AN: This is the first chapter of the little preview fic I posted yesterday. As you can see we now have a title! This fic takes place after the events of twd 404 Indifference - all you team carol, team daryl and most importantly TEAM CARYLERS out there will know immediately what this means! ;) I'm just starting on this ship because up until three weeks ago I'd never watched a single episode of the Walking Dead. then I began watching season four up to the second episode - after having seen a three-minute summary of the previous three seasons. I was hooked, and figured that I HAD TO watch the previous seasons, because it would just be meaningless and incomplete. So that's what I did. Went on a marathon and watched them all, then caught up to Indifference earlier this week and *SIGH*. I'm a Caryler all the way. I have too many feels right now to even begin to contemplate the enormity of what went down and what will most likely go down because of it - aka when the shit hits the fan. The reason I told you this is because I've barely read any fics out there so if this plot is in any way suspiciously similar to another author's story, I apologise in advance.
I wanted to thank the very sweet first four reviewers who posted their thoughts even though this fic had no title and was just a snippet, never mind a whole first chapter. I hope you all get a bigger kick out of reading the first part of the real deal ;)
Disclaimer: because obviously if the fate of Caryl rested in my hands and I had copyrights, the whole ship would be so beyond canon there would only be weepings of joy all over the world.
Of a darker fire, the stars burned
PART I
I find the map and draw a straight line,
Over rivers, farms and state-lines,
The distance from here to where you'd be,
it's only finger-lengths that I see,
I touch the place where I'd find your face,
My fingers in creases,
Of distant dark places,
I hang my coat up in the first bar,
There is no peace that I've found so far,
The laughter penetrates my silence,
As drunken men find flaws in science,
Their words, mostly noises,
Ghosts with just voices,
Your words in my memory,
Are like music to me,
I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground, I
I pray that something picks me up,
And sets me down in your warms arms.
{Set the fire to the third bar, Snow Patrol ft. Martha Wainwright}
Day 225
Run was successful. Medicine was handed out to those in need.
Hershel says they can only wait and have faith that this too shall pass.
Glenn is one of their own, but he's a tough kid, he'll pull through.
(She does not answer.)
It's a good thing that Michonne finally understood that she doesn't need to go out there looking for the Governor any more.
Lil Ass Kicker has put on more weight, and now she's getting to be real hefty. She's recognising voices and faces and has her favourites among those who hold her, who cuddle with her, who look after her.
(Her face when she held her was so tender.) There's a pang in his chest; a hitch in his breathing.
Rick –
But no, he ain't going there. Too much heartache lies there. And he's okay: he's gotta be.
(No, no, no.)
His crossbow strung securely on his shoulder, he hoists himself into watch tower three. It's his nest.
The others won't know this, but it will be many hours before he will descend and mingle with them again.
Day 226 – nearly.
There is a certain series of smell that he immediately looks for, does not find, and misses.
The cooking, for one.
He has a little leftover bread that had been baked painstakingly two days previously. It was nothing special. It had some herbs in it, and those little dried tomatoes he liked so much. It was a small loaf – barely bigger than a roll. He'd wondered over to the cooking site straight after the confinement of those who'd come down with the sickness. The bread was coming out and she was placing it on various trays, just about anything she could use. It smelled fucking wonderful.
She saw him out of the corner of her eye, but didn't turn. The reason he knew she'd seen him was because her spine straightened subtly and the muscles around her mouth relaxed into that quirky little smile she seemed to reserve for one or two people.
(Really, it was just for him, but this he does not acknowledge.)
He'd braced himself with his palms down onto the counter, looking over all the bread loaves she'd taken out. He said something to her – about them smelling good maybe. One or two looked a little overcooked. This he did not point out. She was busy, (so was he, they were always busy), but he knew she liked having him near every now and again when things were slowing down (he secretly liked their quiet moments, but he wouldn't tell her this.)
She'd straightened, looked over her work, and sighed in satisfaction. 'A good haul; should last us for three days if we're careful.' He doesn't remember what went on after that.
He takes the little loaf of bread she'd wrapped up in a flowery hanky only the Lord knew where she'd found it, and given it to him.
He'd looked into her eyes, silent, small smile – they didn't need more than this to understand each other.
He'd told her the girls, Mika and Lizzie, were safe and settled well, all things considered. She'd remained quiet, a sombre pensive look on her face, then walked into him and put her arms around him. His eyes had closed slowly and he'd put his own arm around her. The smell of baked bread and warm, caring woman had engulfed him. He'd given himself four seconds to inhale it and savour the closeness, then he'd stepped back, picked up his wrapped up loaf and walked towards the block, whistling a tune.
