I'm finally back with a new story-Full of Grace. This is about Beth Greene, who has always captured my interest. I think it's time to delve into her head a bit. So a few notes, before we start-this story is a character study-it's not a romance. There will be no romance of any kind in these pages-in keeping with my withered up, shriveled heart.

Also: and this is important-this fic comes with a strong trigger warning. It frankly discusses violent themes, sexual and otherwise. It won't be graphic, but it will continually return to these themes. If you are concerned that would upset you, you shouldn't read the fic. I don't want to cause you any distress or anxiety. If you aren't sure if you should read it, you can PM me and I can answer any questions you have.

One last thing: I'm really extremely sorry if I haven't gotten back to you and you've messaged me-I've been having some bad bouts of illness and anxiety (and illness caused by anxiety). I have found it really hard to keep up with my inbox. But I do read all your messages and would especially love to hear what you think about this new offering. I value everything you have to say and I very much want to hear what you think about my work.

It's been a long time since I've written much, and it's time for me to start again. Here we go.

The Tree That Owns Itself

Beth stared at her hands.

She'd lost track of how many days had passed since she'd escaped from the men who took her. A week. Maybe two. She didn't know. But regardless of how long it'd been, her hands were still just mangled. Covered in cuts, and deep scratches. Gouges from the splinters she'd had to work out, bit by bit, after she escaped. The scabs still cracked, sometimes—opened up and oozed blood and left stains on her skin.

Those wounds were deep—so deep that Beth had no idea how long they'd take to heal.

Some of her split fingernails were starting to grow out, by now—the bruised skin underneath left heavy marks on them, like the rings you see on a tree stump. The narrow ones that mark a bad winter.

And her right index finger—that was the worst. She'd lost the entire fingernail, there. Ripped it straight off, trying to get out of their trap. It was only just starting to grow back in, now. A pale sliver, sprouting from the bloody quick like a little, crescent moon.

Beth looked away. Wanted to forget about her hands for a while, if she could. Leaned against the attic window, and looked out over the night. Over the still buildings—just shadowed lumps in the distance, following the contours of the hills.

And she hummed to herself. Listened to the sound of her voice echoing off the rough beams above her head.

As the sun went down, Beth started to notice some lights in the distance.

They were way down the hill, at the edge of town. Hazy and dim, through the film of dirt on the tiny, porthole window.

She pressed close against the glass. Stared past the shadowed clusters of rooftops, and down towards those lights. There were pretty faint, clustered together in a few, far-away windows. Probably Coleman lanterns, or something—turned down low.

Someone was down there—more than one someone. She thought they might be in the church—Beth could see the faint outline of the bell tower against the night sky. The windows had a gothic curve to them—the light showed them in fine relief against the darkness.

A church would be a nice place to spend the night. Pretty. All that cool, grey stone and open space. She imagined that if you got up real close, the lights would make the stained-glass windows glow.

Her attic was nothing like that—the place was ugly, and musty, and hot. But that was ok. She had to remind herself about what was important. It was isolated. Sheltered.

Safe.

In any case, those people were way down there and she was hidden away up here—so Beth figured she could just ignore the lights in the church, for now. She turned away from the window. Got up, and paced the room. Saw her own shadow on the floorboards, flickering in the glow of her single, tea-light candle.

And Beth wandered around. Tried to distract herself. Listened to her boots as they made the planks creak. Stepped around boxes and trunks and musty, old things in dropcloths—all stacked up in piles, under the low-pitched roof. Tried to be careful not to hit her head on the sagging insulation, and the old beams.

She used to love attics, as a kid. On rainy days, when she couldn't go outside to play, she'd make Shawn and Maggie take her up in the one at home. There were things to explore up there, and it was a great spot for games.

Her favorite had been hide-and-seek, back then.

And it struck her, a moment. Even though Beth wasn't a little kid, anymore, she was still hiding, up here.

It wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

Beth rifled through a cedar chest, up in that attic—looking for the stuff to build a bed for the night.

Chests like that always seemed to hold the same kind of stuff—linens and towels and sheets and blankets. It was like they grew inside those things. Like you could put in a single pillowcase, and years later, if you opened it up again, there'd be a whole garden of sheets and napkins and hand-knotted lace. They'd just sprout there, all on their own.

And there was quite a harvest in the trunk Beth opened. Almost right away, she found an old quilt—thickly tufted, sewn by hand, and covered with blooming flowers. It was carefully folded on top of some tablecloths. Had a name embroidered on one corner:

"Sally Lee Schwartz – 1952"

Beth touched the lettering, there. Traced the threads, where they'd been pulled carefully into place some sixty years ago. Tried to ignore the split nails on her fingers, when she did it. The bloody scrapes.

