Snap.
The sound cleaved the stillness in half like a butcher's knife. Daryl turned on his heel, scanning the forest around him, prepared to take down any walker that came too close to him.
Nothing.
The silence resumed its sway over the night, and Daryl slipped his index finger off the trigger, scowling deeply as he resumed his hunt. About two hours ago he had found evidence of a large, probably nine or ten-point buck in the vicinity, and had spent the majority of the night since then carefully following what little trail there was to be found. He glance up quickly to check his surrounding again.
He had just returned his attention to the trail when he caught onto a strange marking in the trunk of a nearby tree.
On closer inspection he confirmed it to be exactly what he thought it was: a deer scrape. He was closer now. Judging by the size of the bare spot, he guessed it to be from a buck of the same size as the one he'd picked up on before.
His mind was blank as he continued following the trail of lightly crushed leaves and detritus, checking every now and then for walkers nearby.
The night went on. The trail grew fainter and fainter, and doubt settled in like a heavy, well-worn winter coat. Say there was no deer, that it was really just a rabbit or something small and inconsequential. Or worse, if he was being led straight into a pack of walkers in deed of a late-night snack.
Snap.
There it was again, that singular noise made by a breaking twig on the ground, only this time followed by the rustle of footsteps in the underbrush, this time from behind him.
Daryl whipped around, crossbow raised, tensed for a fight.
A dog poked its head through the underbrush, sniffing intently at the ground, nose working quickly and circling the little plot of ground where he stood.
The hound raised its head, and began barking loudly.
Daryl would have shot it in the head, if only he had been able to move. The noise would attract all manner of walkers, and he refused to think that he would die because of some mutt that ran up to him in the middle of the woods.
"Shut up, dammit!" he hissed, though still unable to even lower his arms, planted to the earth as though he had suddenly grown roots from the soles of his boots.
Another dog came through the underbrush, then another, then another, until there were seven in total, all making enough noise to wake the dead; that is, if the dead hadn't already started walking.
Something flitted through the shadowy darkness between the trees. Suddenly he was aware, though he knew not how, of moonlight filtering through the leaves, creating a ghostly effect as his ind raced to come up with a solution to his problem.
The thing in the shadows grew larger, closer. It made not a sound; the rustling and snapping he had heard were caused by the dogs.
The thing stepped out of the shadows; rather, it was not a thing, but a woman.
An impressive spectacle of a woman, tall, almost as tall as he, cloaked in a dark green tunic that fell just above her knees but left her moon-white shoulders bare. Dirty blonde hair floated about her face, so tangled with sticks and leaves that made it look like she had a halo of shrubbery. She wore no shoes, and behind her, a monstrous stag loomed in the dim shadows at the edge of the trees.
She met his eyes fiercely, and afterwards that was all he would remember of that night: her eyes. He could see a quiver of arrows strapped on her back, and in her left hand was a longbow made of hickory and sinew.
"Lower your crossbow, Daryl Dixon." Her voice was strong, husky, commanding.
"The fuck are you? How the hell do you know my name?" He barked back. His index finger slipped off the trigger without his knowing it.
She quirked an eyebrow, but gave no response other than placing her hand atop the crossbow and gently pushing it down towards the ground.
"I am not going to harm you." She told him. Her voice was quiet but he felt it surround his mind, echo through his ears like war drums.
"You didn't tell me who you are."
"I am the protector of hunters. Why do you chase my sacred deer?"
Daryl's vitals escalated. This bitch was weird.
"Food. The dead are walking, in case you ain't noticed, and supplies are scarce. Gotta take a meal where you can find it. That was a damn big buck I was tracking, would have given us enough meat"
"You also seek to provide for your group, especially one in particular."
Daryl scoffed. "Fuck. You mean Merle? He's gone, and besides, the bastard can hunt for himself, who the hell do you think taught me how? Damn sure wasn't you, I ain't even seen you before." Except when I was real little and looking at National Geographics in the doctor's office one time with Mama. You were a statue. As the thought presented itself to him, he frowned. He could have sworn he hadn't ever seen her before, and yet… something familiar surrounded her, a sort of… peace, almost.
"You care about her, and what happened to her daughter."
Carol. "How the hell do you know that?"
She merely smiled triumphantly, her eyes gleaming. "You hunt to provide for her, as well as the others. You hunt for Sophia for her, for her sanity and peace of mind. You do not love her, not yet, but she still is very important to you."
How the hell does she know all this? "Woman, who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I am many things, Daryl Dixon. I am the keeper of hunters and wild creatures, of virgins and childbirth. I have been around longer than you could ever imagine, and will be for long after you die. Protect her, and go back to your camp with more than you left it with."
The wind picked up, gusting about his head and shoulders, and his world went suddenly blacker than the darkest night.
When he again regained his bearings, he could see the day breaking on the horizon and the little camp at the edge of the woods. The crossbow was hanging from his shoulder, and at his feet was a massive eight-point buck, still as stone and dead as a doornail.
He turned and gave the empty woods a last glance before shouldering the deer and carrying it back to camp.
He caught Carol's eyes as he marched past her tent. She gave him a tiny smile, that small faint smile she had that had somehow wormed its way beneath his skin, and his spirits lifted if only a small amount.
He never saw the strange woman from the forest again.
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