Daryl grunted as he pulled his arrow out of the walker's skull. A chunk of bone came with it and he shook it free. This was an older one, he could see that even in the dark. Maybe even one of the first to turn, before he even knew what was happening. A decaying smile stared up at him. Daryl wondered if he'd had a brother.

And just like that, he was leaning up against the nearest tree, heaving what little remained of his stomach onto the forest floor. God dammit, Merle. He'd never get that image out of his head, no matter how much he wanted to: his brother, crouched on the ground, eating the stomach of a human being.

Daryl clenched his fist against the rough tree bark as his coughing took on a sobbing quality. He was being too loud, but he didn't care. Let the walkers come for him. He was in that kind of a mood tonight. That's what his brother would have wanted him to do, anyway – take out as many of the bastards as he could.

Daryl straightened, and took a breath. "Merle's dead," he said aloud for the first time. He swallowed hard. "I put him down." Over and over and over again he had put him down, bringing that knife into his head until he couldn't recognize the bloody mass as his older brother. ("I'll beat yer ass, brother. Get gone.")

How many times had he and Merle beat on each other over the years? He didn't know, but he could count the number of times he'd won on one hand and still have fingers left over. Merle had never taken it easy on him, even when he was seven and his brother was twenty. "Welcome to the real world," he'd say, as he decked him in the stomach. Daryl was never really injured in their fights, though, not like he was when their dad was mad. He'd never ended up in the ER because of Merle, or skipped school until the bruises faded. They just knocked each other around. Merle sure as hell had never bashed in his skull.

Daryl let out a shaky laugh that had no humor behind it at all. He could have made a list of people from his old life that he'd have had no problems putting down – his brother's dealer, that teenager who was always emptying his rabbit traps before he got to them, a few of the guys on the street who had no trouble reminding him what white trash he was. And it made him want to throw up again to think that he'd passed up the opportunity to shoot his old man and settled for slaughtering his brother instead. ("I had to go, man. I'd have killed him otherwise.")

Daryl wiped the sweat and tears and blood off his face and kept on his way to the prison. It was late, but someone would be waiting up. Guard duty and all that. He jammed his knife into the eye socket of another walker that came his way and decided he'd take that night's shift. He wasn't sleeping, even if he wanted to, which he didn't either.

Merle had recognized him. Damn what that suicidal doctor at the CDC said, Merle knew who he was. The rest of his body was already decaying, the virus moving fast, but Merle's eyes hadn't changed yet. They had the same eyes. It was the only real similarity between the two Dixon brothers. Daryl took after their dad. And there'd been something in his eyes when he'd looked up, a bit of human flesh stuck between his teeth, and he'd come right for him. He hadn't charged, though; hadn't really put up much of a fight. Daryl knew that was Merle. He wasn't gonna hurt Daryl. ("You best back away from my brother, if ya know what's good for ya.")

Merle hadn't been the easiest brother to have, growing up. He was more than a shadow looking over Daryl's shoulder; he was more like a dog owner pulling him on a leash. Where Merle went, Daryl went, even if he didn't want to. Merle would wrap his arm around Daryl's shoulders and they'd be off, doing whatever Merle wanted to do that day. After school, of course. Merle hadn't graduated high school, but he'd made damn sure that Daryl did. ("I don't care about no boy sailing up the Mississippi, Merle. It's a stupid book." "Finish it, kid. You might learn somethin' about river raftin'.")

The other kids in the neighborhood were scared of Merle so they kept their distance from Daryl too. That was fine, when Merle was around, but after Merle took off for the army and left Daryl behind, after their mother died, Daryl was alone. Sure, the kids would tentatively invite him to play if they saw him throwing rocks in the stream, but they had their bikes and their fancy shoes, Nintendos and money to go to the movies. It wasn't always their fault that they left him behind; he just couldn't keep up. So he'd wait for Merle to come back and in the meantime, he'd go to the woods, practice whatever Merle had shown him last time he came around, and avoid their dad as much as he could.

When Merle got discharged from the army, he'd moved into a cabin about twelve miles north of their house. Daryl went there nearly every day; sometimes he'd stay the night, other times he'd stay three weeks without the old man noticing he was gone. Merle always opened the cabin door with a goofy smile on his face, a cigarette between his teeth, and he'd bow, step aside like Daryl was royalty, honoring him with his presence. Daryl would roll his eyes but it sure felt nice to have someone want him there.

He moved in full-time when he was sixteen. Their dad had beat him so bad that night he thought for sure that he'd kill him. After the old man passed out, alcohol spilling from the bottle and onto the floor by his feet, Daryl had stumbled into the bathroom and taken one good look at himself – split lip, a fading black eye and a fresh one starting. He knew a rib was broken, maybe more than one, and there was a fair amount of blood on his back already, soaking the waistband of his jeans. He'd clumsily tried to clean himself up, then he'd grabbed a knapsack, stuffed in three shirts, an extra pair of pants, and the one gun he kept at home, and climbed out his window into the night. He could usually reach Merle's place in two hours, give or take; it took him almost four. He got there at three in the morning, and banged on the door so hard and long he thought Merle might take a swing at him instinctively. He wasn't paying much attention, was having trouble staying on his feet, and he kept pounding the door even when it opened and he was hitting Merle instead. His brother caught his fist, still half asleep, and raised an eyebrow. "You get in a fight, little brother?"

Daryl remembered the moment's hesitation before he answered. "Yep," he said. "Can I stay here?"

"How long?"

Daryl shrugged. Merle studied him for a few seconds, then stepped aside. "Mi casa es su casa, bro."

It hadn't escaped him that his brother didn't look at him for the rest of the night, steadfastly ignored the blood that had already stained this shirt too. Merle said in the woods that day after Woodbury that he hadn't know what their father did to him. Daryl believed him. But he hadn't known because he didn't want to.