Beth swallowed, hard. Rested her hand on the quilt.

"Thanks, Sally," she said.

And when she'd made her nest, Beth went to curl up in it. Stopped to take off her boots. She'd been on her own for a long, long time, now—and she was sick of sleeping with her boots on. Of being ready to run at any second. And she'd blocked the trap door with some heavy boxes—no one could get at her, up here. Not without making a good deal of noise, first.

And those boots were hot. Sticky. Made it hard to sleep.

Beth figured she deserved some comfort.

And as she put her boots aside, the lights down the hill caught her eye, again—just for a second, before she turned away.

She nestled into Sally's quilt. Tried to cushion her head with her arms. Looked at her wrists, resting there in front of her face—pale in the flicker of her tiny candle.

The wounds from the ropes were still raw, there—angry and red. They almost completely hid the scars she had, from that time she'd tried to kill herself.

Beth sighed. She'd been so stupid, back then.

Then she rolled over. Blew out her candle, and tried to fall asleep.

The next morning, Beth decided to leave town.

She couldn't stop thinking about the church down the hill. If the people were still there. How many there were, and what they were like.

But it didn't matter. She couldn't stay here. It wasn't safe.

So she got herself ready, and headed out around dawn. Moved through the side streets, trying to slip away to the edge of town without being noticed.

Her plan was to avoid the church, altogether. But somehow... she found herself drifting towards it. Got closer and closer to the thing. It was like her feet just headed that way, without express permission from the rest of her body.

And the closer she got, the more tempted she was to look around. To see. Just to see who might be there.

I'll just slip around it. Real fast—and real quiet. I'll see what's there, and then I'll keep going.

She was almost embarrassed by it. By wanting to look. And there was a part of her—a part way down deep—that thought it could be some of her friends. Maggie. Glenn. Daryl. It might be them.

It just might be…

Because Daryl told her something, one night, after he'd started being nicer to her. He told her about the scouting trips he'd made with Michonne—when they were looking for The Governor together, last winter. And on one of the longest ones, he said they'd made it out this way—all the way up to Athens. A good fifty miles from the prison.

The place had some pretty good supplies, he said. Most of them hadn't been looted, yet, 'cause of the herds last summer. They drove the people off. But those herds had long since moved on, and left the place empty—except for the stragglers.

And Daryl—he told Beth he'd bring her up the highway, and take her there. That he'd find somewhere for them to live, for a while.

"Who knows?" he'd said, at the time, as he leaned in to stoke their campfire, "Maybe Michonne told some of the others 'bout it. So… maybe… maybe they'll be there, too."

Maybe.

It's why she'd come here, if she was honest with herself. Not just to this church—but to the town. She'd walked for days. For miles. Been through so much, just because he told her that story by the fireside.

Maybe she was still a little stupid, after all.

Beth looked down the road. At the neat rows of trees on either side. The morning light making the shadows pool on the asphalt.

She shifted her pack on her shoulder, and kept heading down the street.

When she was almost at the church, Beth saw something.

She tensed up. Drew her knife, and inched forward.

A walker. An emaciated, bony thing with long, scraggly hair. She guessed it had been a woman, once—though it was hard to tell.

She didn't want it to hear her coming. There was only one, and it looked pretty weak, but there was no reason to take chances.

The thing was looking away from her. Beth slipped along as quietly as she could, and came up close.

And she grabbed the back of its shoulder and lunged hard—drove the knife up into its brain from the base of the neck. Yanked the blade free, and watched it fall. Looked down at it, sprawled there on the pavement, as she caught her breath.

"I'm sorry," she said.

And she looked around. The rest of the street was silent. And she was standing under the branches of a big, white oak—one planted neatly in the center of a traffic circle, there. There was a plaque, at the base of that tree. She stepped over the body on the ground, and made her way over to read it:

The Tree That Owns Itself

For and in Consideration
Of the Great Love I Bear
This Tree and the Great Desire
I have for its Protection
For All Time, I Convey Entire
Possession of Itself and
All Land Within Eight Feet
Of The Tree on All Sides

William H. Jackson

She looked up at the branches, and whispered the name up into them:

"The tree that owns itself…"

She remembered that name. Knew it. Two summers ago, Beth's daddy told her all about that tree. He did it while they were clearing all the old storage boxes out of the barn.

They needed that space for something different, just then. It had to be completely cleared, because they were going to put Mom and Shawn in there.

