Two of my favorite tv shows in one fanfic! I adore the Walking Dead and Merlin, and I really wanted to put these two fandoms together. I really hope you all enjoy it:)

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Walking Dead or Merlin. They belong to their rightful owners.

He felt a gentle tug pull the sides of his mouth up in a triumphant smirk as he pressed down on the trigger, watching as the arrow whistled through the air with unwavering confidence that it would not fail to reach its target. The sound of his weapon imbedding itself in the squirrel, tearing through the flesh of their future meal, and the sharp thud indicating the arrowhead hit wood reached his ears, and with a soft click of his tongue, he urged Nelly forward to retrieve his prize. Once the squirrel was securely attached to his belt, he set forward once more.

Blue-grey eyes narrowed his fierce concentration, glancing at his surroundings. The little girl was still out there, and she could have passed through here. He examined the woods with careful thoroughness, his eyes scanning the forest floor, the bark on the trees, the leaves, searching for any sign of a disturbance that could indicate the little girl's whereabouts.

He wasn't sure how he managed to find it, but upon jumping down off Nelly's back and trekking his way down the hill toward the river for a closer look at the familiar looking object, he knew his eyes weren't deceiving him.

Sophia's doll.

His pace increased slightly as he moved forward, reaching down and picking up the soaked doll. The fabric was filthy and tearing slightly, water dripping from the ends. He looked up, searching. Was she somewhere nearby?

"Sophia!" he called out, a small, lingering hope in the back of his mind, no matter how illogical it was, that she could hear him. There was no reply.

A newfound determination filling him, he turned around and went back to the tied up mare.

He continued on horseback for a while, eventually coming upon a steep cliff. A few birds squaked and disappeared in a flurry of feathers at his approach. Nelly snorted nervously, bucking her head back, away from the cliff and the noise.

"Hey, hey , whoaaa. C'mon girl," he soothed, pulling the reins away from the cliff, steering the mare to walk parallel to it. He continued his search, eyes narrowed, hips moving in tandem with Nelly's sway.

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming.

For all the grief he had given Andrea before about her lack of observing skills, for all he had done in order to build up that reputation he had with the group of being the most observant, he really should have seen it coming. But he had stupidly kept his eyes up, opting to stare off into the trees toward his right, instead of paying attention to what was in front of him.

And he hadn't seen the snake until he was already halfway off of Nelly's saddle, the mare neighing in a mortified panic as she and reared and bucked furiously, successfully throwing him off on her second try.

The snake slithered away, unharmed, as he tumbled down the cliff.

Every impact his body made going down the cliff, every time a limb or his head met the ground, a tree branch, a stump, a rock, everything was met with a wild, pained gasp. And he could not for the life of him stop his rapid descent down the cliff, his hands surely cut up and bloody from his attempts. A scathing, white-hot flash of pure agony struck with such a fierceness in his side that he wanted to cry out, to scream, but yet another tumble prevented this, and he could only gasp as the air was knocked out of him.

He didn't know when his fall turned wet, but there he was, no longer tumbling but sliding down a slippery rock, water from a nearby waterfall soaking the rock and drenching him. Again, he couldn't stop his fall, his hands slipping and sliding every time he tried.

All he could do was brace himself for the end.

It came a lot quicker than he anticipated, the strong impact once again leaving him breathless, a strong form of suffocation overcoming him as the water splashed in his face and came up past his ears, leaving him gasping in the shallow end of the river.

"Son of a bitch!" he hissed, eyes clenched together as he realized what the source of the pain in his side was.

One of his arrows had pierced him.

Groaning and panting, he lifted his head up to inspect the damage. It had gone through clean, but he knew he had to act fast; the reddening water around him indicated his rapid loss of blood.

With a loud cry that sounded more like a whimper, Daryl dragged himself to his feet, hand propped up on his side to try to slow down the blood flow. Cautiously, he waded into the deeper water, doing his best to not let the current shift his balance. He stumbled the last few steps, gasping in agony.

His knees on the shore, he reached back and pulled out his knife, turning it towards his sleeves and splitting them from the seams. Using as much strength as he could, he took the sleeves and make a makeshift tourniquet, knowing it wasn't much, but it was all he could do until he returned back to Hershel's farm.

But before he could think about returning, he needed his crossbow.

