arrived, the smell in the air reminded her of a BBQ on a summer's day in Georgia. Not being able to resist the tasteful scent, her light legs automatically brought her closer to the heat of the flames. Crouching behind some bushes, she silently observed the group around the campfire.

A silver haired man was making his way towards her. The girl imagined him being handsome a long time ago, but now the man's once good looks seemed cursed by a recent ugly knife wound and an ever presented sneer on his face. His almost animalistic facial features reminded her of those of a fox. She immediately knew this man was not to be trusted.

Crouching back a couple inches to hide her face in the shadows, she could hear the stranger unzip his pants before the unmistakable sound of pee pouring down the tree bark reached her ears. She scrunched her nose in disgust at the smell of fresh urine before letting her eyes scan the rest of the group sitting around the fire. She counted five other men who were binging on pig's feet while loudly commenting about a guy named Norman and his apparent lack of balls. By the side of the group appeared to be the subject of their tasteless joking, lying sleeping as far away from them as possible but still close enough to warm himself by the fire. She thought nothing of the sleeping man at first until her sight landed on his back. The girl's eyes widened in shock, seeing a familiar worn-down leather vest with a winged pattern. Her mind pondered on the possibility that someone had killed Daryl and stolen his stuff from his dead body. But then there was another, more hopeful part of her that considered the option that it could very well be the Hunter and that he really was lying eight feet away from her, alive and well. Too intrigued by the latter possibility, she leaned in closer to observe the winged man better all while making the dreadful mistake of placing her hands on a couple of rotten tree twigs on the ground. The girl inwardly cursed herself as the branches cracked under her weight.

She sighed in relief, however, when seeing that most men were left undisturbed by her clumsiness. The silver haired man seemed to be the only one bothered by the sudden cracking noise. His face wrinkling in distrust as he gazed around the dark forest. He failed to notice her sitting between the autumn leaves at first. The dirt on her face and her grimy clothes almost a perfect camouflage, but it was the blue in her eyes that gave her cover away. He stuttered mid-swear, his feet nailed to the ground as if they were unsure of what to do next. But after a moment of doubt the man moved in on her, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out of the bushes.

-The Claim-

"Who da fuck is this bitch?" All hopes for a quiet night vanished as Daryl heard Joe squeal the insulting question with a high pitched voice, dragging with him the body of a woman. "Found her in the bushes listening in on us."

Waves of shock coursed through Daryl's body as he saw Joe tightly holding onto a ghost of his past. Even though he had wished others had survived the raid of the Governor, he had never actually expected there still to be other survivors of the prison group, and least of all had he expected it to be her. He had just hoped the Governor's bullets and snarling walkers hadn't touched her. In utter shock, Daryl kept looking at her, hoping to catch sight of her familiar pair of blue eyes; she was too busy fighting Joe's wandering hands off to see one of the long lost prison companions gazing in wonder at her. "You better let me go or…," she warned with a persistent tone Daryl knew all too well.

"Or what?" Joe held her jaw painfully in his hand as he snarled in her face. Gradually being surrounded by a group of men, she faced each one of them with a fierce look. Her mask of bravery only faltered when her eyes fell on Daryl as she was unable to hide her unshed tears from his observant eyes. "Have you seen this bitch before?" Joe asked, noticing the Hunter's staring.

Daryl considered pretending not to know her. Not so much out of fear, but more so out of shame. Everything had changed when the prison had fallen. Even Daryl had changed. He had become the thing he very much despised, another 'Randall' who thought it was more convenient to look away from his group's actions when they were behaving out of control, again.

Plundering and murdering were only few of the daily activities undertaken by Joe's group. They called themselves 'The Claimers', a name that sounded like a group of friends, maybe sharing the same passion of betting on horses' races or some sort of other recreational activity, but Daryl knew it held a much deeper and more violent meaning than that. They were ferocious predators, hunting not just squirrels and rabbits but also on occasion bigger mammals, namely humans. When they had found him, bloodied and alone, Daryl had managed to negotiate himself out of death, selling himself as an asset for the group.