When Mom and Shawn turned, Otis shut them up in the back bedroom. Locked the door, and barricaded it with Mom's old china cabinet. But Mom and Shawn… from the moment he put them inside, they'd both been trying to break out. At the time, it gave Beth this sinking feeling. She worried it was because they wanted to get at the rest of the family. To bite them.

In any case, nobody could sleep with the sound of them thud-thud-thudding away like that. Beating at the door with their hands. And after a while, it got so you couldn't pay attention to anything else.

Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud. All day. All night.

So they needed to move them into the barn. They had to.

And besides—it looked like Mom and Shawn might have some company, real soon. More than would fit in a back bedroom.

Just that morning, Otis said he saw Mr. Richards walking around in one of the outer fields. Said he looked like he was sick—just like Mom and her big brother.

And that wasn't safe. If they left him out there, Mr. Richards might bite someone. Hurt them, and make them sick. And the way he was—out in the elements, just aimlessly wandering around… he might hurt himself, too. Might fall and get cut, or break a bone.

So they had to do something about it.

Otis and Jimmy were out trying to round him up—used some of the catch poles from her daddy's office. The ones they had to control the bigger animals, when they needed to. Maggie and Patricia were busy somewhere else—seeing to the horses, if Beth remembered right. And that—that left Beth and Daddy to clear out the barn.

And that place—it was just crammed with old things nobody really needed, anymore. A lot of it was her grandpa's stuff—old newspapers. A couple rusty bicycles. Outdated farm equipment. A big collection of Betamax tapes in cardboard boxes.

And then there were some old Life Magazines. Beth looked at the one on top of the bundle, a moment. And that tree—that same tree was on the cover.

The tree that owns itself.

"Hey, Daddy," she'd said, holding up the picture for him to see, "What's this mean? How can a tree own itself?"

He came over, and gave it a good look.

"Oh right, I remember this," he said, leaning over her shoulder, "Well… I suppose everyone thinks it's earned it. That tree was growing there before anyone 'round these parts owned much of anything. Since the sixteen-hundreds, at least."

"Wow… it's that old?"

"Well, it is and it isn't," Daddy said, kneeling down beside her. And she realized he'd gotten his story-telling voice out. The special one he saved just for her. And she almost smiled, then—forgot why they were moving all this stuff to begin with.

She always loved hearing his stories.

"The tree fell over, once, back in the forties," Daddy said, laying his hand on her shoulder, "Actually—the poor thing toppled the week I was born."

He looked down at the picture of the tree, in her hands:

"That's why your grandmother kept the magazine."

"So it's gone, now?"

She could tell she sounded a little disappointed.

"No, honey—no, they planted one of the acorns. And it sprouted up, again, and it's still there, now."

"It's as old as you," she said. Looked to him. And she couldn't hold it in, anymore—the smile broke out of her. She beamed at him.

And Daddy—despite everything he had to worry about, he smiled back. Reached in close, and patted her cheek, gently.

"Ok, Bethy," he said, "There's a lot to do. Let's keep on hauling this stuff to the basement."

And now—two summers later—Beth stood under the tree—the second tree. The one planted when her daddy was born.

All of that at the barn. It seemed like lifetimes ago. Like it happened to completely different people. They'd all been so wrong about everything, when this thing started. Thought Mom and Shawn were sick. Thought there was hope.

It wasn't just Beth—they'd all been stupid, then.

She shifted her bag on her shoulder. Felt the wounds on her hands complain as she adjusted the strap. Thought about the walker she'd just taken out—how long it must've been out here, waiting to kill or be killed.

She paused a moment. Knelt down and grabbed one of the acorns. Didn't know why she did it, exactly.

It just seemed like a good idea.

And as she slipped it into her pocket, Beth looked up to the tree—its branches. Talked to it like it was an actual person. Like it could hear her:

"You're wrong," she said, "I'm sorry… but you are."

She got up. Turned to walk away.

"Nothin' owns itself."

She could see the church, now. And part of her—part of her knew this whole thing was stupid. She shouldn't get close.

But she snuck forward, anyway. Slipped along the edge of the road, against a row of forsythia bushes. And before she knew it, she was in front of the building. Looking up at the grey stone from the wrong side of the iron fence.

The church looked empty. The grass was tall and uncut. Nothing was moving. There was a bell tower—but it was burned out and crumbled. The rest looked pretty much ok.

Someone might be in there. Maybe.

Maybe not.

She scanned the yard—noticed something on the far side—half-hidden in the grass. Walked over to check it out.

Spools of concertina wire. Someone had brought those, here. Someone who wanted to fortify the fence.

"You're plannin' to stay," she whispered.

She inched around the corner, and started moving along the side of the building. Started hearing something, in the distance.