Three days later, the loaf of bread is still soft enough to be easily chewed. When he unwrapped it from the hanky and brought it up to his nose to smell, his reaction to the scent was shockingly powerful. He unconsciously closed his eyes and in his mind's eye saw her face, tired and worried, and her storm-cloud eyes looking at his with that little gleam. He remembered that embrace, the feel of their bodies pressed together, the faint flowery scent of her short hair, and the wiry strength in those arms.
'Daryl.'
He hurriedly opened his eyes and put the bread down. Her breath ghosting over his throat – he could almost believe he'd really felt it just now. His gut tightened and his fingers clasped the hilt of his knife. They squeezed it rhythmically and then he started tapping the pointed end on the ground.
He carefully re-wrapped the hanky around the little loaf of bread and stashed it into his backpack. The night was quiet and he felt the call of the wild; but tonight there was no answering call within him. Tonight, it was silent.
Day 238
(And I heard your voice, as clear as day, and you told me I should concentrate. It was oh so strange and so surreal.)
Subtly the dynamics of the tightly-knit group – the family – had shifted once more.
Daryl Dixon was a standing pillar of strength and as vital as food and safety. He was the provider. He was the protector. He was the fighter.
Rick tried to draw him into discussions or just plain conversations. At the beginning of their acquaintance there'd been nothing but barely restrained violence at best. Then came the mutual respect; they'd established a close relationship, brothers-in-arms. They knew they could depend on each other. They were both the strongest and most capable of the men along with Glenn in their group, and this made it easier for the bond to be forged.
Daryl Dixon had always been taciturn at best, a man of few words. He would open his mouth and people around him would immediately know that whatever he would say would be worth hearing.
Nowadays, Rick talked to Daryl.
Daryl nodded his head brusquely, shook his head minutely, and stalked off pretty soon, a grimace on his face as though he'd tasted something rancid. Rick on the other hand would always look at him walking away with veiled regret.
Theirs was a pack. In nature, wolf packs were structured in much the way their group was. There was the alpha – the head dog who decided what's what – his beta, the second-in-command, and then all the way down to the hunters of the group, the caretakers of the pups, and then the weakest in terms of rank, the omegas.
In the last few weeks their group had found it necessary to re-structure itself in order to fill in the empty place of Carol Peletier. This reverberated all the way throughout the larger community of people who lived in the prison.
Daryl Dixon might not be officially the alpha; the role of the beta had always suited him best within the team's dynamics. He'd always followed Rick's lead.
Today Daryl Dixon was closer to being a lone wolf. He fulfilled his role and the necessary jobs that were his alone; but he'd distanced himself from the head of the pack.
Very few saw this shift in ranks, Daryl's behaviour at large, and understood it for what it was.
Hershel Greene was one of them.
He'd once studied wolf packs in the harsh forests of the north, on a work placement for summer straight out of college – way before he met his wife and settled down.
All the behaviours that Daryl was (probably unconsciously) exhibiting fit in with a certain kind of wolf. The wolf that lost its mate. Withdrawn from the rest of the pack, its steps towards protecting it and keeping up with survival … mechanical at best. Like an automaton.
Hershel saw this, and was worried. Dogs that had been caught in a trap wouldn't let you help them. They'd snap at your hand sooner than letting you near 'em.
Worst of it was, Daryl was in pain, but Rick tiptoed around him in a way that made Hershel think that he expected the other man to one day snap out of it. Like he didn't need to do anything about it, because one day Rick would wake up and all would be right as it was.
There was one fundamental flaw in his way of thinking though: wolves sooner or later became mated pairs again, for the survival of the ranks, for the survival of the pack itself. Daryl Dixon was no wolf. Once mated, his kind mated for life. And unlike Rick's deluded thinking, there was no convenient turning back of the clock to be had.
Essentially it came down to this – the day Rick exiled Carol Peletier, the group lost not one member, but two. Daryl was physically here with them. But his heart was no longer with them. It likely roamed the wild plains outside the prison in search of his lost mate.
Hershel knew it in his aching bones. There was no coming back from this.
What Rick did…it couldn't be undone. The true consequences of his actions that day were yet to manifest themselves – but when they did, it could go very badly for their family. He prayed. He did it quietly, at night before bedtime, when he was alone and could simply be. He prayed for their group, for Daryl who had lost his chosen life mate, and for Carol…wherever her soul may be.
- cherokeerose - - cherokeerose - - cherokeerose -
This is the diary of Carol Solaine Gibson.
I've survived the Apocalypse of Walkers.