And as if cannibalism wasn't sick enough already, the Claimers always liked to play with their food before actually eating it. Women of all shapes and sizes had become victim of their violent behaviour. As women became rarer the farther north they went, the Claimers really were not that picky. Daryl had never participated in their little games before supper, of course, thinking it was wrong. But he had also never said anything about it or had done something to stop them, scared of what punishment would come to him.

Instead, Daryl ended the women's suffering while the other men were still in bliss over the piece of tail they had just caught. Most of them begged him to do it, as they lacked the strength to end their lives themselves. Some women were already dead before he got the chance to help them cross that final road.

He realised his old family would have disapproved of his behaviour in the new group, but Daryl felt he had no choice in the matter. He simply could not survive on his own anymore. And after all, surviving had always been Daryl's main goal in life. He might have lost both his brothers, Rick and Merle, but this apocalypse was not going to kill Daryl Dixon. Even if that meant he had to live with a different name and a different set of morals. Daryl was a born chameleon, willing to change his colours and blend in if it held the promise of survival. Looking over at her frightened and small figure, he wondered if she'd still remember who he used to be, as even Daryl had difficulties recalling the person he once was before joining The Claimers.

Blinking her eyes in confusion, her lips formed his name. "Da - Daryl," she mumbled as shock stopped her from pronouncing it fully the first time.

"No one here's called Daryl, sweetheart," the man teasingly whispered in her ear, "who's Daryl? That yer dead boyfriend? Does Normie here look like him, is that it?" Joe's hands patted Daryl's shoulders. Daryl had to control the urge to flinch at the intruding touch. He had lied when he had met The Claimers, out of reflex, not wanting to tell them something as personal as his real name. His grandfather's name, Norman, had been the first thing that came to mind. "Norman ain't particularly a looker, is he?" Joe loudly laughed before hitting Daryl on the back of the head. "Doesn't have the biggest brain either." The patronizing comment made Daryl's back hunch over in embarrassment and his hands tighten in annoyance. "What's your name, girlie?" Joe asked.

"Ariel." She whimpered in pain, lifting her small and wore down figure from the muddy forest ground. Her blue but disoriented eyes tried to settle on Daryl's. He was, however, too embarrassed to meet her questioning stare and kept his gaze averted.

"Like the Disney princess? How fitting." The silver haired man wickedly laughed, touching Ariel's dirty red locks before his eyes traced every inch of her figure.

"Please… I…" As fear had robbed her mind from any lucid thought, she could not form a full sentence. Her small plea was directed towards Daryl. Joe, however, felt personally addressed and responded in a rather inappropriately put soothing manner. "Don't be scared, doll. Joe's gonna treat you right." He whispered menacingly as the girl recoiled from his lingering finger tracing a tear on her cheekbone. "You look delicious." He said with a look of lust and something else she could not quite put her finger on. Was it hunger?

The lack of response on Daryl's part baffled her completely. She did not understand why he was with these men and why he was not helping her. Sure, Ariel and Daryl had not exactly been hanging out with each other at the prison. Karen had once joked to her that Daryl must have a crush on her for him to be acting so strangely towards her. Ariel, on the other hand, believed the man avoided her because he couldn't stand being near her. Whatever she had done to deserve this treatment was unclear to Ariel so she had hoped he would eventually grow out of his apparent dislike for her. But his reaction at the moment – or rather his lack of – proved how little he cared about her well-being. Another salty tear escaped her eyes and rolled down her cheek at the thought of Daryl hating her so much he couldn't care whether she lived or died. Little did she know that could not have been further from the truth.

"She's my girl." Daryl bravely spoke up as his old self made a reappearance. He knew he had to act quickly. It was now or never. "I claim her. Nobody touches her. This one's mine," he spat out the last word as it held a threatening promise, "She's all mine."

The Hunter, however, swiftly realised his mistake as he felt the burn of six pairs of distrusting eyes gazing at his back. After almost three months with this group but no successful hunts for human stock and zero attempted rapes on his name, Daryl was still considered a newbie and not quite yet fit to be part of 'The Claimers'. Furthermore, unlike how Rick had been, Joe did not allow Daryl to have a voice in his group.

"What did you say, pal?" Joe's eyebrows arched high as he challenged Daryl to undermine his leadership once more. "She's ours. Not yours. We've discussed the new rules with you last week. From now on we share all the cunts we find." That statement earned their fearless leader a lot of cheers in the background.