Daryl squinted into the night, just making out the shape of the prison up ahead. He slowed his pace. There were no walkers here; they were all up gathered at the fence. All he had to do was wave a hand and they'd see him, let him in, and this night from hell would be over.

He wasn't sure he wanted to see them, though. They'd ask what happened, and he'd have to tell them and not fall apart while he did it, because they couldn't see that, and they wouldn't understand. They didn't get Merle. Hell, Glenn would probably be happy. Maggie, too. They'd be sorry for him, but not sorry for his brother. He couldn't blame them for that, but, dammit, Merle didn't deserve that.

Hershel would be sympathetic, but he always was. Beth hadn't liked his brother. Carl wouldn't do anything – kid was getting too emotionless, too hard, for someone his age. Carol would care; she might actually mean it when she said she was sorry. She got it; she got him. It was Carol he'd tell what really happened, but not tonight. He was too tired tonight. ("You and the mousey woman. You two got a thing going?")

Michonne, if she made it back, would have no reason to lose sleep over Merle's death; she'd sleep better. And Rick…well, Rick should get down on his knees and thank Merle, because he had just made their designated leader's life a whole lot easier. No more decisions about whether or not to trust Daryl's erratic brother. He'd gotten himself killed.

Merle had been wrong when he said they followed Rick like sheep. No one did. No one followed him blindly, Daryl least of all. He saw everything Rick did – he just agreed with most of it. When he didn't, he told him. And sometimes Rick listened, sometimes he didn't, and sometimes Daryl got his way anyway. Rick hadn't wanted Merle at the prison, but Daryl had got him there in the end. And Merle would have done his part. He had done his part. Merle really wasn't that different from Rick. They were both fiercely protective, and did what they had to in order to survive with the ones they cared about. Merle just cared about less people.

Daryl could make out someone in the lookout building, and he waved an arm, which felt about a hundred times heavier than usual, above his head. They saw him. He wished they could have seen Merle too.

People were yelling in the prison, and Daryl started running. Great. They were waking up the whole gang for him. Welcome home. He used a knife on the few walkers that came near; he didn't feel like searching for his arrows the next morning. Beth and Carl were holding the gates open for him when he entered, and Rick was standing in the front of the group, caught him when he was running with a hand on his shoulder and a look of total relief on his face. Daryl bent over a little, catching his breath and avoiding eye contact with everyone.

"You alright?" Rick asked. Daryl nodded. Rick looked over his shoulder. "Where's-"

Daryl shook his head then, tucking his knife away. "He ain't comin'."

Rick got that look on his face, the kind he had when he had to make a diplomatic decision. Celebrate or sympathize? Behind him, not one face remained unaffected. Glenn looked down; Beth looked to Hershel but Hershel looked at Daryl. So did Carol. Daryl looked past them all.

Rick was trying to figure out how to ask it – Your brother dead or deserted? Daryl spared him. "He went to the site without Michonne." Obviously. He could see her standing there too. "Musta tried to get the Governor himself. Took about nine guys that I could tell before he got taken down."

Rick sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Shot in the head?"

Daryl felt like he'd been sucker punched. "No."

Rick squeezed his shoulder again. "I'm sorry, Daryl."

God, he didn't want to talk about this. Everyone looking at him now, poor guy, had to stab his own brother, no matter how much of an asshole he was. "Yeah, well, can't do nothin' about it." Daryl shifted his crossbow from one shoulder to the other. "Governor's still out there, still gotta do something about that. I'll take watch – who had it, Maggie? Yeah, I'll take it."

Rick made a move to stop him as he turned to the guard tower, but Daryl shrugged him away. He lowered his voice. "Look, I ain't sleepin' tonight. I'll take watch."

Rick looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded. "Alright."

Daryl nodded, and strode past the rest of the group. He was halfway to the tower when he heard, "Glad you're alright, Daryl. We were worried." Beth. Kid didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. Still, his throat tightened and it took him a second to reply.

"Shoot, don't lose sleep over me. I ain't going anywhere." He picked up his pace and left them behind.

Maggie's stuff was still in the tower – a blanket, a flashlight. He cringed. She'd want that blanket, but she wouldn't come up for it. She didn't want to see him tonight.

He leaned against the railing and looked out, but he knew nothing was out there. The Governor wasn't coming tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. He'd lost men. Merle had bought them a few extra days to prepare. ("What is this?" "It's a crossbow, little brother. Might save your life one day. I'll teach ya to shoot it.")

"Knock, knock?" Daryl jumped and turned to see Michonne resting by the doorframe. She had a gun in one hand, his poncho in the other. She held the latter out and he accepted it gruffly.

"Thanks." He didn't look at her. What the hell was he supposed to say to the woman his brother tried to kill that morning? "I let her go!" He could almost hear Merle's indignation. "Damn, boy, even when I do right I don't get no credit."

"Hell of a day, huh?" Michonne walked past him, holding the gun loosely over the side of the tower. He'd never seen her shoot before; wondered if she could. He knew how hard it could be to switch from one weapon to another. She must have been able to, to keep alive as long as she had.

"Hell of a night, too," Daryl muttered. "Sorry for my brother," he added. Sorry he knocked you out, kidnapped you, tried to hand you over to a man who wanted you dead, then left you to walk back to camp alone.

Michonne reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, extending her hand to him. He didn't bother asking where she got them. "I'm sorry for your brother." Daryl looked up. "He wasn't a bad guy."

("Y'all people look at me like I'm the devil.")

He took a cigarette. "No," he said quietly. "No, he wasn't."

I wish they hadn't killed Merle off so soon. Seems like there was a lot they could do with the character. Oh, well. Here's a missing scene from the penultimate episode of season 3. I own nothing.