I was a wife and a mother.
I will write this journal of survival;
my survival in this dark and uncertain world we've been cast in,
for as long as I am me.
May God have mercy upon my soul.
Day #1st
I drove all night.
What else could be done – the dark is the most dangerous time in this barren wasteland I stand on.
When I came across a dwelling I stopped, checking out empty houses.
Found three packets of bacon, well preserved, and some cheese biscuits. I was really lucky.
It was dawn by then, so I figured it would make for an excellent breakfast. - - - - - - - - - - -
I got back on the road afterwards, and not too late neither; saw this herd just on the outskirts of the little ghost town.
Shame about breakfast though. I puked it back up.
I wiped my mouth clean, and fervently wished I had toothpaste, or even gum to fight the horrid taste. Then I prayed for my girls.
I prayed for Lizzie to get better. And I prayed for the Lord to give Mika strength. This was a promise I wanted to keep. I'm not sorry about what I did.
But I have to keep moving.
It's just me now. I have to look out for myself.- - - - - - - - -
- cherokeerose - - cherokeerose - - cherokeerose -
Day 240
Newcomers.
They were getting everyone's hackles up.
People complained that it was beginning to get crowded.
Food was scarce. And people were still sick. Nobody seemed to be getting better.
He decided that either way, whether the newcomers got to stay or not, he had his duties, and he'd carry on doing them. Just because a bunch of strangers had stumbled upon the community didn't mean that his life had changed.
It didn't mean shit. He had his jobs – and he had his team.
Michonne was eager to get off grounds again. He couldn't say he blamed her though.
The little sanctimonious, holier-than-thou puppet show Rick was running was ridiculous to say the least. Acting like he was all high and mighty and the choices that he made were wrong but he din't get punished for 'em … he wanted no part in this joint.
There was a storm brewing inside him. And people better fuckin watch their stupid-ass step, or he'd beat their ass into the fuckin ground.
Yesterday he overheard some parents discussing Karen and David's murders, and Carol's part as the culprit specifically. 'She prolly dead by nae. It's exactleh what she desurve. An to think we put our babies' in her hands! They's murderer hands, stained with blood! If she wuz still hyah, I'da—'
He didn't even stop to think. He walked up to that sumbitch and got right in his face, breathing hard, seeing red. Little punk was shorter and stared up at him, cowering in fear.
'What you say? Huh? What was you gonna do? Huh fucker? Go on. Why don't you fuckin come right out and say it to me, right here to my face.'
He could hear distantly, as though through glass, someone shouting his name. His hands were fisted in the man's shirt, and he actually raised him off the ground, shaking him.
One of the man's friends suddenly ran in and brutally clipped his temple. He stumbled and the guy fell on the ground. Then all hell broke loose.
Suddenly it was him against three men, and three men against him.
Then others joined the fray, trying to break up the fight. He thought he saw Tyreese send one of the men flying, before a shot rang out. Ranger Rick had arrived.
And his recriminations against him piled on and on.
'What the hell has gotten into you, man?! Going aroun' beatin' up people too weak to fight back, that ain't the Daryl I know!'
Daryl wiped the blood that was trickling from his nose, and violently threw the hands that were still holding onto his arms. Then he did a one-eighty turn and walked away.
'Daryl! You can't be doing this! You got nothin' to say for yourself, for what just happened? Daryl! I'm talkin' to you man!' Rick went after him. He was still blinding himself to the fact that somehow along the way his relationship with the redneck had changed once more, and this time in a negative way. He still wouldn't see what his actions had brought about.
So when Daryl suddenly turned and head-butted him then sucker-punched his guts, he lay on the ground, deeply stunned as well as in considerable pain. You didn't mess with Daryl's fists. The man could pack a mean punch.
'I don't know what the hell has gotten into you, BUT WE AIN'T HAVIN THIS AROUND HERE! Do you understand me, Daryl?'
Daryl stopped walking again, went utterly stock still, back still facing the man who was getting to his feet. If his tone was meant to cow him in any way, he had another thing comin'.
His voice resembled perfectly the menace he posed, although he never raised it. 'Yeah well seems to me like ther're a whole lotta things you ain't havin aroun' here, huh? Like when someone don't follow a direct order, just because it happen' to come from you, Farmer Grimes. What I do ain't none o' yo damn business any more, you got it shit-eel?'
'You think you so fine and righteous, but you's an eel just like everybody else in this hella fucked up world.'
Rick's face turned puce and his eyes grew vicious, matching Daryl word for word.