"You're right, Joe. She sure does look delicious." One of the men remarked as his hungry eyes feasted on the exposed flesh of Ariel's body, only briefly pausing at her in mud-covered breasts. Swallowing hard in fear, the girl looked in the direction of Daryl for his help and protection.

But he couldn't possibly help or protect Ariel in this situation. He was outnumbered. There was only one of him and six of them. Daryl Dixon wasn't a superhero, nor was he immortal or did he have more than two arms.

They both knew she wouldn't survive what would come next. Not mentally and not physically. Thousands of possible scenarios came to mind, none of which promising a happy ending for her. Regardless of his abrasiveness towards her at first, during their time spend together Daryl had grown to care for her deeply. More than he would ever be able to admit to himself out loud or even inside his own head. And he knew that unlike the other women, he wasn't going to be able to pretend that it wasn't happening to her. He was not going to be able to stand by and do nothing. He didn't want to hear her scream in pain and distress as the others were violating her, disgracing her in the most disgusting way imaginable.

So Daryl did the only thing he could. He bargained for her life in the same manner he had negotiated for his own. With reason and pleading, diplomacy at its finest, the same way Rick would have done it. "Joe, please… Let me have her. I really want her," Daryl insisted, "I ain't ever had one of my own. Always had to use my brother's leftovers. C'mon man, look at her. Ain't have much meat on her, anyway," he pointed to her skinny legs and protruding cheekbones, "I bet she's a real good cook and can do our laundry. She'd be more useful to us alive than dead." He continued his plea, getting zero reaction out of Joe. "Look, I'll hunt for you. ANYTHING you want me to hunt down, I will."

"Okay, Norman," Joe said after a tense moment of silence, "I want you really start hunting for big game. Not just squirrels and rabbits. I mean real food - people. I know what you've been doing, boy. You pretend not to see the human tracks, acting sloppy when I know you ain't the type to do so. And…"
"And?"

"If you hunt that bastard that killed Lou down, I'll tell my boys to leave your claim alone. We got a deal?" Joe asked, spitting in his hand and sticking it out.

"Deal." Daryl shook his hand, Joe's salvia gliding over his palm.

"Now fucking claim your bitch and then take her to your tent." Joe smirked, but before Daryl was able to walk away from him, he tightened his grip on Daryl's hand, "If she runs…. It will be your meat on a stick we'll be warming up, ya hear? Get her a leash or beat some discipline in her. I don't care how you do it but keep her close by you. We both know Len ain't one for listening to commands."

Daryl nodded, his feet already walking in the direction of the group of wolfs surrounding Ariel. He wiped Joe's spit of his palm before connecting it to Len's sweaty neck. Like the filthy animal he was, Daryl pulled Len close by his collar and hissed in his ear. "Don't fucking touch my claim."

"Da fuck, man? She's ours." Len turned around, pushing Daryl back a bit.

"No, I claimed her. She's mine," Daryl pushed Len back with equal force, "And if I ever see yer perverted eyes dwelling on her again, I'm gonna make you a blind man, ya hear?" Daryl yelled as he held Ariel's hand tightly in his. The disgraced cop, who had pressed her up against the tree only minutes before her saviour's arrival, seemed rather unimpressed by Daryl's anger.

"You're interrupting me." Len mumbled with a look that most men would find intimidating. The effect it had on Daryl Dixon, however, was one of an infuriating kind rather than frightening.

"That was the point," he hissed in the man's face, "Ya don't need to get all handsy pansy with the girl. She ain't yours."

"We ain't done. I promise ya that." Len said to her with a smirk before walking off with his tail between his legs. Ariel swallowed down a pit of fear as his statement felt more like a threat than an actual promise.

"Looks like Norma got herself a girlfriend." One of the other men, Dan, joked with a snarl on his face.

With sturdy steps, Daryl walked away from the Claimers, dragging Ariel by the hand across the field to his tent. As her eyes focused on his wings, she tried to ignore the vulgar laughter of the malicious men in the background. "Ya best not forget that promise ya made me, boy!" Joe yelled after Daryl's disappearing figure. "Cuz I sure as hell won't."