For Quodl: My very own Cherokee Rose.
It starts with Sophia.
The end of the world has a funny way of revealing lost causes and missed chances, a fact Carol Peletier is far too aware of as she stands before her little girl's freshly dug grave. Everything – from the obligatory burial commemorating what once was, like it would bring back their old traditions, their old life – to the desecrated corpse lying beneath her feet feels false, empty.
Hollow.
Carol doesn't know how long she's stood before the darkened soil, attempting and failing to form the right words, to put Sophia to rest. A handful of times she all but forced the syllables out, mouth opening to speak, but all that came out was a choked sob and a light whimper.
Her own body knows she's lying.
She meant her earlier remarks, that the rotting corpse hiding within the secret barn was not her little girl. That Sophia was lost and alone in the woods until she wasn't. Until she was killed, bitten, and all that remained was a badly crafted replica, twisted and warped into something else. Something cold with dead eyes and a vicious snarl.
Carol glances upward when her eyes burn with unshed tears, praying the sudden shift will prevent the betraying droplets from streaming down her face. Distracts herself by looking out over the picturesque landscape; its quiet splendor captivating her, drawing her in. The horizon is the most beautiful she's seen, so open and inviting and green. The light wind is soft and soothing, teasing her, kissing her face with insistent ease. The final strains of sunlight begin their descent into darkness, the peaceful rays streaking a brilliant plethora of purples and pinks across the sky.
But soon all this will be gone, too.
Her eyes flutter shut as she blocks it all out, refuses to let the images imprint forever on her heart. She won't allow these lies to continue, to attempt to sneak their way into her fragile heart.
Everything is temporary. Her daughter died along time ago.
Carol releases a shaky breath as her eyes reopen, staring at the hard ground beneath her for the umpteenth time. She couldn't bring herself to attend the funeral. Couldn't bear to receive any more nurturing touches or sympathetic glances. Couldn't bear to listen to their false hope, their proffered condolences. Couldn't stand to hear them at all, knowing how wrong they all were.
Trouble is, she should have known better. Should have predicted this day was coming and conjured up a plan instead. Should have mapped it out, should have protected her, should have told her. It might have broken both their hearts at the time, but at least she would have known.
Should've, would've, could've.
And now it's too late. Now she stands alone, in every sense of the word, arguing to a body she does not know.
Daryl was right. Hoping and praying was a waste of time.
The reminder of his words hits her like a punch to the gut, wrenching her heart in two until all she can feel is the sad, desolate truth of it all. Yet another heartbreaking reminder of the precious words squandered away, meaningless and void at the end of the day.
At the end of a life.
Now her heart laments the lost chance she'll never get back. Laments this disease, this world, this everything for stealing from her, for taking what precious time she had. But most of all, laments the one, simple word she will never be able to mutter to this unseemly, unrecognizable thing.
Her own daughter.
Carol turns on her heel and walks away, refuses to acknowledge the sloppy tears blurring her vision, threatening her resolve. Juts her chin a fraction of a degree higher instead, so the pain won't show, so the mask won't slip.
She always hated goodbyes anyway.
Everything is temporary.
The full weight of the words don't hit home. Not right away. Weeks of planning and negotiating and fighting and bickering get in the way, fooling everyone – fooling her – that maybe, just this once they might have a place to rest. Recover.
And with the barn cleared out, it might even be safe, too.
The lump of resentment lodged in her throat becomes a near-permanent fixture, the sharp pain gnawing at her insides a familiar comfort.
The soft caresses and sympathetic glances increase tenfold, a puzzling turn of events she blatantly ignores. It's almost a relief when a few others begin fixing her with wary stares, keeping their distance as though she might blow at a moment's notice. They're not wrong, but they're not right, either.
All of it leaves a sour taste in her mouth.