'The fuck you say! The fuck's gotten into you?! I've been keeping these people alive for the past mo-'
'Fuck you! You ain't my master, I sure as shit ain't your bitch! People aroun' here do only what you say goes, amiright? Once maybe it mighta been like tha'. But this stops now, s'far as I'm concern'. I don't answer to you and your martial laws, sheriff. This ain't your call. Jus' like gettin' an exclusive say over who stays an' who goes ain't your call either. But you like that, dontcha? You like steppin' over other people. You kept us alive? Yeah that was before. That was before you kicked outta here someone who's been takin' care o' all us, who did more in the last few months to meet the people's needs than you did when you decided to play farmer.'
Comprehension dawned on Rick. 'Carol? That's what this is about?!' Derision and disbelief warred within him at this turn of events. All of this heat over that traitorous she-jackal?!
He bolted forward and shot his fists out; one grabbed Rick's collar and the other he shook emphatically in his face. But his voice got even lower, and if anything even more deadly. He was a wild card, always had been. It's just that Rick had forgotten this. He thought they were past raising questions about Daryl's motives and behaviour.
'You say her name like that one more time. Go on I fuckin dare ya. Say her name like that one more time in my presence, you goan lose all the teeth in ya pie-hole. Yeah, thas' what this is all abou'. You chasin' her outta here like the wors' of criminals, when you…you did a lot worse than what she did. But nobody says anythin' to you. Cause you're Rick fuckin Grimes, our so called leader!
Leader of what? Someone who keeps steppin' up and down whenever the whim take him, dependin' how he feels when he wakes up on a day? That ain't no leader o'mine.'
Daryl pushed him away aggressively, murderous intent on his face barely held in check.
'You get to stay here, despite the fact that we've lost a lotta people based on calls that you made. Well, Carol had just as much right as you! She earned the right to this place in the last few months working herself something awful, bendin' over backwards tryin' to get everythin' done! You said she's dangerous and can't be trusted? You put her out there and left her by herself. You killed her. You a murderer in cold blood, just like her. But if she gets the boot, why don't you grab that kid o'yours and hightail it outta here?! We don't need ya. You can't even bring yourself to look at that baby girl, and Carol's the one who took care o' her when you decided to go cuckoo. People walk around you on eggshells, but I ain't scared of you Rick Grimes. I'll never forget this. I sure as shit won't forgive what you did to her either. Not while I got breath left in my body. All the things she's done…that woman is worth ten of you.'
He spat blood out of his mouth whilst he held Rick's shocked gaze and then stalked away towards the tower he'd taken to occupying exclusively.
What had been left behind by Carol was now scattered amongst various people. He didn't even want to look at Maggie anymore because she'd been the one to distribute her things.
Fuck them. Fuck them all.
They got rid of her faster than a stinkin' walker, leaving no space for anything to do with her. But he wouldn't have her memory tarnished. No one was gonna speak badly about Carol as long as he was around. And frankly, the blood on her hands was just as much on Rick's hands as hers. She did what she did because she saw that he failed to step up when he was needed the most, and to protect the group, she did what she felt someone had to do. If Rick hadn't had a complete melt-down just as things began getting hairy, Carol wouldn't have reached the conclusion that she had to go and shoulder burdens that were never hers to take on.
But he blamed himself too. And the self-hatred was slowly eroding him down to the bone. He should have been there for her. He should have protected her – he'd sworn he would. That's where he should have been, right by her side. He can't forgive Rick for putting out that edict to kick her out on her own, but then he couldn't forgive his rotten self either. Because he'd promised her dammit. He'd promised he would protect her in this world, no matter what. Even from herself.
He took out a necklace she'd left behind and rolled the beads in his fingers, like his mama used to do with her rosary when he'd been real little. His eyes stung bitterly.
They were pure, her and her little girl. The only real pure things –there were so few- left nowadays in this rotten world. And he failed first Sophia (not a day went by that the name alone didn't haunt him), and then her mama.
He clutched her necklace convulsively and then gently opened his fist. He looped it around his own neck and hid it under his shirt, resting on his skin. Then he took one of her scarves and tied it like a neckerchief around his throat.
When he went to sleep that night, heart heavy and stomach leaden, his pillow smelled of summer nights in a field and Cherokee roses.
AN:
End of Part One, check back within a couple of days, because parts two and three are written out already. Thanks again for your comments, your follow stories, follow me's and favourite story, it means such a great deal to me, especially because this is my first Walking Dead fic. I usually ease myself into writing for a fandom with a series of one-shots, but this plot just won't stop buzzing around my head, and I think it deserves being written and posted in the hopes of building up a great audience that will truly enjoy reading it. So thanks.