A/N: I own nothing and no one featured in this story, or The Walking Dead universe. I make no profits from this or any fics written or posted.
So everybody be cool. You... be cool.
Synopsis: An introspective look at the impact Beth had on Daryl, before, during and after her kidnapping. Daryl struggles with a crippling fear of rejection and intimacy, and the scars of his childhood warn him to keep his guard up and to expect nothing but heartache from life. Daryl's feelings of inadequacy become worthy of exposure, as he begins to accept and embrace his feelings for Beth. A tug-of-war between guilt and elation makes the journey from lone wolf to love-struck all the more painful upon Beth's kidnapping. The effects have an interesting impact on the pair once they are reunited and face the close-knit band of survivors.
The Wolf That Ran On Achilles' Heel
The wind blew across the night, carrying with it the stench of a rotting earth's surrender. The foulness was second only to the loss of humanity. Pandemonium had been a welcome justification to forsake all that was good in man. A near extinct race had rendered decency, virtue, honor and integrity mere charms of folklore. The flamboyant ideals retold in stories, now inspired suspicion. The violence was all encompassing. The murderous, ravenous, cut-throat survivors fought among, for, beside and against the desperate and deviant alike. All who remained were forced to relinquish their mercy in hopes of survival. However, there were some who had been born to flourish in such perdition, as they had never known anything else. Their survival had been paid for with a lifetime of imposed solitude.
Having witnessed Hell rise to kiss the earth, Daryl knew all too well the agony and hardships one had to endure to survive; then again, the same could be said of his old life. As a drifter he had found autonomy but as a child he was bound to the mercy of others; and when you're a child, others are rarely merciful.
Daryl thought back on moments of happiness or still-watered glimpses where some semblance of a ceasefire had been present. They were scarce, scattered far and few between, over a lifetime. There were not enough to fill a menu; and not one memory could be divulged without inspiring the hunch that a lurking, untold detail would sully it completely. That was his old life. A box crammed with stories belonging to a boy he no longer knew. A box he condemned to the dark corners of his mind, in the hopes that someday, they would be forgotten entirely. Despite the horrors he faced as a survivor, the comparison of disinterred childhood thoughts revealed a preference for the new world.
Daryl had more as a broken man, than a breaking child. He had strength, respect, acceptance and his code. At his core beat the wild heart that could not be broken, any more than it could be attained. He shielded it with a ferocious, dyed-in-the-wool reclusiveness, fortified by a territorial intimidation that commanded compliance and distance. Intimacy was not in his repertoire. Daryl was a lone wolf forever limping on injuries bestowed by the drunken, heavy-handed lowlifes of yesterdays. He banished the possibility of a broken heart. The torment of betrayal, devastation or abandonment did not scare him. For as a man, he had chosen to remain beholden to nothing and no one. He could not be hurt, if he could not be touched and he could not be touched if he kept his distance. Daryl had crafted a flawless method over the decades since boyhood. He learned too young, too many times liability of closeness. Affection was a weakness in the old world and a death sentence in the new one.
Within the emblematic stronghold of his soul, Daryl dropped his watchful eye but for a moment to gaze into the embodiment of beauty. His fortified post of isolation was the only thing that stood between the world and his vulnerability. A lifetime's crusade to vanquish any possibility of intimacy was no more equipped to contend with his change of heart, than two or three lifetimes would have been. Though, it was without warning that the universe plucked an arrow from its quiver and released it upon Daryl. The arrow forged in the cosmos, soared at a velocity conceived solely to penetrate the depths that vault great complexities of delicate, humbling matters. Without warning, its point struck his Achilles' heel. The intrusive assault tore him from solitude and thrust a new will upon him. Daryl's true nature was exposed, forced naked under the prying light of his own understanding; he bowed to an ache he had never known existed.
A tether was fastened boldly, securely and without apology – binding Daryl to another. The offending arrow remained a figurative souvenir lodged in one of the many exposed nerves Daryl's conditioning forced him to ignore. The evidence of his subjugation taunted his crippling dread, throbbing and raw. He endured the experience in silence. Feeling both petrified and relieved, in the way one does when they confess their sins. The quiet of familiar seclusion became an unbearable prison, haunted by resentment and time wasted.
The blessing in disguise, which had been a topsy-turvy and defiant change of heart, cast a new light on the value of the everyday. Insecurity and rejection were of vague consequence. His immense vulnerability weighed the equivalent of one dozen, cremated feathers, when balanced against the earnest and uncompromising captivation of his ardent affections.
Daryl was taken by an insatiable temptation he'd fought to extinguish or at the very least, deny. Before long, the archer could not contend with the spellbinding allurement that melted to wanton fixation. His transition from abstinent outcast to a slave of desire came with the abruptness of a blink but severity of an atom bomb. His feelings were concrete and tender but he closeted the revelation, as the internal conflict was an excruciating reminder of all he wanted for his cherished one, and all that he could not offer.
Daryl felt like the degenerate he always feared he'd become. After all, depravity, deviancy and the perverse proclivities of a violating corruptor coursed through his bloodline. The disgrace was a sticky, thickness, black and hot tar – suffocating baby birds that fell from the nest too soon to take flight. Daryl knew he would cut his own throat before defiling what he knew to be pure. He'd go to the ends of the earth, killing, fighting, tempting death with a smirk, to spare the one he adored a moment's pain. He'd pine all the while, asking for nothing in return than the opportunity to die in their name.
Daryl vowed to behead the wolf that roamed wild within with the sharp of the fabled arrow. It fell through time and creation to destroy a weakness masquerading as strength. Daryl now drew his strength from a salvaged willingness to let his steadfast heart find harbor in another's. In complete surrender, he traded his unruly, flawed waywardness and self-imposed disconnect, for hope. Hope that his fervent affections could be welcomed and reciprocated with unconditional, beautiful sincerity. Hope that he could thrive in a manner worthy of the object of his affection's liking. He hoped he was devoid of the barbarism that plagued his kin with the sadistic inclinations of a voluntary predator. He hoped for chance. Daryl was honor-bound.
Daryl considered the gamble and despite the war waging between his heart and conscience, his lowered guard became a source of catharsis. His spirit flourished and he drew strength from the liberation. There was a comforting middle ground between being domesticated and feral, that eased his unsettled spirit.
The longshot was a driving force that willed him to expect more from the dead earth. The potency of hope was a liability he craved. It allowed him to dream; fretting over the details of a future under construction. His mind played along, forgetting the hell and promising a happy ending.
All that had value, all that was dear, all that mattered to Daryl, resided in the frontier of an apocalypse. He had spent so long battling to survive that he forgot to thrive. Daryl came to realize that his greatest defense was not his crossbow or the solitude in which he mastered it but rather in having someone to shoot it for.