So when everything turns so very south so very quickly, the aching pit in her stomach morphs into a gaping wound. And it's not until she looks upon Dale, torn and in pieces, that she realizes she can relate to the bloody tear in his abdomen. The others stand dazed and confused, but not Carol Peletier. In the pools of those clear blue eyes lie morose understanding.
She knows how it feels to have life ripped out of your hands. To lie there, broken and helpless, while the rest of the world stops and stares.
Everything is temporary.
Carol forces herself to attend the funeral, to heed the ceremonial speeches and sad goodbyes. She offers no words, no comforting stares. Her presence, however mandatory it feels, is her own private send-off. She knows the others don't understand her reasons, and she doesn't bother explaining herself. She's equipped now, or so she thinks, for this kind of heartbreak. Accustomed to it, in her own way. So she plays the part and stands in the shadows, the ever mysterious Daryl Dixon at her elbow.
The two outcasts who don't belong.
It's strange, but his raw, unbridled anger is the most real interaction she's had in weeks. No matter how he yells in her face, insults everything she is, everything she used to be, she can see right through him plain as day.
He has a mask, too.
She suspects they all do, to an extent. But unlike the others, who bear masks filled with so much careful compassion it begins to feel strained and forced, Daryl's depth of caring is the emotion hidden beneath that blunt, cold disguise. His tender nature all but vanished and forgotten as far as the others were concerned, but not her. She seeks him out, a moth to the flame, because she recognizes a lost soul when she sees one. His kind spirit waning, so close to giving up, but also hoping, searching for a spark. A reason to carry forward.
She's made it her unofficial mission to make sure that fire doesn't burn out.
It works. At least enough that he doesn't disappear the morning after he explodes at her, the lingering pain evident in his voice. Enough that he gives a cursory nod her direction the day of Dale's last humanity speech; enough that he catches her eye more often every day that follows.
Enough that he saves her the day the barn collapses into flame.
And as all her harsh, realistic dreams come true, Carol can't help but pity them all. The burials, like the words she should have said, become meaningless when they're forty miles away and can never look back.
As aware as she is of death and its impeccable timing, she thought she'd be better equipped for the news that Andrea was lost in the chaos. Maybe it's that she was the last to see her, but somehow not knowing makes the all too real panic swell in her chest with a sudden force and her words come out in scrambled rush. The anxiety subsides a notch when Daryl insists on going back, proving, however unconsciously, he understands her just as much as she does him.
But it all proves to be in vain.
It should be easier, she thinks. To not know. After all, she's lived through it once before. But somehow, for all her experience, the unsettling void of Andrea's presence continues to haunt her every thought. Even as she rides with Daryl, a newfound source of comfort she so desperately needs, the resurgence of that unshakeable chill presses upon her spirit the entire time.
As the fire fades in the distance, orange embers illuminating the night sky, Carol prays, for the first time since Sophia disappeared, her friend made it out alive.
Because even though she hates them, everyone should get to say goodbye.
If there's one thing Carol Peletier is good at, it's moving forward.
After all, living life in the rearview mirror isn't really living at all. And ever since the night she stood cold and alone, hordes of hungry walkers closing in, equipped with nothing but a broken tree limb and a desperate cry for help, something in her shifted.
She's a fighter.
Or at least she longs to become one. One too many years spent powerless in someone else's shadow, suffocating on the fear looming all around, has left her more than a little unsure how to begin the transformation, but one thing is certain.
This world won't break her.
Months pass. They survive, adapt, just as they've always done. The wounds of heartbreak dull and fade until all that remains are the scars, both old and new. The alienation at her childless status dims, until the only notable interaction is a raised eyebrow or two at her newfound companionship in the younger Dixon brother. But their mild curiosity is nothing compared to the reaction she receives when the begrudging redneck goes out of his way to bring her dinner while she's up to her elbows in river water, scrubbing away at what she hopes is a semblance of cleaner clothes. His mumbled, shy greeting scares her senseless, a wrong she sets right by way of a teasing splash his direction. He coughs and sputters away, not unlike the lukewarm stream skirting her fingertips.