He glanced around frantically, searching for his prime weapon. Seeing that it was not in sight, Daryl knew that left one other option: it was in the river. Teeth clenched and brows furrowed together tightly, he staggered over to the nearby trees, hoping to find a branch of some sort to use as a staff. Fortunately, he did not have to look long; he pull out a long, straight branch that he was sure could hold his weight. Huffing, he turned back to the water.

Finding his crossbow was a harder task than he thought it would be; he used the branch as a guide, skimming the lake river bed with it, trying to see if it would hit anything hard. However, this was done in the deepest part of the river, so he struggled to keep his balance, the branch serving a second purpose for this, and trying not to strain his injury. When he finally did find his crossbow and pulled it out of the depths of the river, he waded back to shore.

A strange bubbling sound made him halt, already in the shallow part of the river. The bubbling grew louder and louder, and cautiously Daryl turned to look behind him.

He wasn't expecting the river to bubble furiously as if boiling at the spot in which he had retrieved his crossbow, nor for the head that surfaced in the middle.

"Oh shit!" Daryl gasped, throwing his crossbow onto the dry shore in his haste to go back into the river. His injury flared and throbbed in protest, but he could only focus on one thing: someone needed his help, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let him drown.

The water slowed his movements dramatically, and his injury wasn't helping, but he pushed his body forward, swimming with harsh strokes as he noticed the man's head sinking. He cursed and dove into the water, blindly searching for the man with his hands, swimming and searching.

His hands brushed against something… metal? He kicked forward and identified an arm and he kicked upward, a deep, wild gasp leaving him as he gulped in the oxygen he desperately needed. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he glanced at the unconscious man in his arms as he struggled to pull him back to shore. Was he wearing…. armor?

Explains why the hell he's so heavy, Daryl thought darkly, grunting and groaning with the effort as he pulled the man closer and closer to shore, trying his hardest to not add any more strain than he already did to his injury. Unfortunately, his heroic action seemed to take a large toll on him; he was starting to see black at the edge of his vision.

One last heave and they were on the narrow, shallow area of the river, where he laid the man down. His blonde hair looked very brown from being soaked, and he looked young. But what Daryl couldn't fathom was why on earth he was wearing armor, of all things.

"Oh God, c'mon," Daryl hissed, crawling forward and beginning to take off the armor. Miraculously, he somehow managed to remove it, and threw it aside, revealing a dark red tunic in its place. Daryl placed his head on the man's chest. He found a faint heartbeat, but without the man breathing it wouldn't be beating much longer.

"C'mon," he urged, placing the heel of his hand in the middle of his chest, his other hand interlacing with the first, and began to do compressions. "Come on!" He counted 30 compressions, and no change. With a growl, he tilted the man's head back, pinching his nostrils shut and covered his mouth with his own. His breath caused the man's chest to rise, but still the man wouldn't wake. Daryl moved his head to the side, drew in a deep breath and repeated the process.

He moved to do compressions again when a wave of strong fatigue hit him. He blinked rapidly as the black around his vision began to draw in even more, shaking his head rapidly. The arrow in his side was finally showing its full effect, and the blood he lost was slowing his movements, making him sluggish and drowsy.

"No, no, no," Daryl muttered, blinking his eyes rapidly, shaking his head. "No, come on!"

Adrenaline filled him as he placed his hands on the man's chest again, continuing the compressions.

6...7….8….

"C'mon!"

14...15...16….

"Come on!"

21...22 -

The man spluttered, coughing and hacking, water spewing past his lips as he tried to clear his lungs. Daryl almost collapsed in relief. The man beat at his chest, deep, rumbling coughs leaving him as the last of the water left him and he was gulping down air. Daryl softly hit the man's back with a closed fist, helping him ride out the last of the ordeal.

His arm fell, and Daryl fell with it, collapsing to his side as the darkness darted across his vision, the pain in his side almost unbearable to deal with consciously. The man, fully aware of his company by then, was staring at him with wide eyes, and he moved forward, placing a freezing, still-wet hand on Daryl's bare arm.

Daryl voice came out in a mutter, as his vision began to turn blurry.

"Who… Who the hell are you s'pposed to be?"

The man, startled at Daryl's voice, jumped and stammered, "I'm- I-I'm Arthur."

Daryl gasped as his side struck another agonizing blow. "Well, Arthur, you're freakin' welcome."

His voice was weak, and his vision was leaving him. The last thing he saw was Arthur's wide, cerulean-blue eyes before he succumbed to the darkness.