The sound of a hammer—someone working in the yard. Her heart lurched, and she slipped back a bit—against the bushes. Crouched down low. Tried to make sure she wouldn't be seen.

Here at the side, there were a row of pikes worked in between the bars on the fence—buried deep in the dirt and angled out, so they'd catch any walkers who ran onto them.

They had fences at the prison, like that.

But no. No. She wasn't stupid. Not anymore. She wasn't going to think that way.

It was too dangerous. She had to go. And Beth was about to turn away and head off, when she noticed the statue in the yard—half-buried in the grass, off by the far edge of the fence.

It was the Virgin Mary. And someone had dropped a beaten-up, old sheriff's hat over her head.

It was too big for the statue. Covered her whole face. Right down to her outstretched arms, poking out under the brim. It practically swallowed her up—made it so she was completely blindfolded.

Beth stared at it. The hat. Her lips twitched. It didn't seem real.

"Carl…"

She whispered his name to herself. Reached out towards it, as if she could touch the thing, way on the other side of the fence.

And in that moment, she heard his voice. Carl. She'd know it anywhere. He said something to someone, and laughed.

Beth spun towards the sound. Started moving faster.

"Carl," she said—a little louder. She was having trouble speaking. Could barely get the word out.

And there he was. Standing next to Daryl, with one of those pikes in hand. Getting ready to plant it, there, on the other side of the fence.

Neither of them saw her—not right away. So she just looked at them. Took it in. Carl turning to Daryl—pointing to the ground. Asking him for something they needed, lying there in the grass.

And she bit her lip. Felt it trembling. Swallowed, hard. Just seeing them made her want to cry.

Her voice cracked a bit, as she tried to speak up, again:

"Carl."

He looked up, and froze in place. Daryl looked up a moment later.

And for a second, nobody said anything. She felt the tears in her eyes, and smiled.

Carl sprang to life in an instant.

"Beth!" he shouted—and all at once, he took off running—out to the gate, so he could get to her. It was on the other side of the building, so after a few seconds, he disappeared around a corner.

And she and Daryl were alone.

She looked him over. He really looked… the same. Same as ever. He had one of those pikes in one hand—a hammer in the other.

"Daryl," she said. Stepped forward.

He didn't say anything. Didn't look at her. Was staring down—into the grass. Wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Daryl… I—"

Carl slammed into her side, and all at once, there were a pair of arms wrapped around her. And she forgot all about Daryl, then. Tensed in Carl's grip.

Beth didn't realize it, but she let go of her bag, and it slid down her arm, onto the ground.

Nobody had touched her since she escaped. Her throat tightened, and her mind was a grey blur.

"Oh my God, Beth…" Carl said, "It's you."

Somehow—hearing her own name, like that… It started bringing Beth back to herself. She swallowed the tension, turned, and wrapped her arms around him.

And it was good. It was Carl.

Someone she knew. Someone she loved.

She felt the tears running down her face, but she didn't pull back to wipe them away.

"I never thought I'd see you again," she whispered. And Carl—he buried his face against her shoulder. In her hair. Clung tight.

As they talked, they didn't look at each other. Just held each other close.

"And Maggie…" Beth said, "Maggie and Glenn… are they—"

"—Yeah—yeah, they're here. They're ok. Some of us—some of us are."

He trailed off, a moment. So she just held him. Felt the weight of him—warm and solid against her. He was even taller, now, than she remembered. Stronger.

"God, Beth… so much's happened since the prison… and how'd you find us? I mean, we thought—we thought you were dead."

And she looked past his shoulder, then. Over through the fence. Daryl was still standing there, just where he'd been when she walked up. He still had that pike in his hand, and the hammer. Just stood there with them, and didn't move.

Behind him, she heard a door opening. Voices. The others were coming out. They'd heard the commotion in the yard.

And suddenly, she wasn't as excited as she was before. What Carl said echoed in her mind:

We thought you were dead.

They'd given up on her long ago—as she knew they would. Of course they would. They had to. There was no other option, in this world.

So now… now they'd want to know everything. Maggie would. Glenn would. They'd want to know everything that happened.

Why she wasn't dead.

It sank in, and dulled the giddy thrill that had been coursing through her. They'd ask questions. They'd want to know.

And she must look terrible. She couldn't remember the last time she'd bathed. She was caked with dirt. Blood from the walkers. Blood from her wounds. None of that seemed so important when she was alone.

Beth touched Carl's hair—tried to comfort herself. But she remembered those marks on her wrists while she did it. The heavy, blood-caked lesions seared deep into her hands.

She remembered them, and knew Daryl was watching. Knew the others would see them, soon after.