It isn't until Lori joins her a few moments later, nudging her side with playful intent as she does so, that Carol catches the humorous, albeit surprised stares of the others. Glenn blinks, shell-shocked, his already wide eyes expanded impossibly further, Beth grins and ducks her head but carries a dreamy glint in her eye, and T-Dog, ever the stoic one, nods in unadulterated approval.
Her head shakes, her eyes roll but she won't deny the pink flush warming her insides in a most delightful way.
Whatever it all means, she's grateful. Even as they both become more integrated in the group, Daryl for the first time and her the second, somehow the duo always manages to meet somewhere in the middle, just on the outskirts of normalcy. The others don't quite understand, don't quite go the distance, and Carol finds herself appreciating the quiet privacy of it all.
And so, as the leaves change, so does she.
What begins with simple meal deliveries and laundry services escalates into personalized weapons training. First guns, then knives. At first it's difficult, downright impossible to keep her hand steady and her aim true, but somewhere along the fourth or fifth attempt she begins to think of herself as the weapon she holds. So small and inconsequential in and of itself, but given the right time, the right place, capable of so much more. A quiet potency that speaks for itself.
So when she shoots a walker between the eyes for the first time, the look of pride on Daryl's face, the crooked smile he offers makes her stomach flip and her cheeks burn from prolonged beaming. Much later when she returns to her bedroll, no longer caring about the hard, uncomfortable earth swallowing her body, her final thought before she drifts is this is the happiest she's been in months.
Heck, maybe even years.
So for the first time in a long time, things begin to look up. Hope, however temporary or obscure it may be, appears on the horizon and somewhere in between those chilled months of winter she stops imagining the smell of her daughter's hair and starts memorizing Daryl's musky, leather scent instead. Stops holding onto the cold, useless jewel binding her to another life, and starts appreciating the smooth, metallic grip of the knife tucked in her waistband reminding her she's a survivor.
Stops being weak, starts becoming strong.
The prison comes into view not long after, and for the second time since the end of the world, they find a new home.
Rick's right. It's perfect.
Until it isn't.
With safety and protection at every turn in the form of three chain-link fences and miles of concrete walls, it's easy to forget the road of heartache leading to it all. Easy to forget how many graves they've dug and how many friends they've buried.
Easy to forget how someone can just disappear.
It's like something out of a bad dream, a nightmare she can't wake up from. The instant dozens of walkers materialize in the prison yard that sunny, ordinary afternoon Carol's life becomes a montage of moments. Pictures flash before her eyes too fast for her to halt the motion, to cease the camera from rolling.
Still she fights. Even as their newfound haven becomes yet another battlefield, she fights. Even as watery blue eyes trail the river of red streaming down the concrete before tracing it back to the fatal bite on T-Dog's shoulder, she fights. Even as that same man flings himself into death's waiting arms just so she can have a chance at survival, she fights.
Even as the lights flicker off forever and she fumbles through dead end after dead end, desperate and crying and hopeless.
She fights.
But soon there's just too many corpses and not enough hallway. Soon the undead are creeping out of every orifice. Soon she's backed into a side of the prison she's never seen before, out of time and out of options.
So she makes a decision. She disappears.
Thrusts herself into the abyss of what she hopes is an empty supply closet, slams the door and watches in slow motion as her entire world turns black.
As life fades away before her eyes, she wonders if this is how it feels. To vanish without a trace. To sit in complete silence with nothing but a decomposing mind and incomprehensible doubt. Hundreds of scenarios play out in her head, but when hours become days, Carol finally breaks down and allows herself to voice the one word she's been harboring; the one word at the heart of it all.
Goodbye.
There's a fatality to the expression she doesn't like, never has, but even so she forces the foreign word from her dry, chapped lips. It's a phrase she used to say quite often, almost exclusively to her baby girl. It was simple then. Precious and private, but customary. A word so ordinary it never held much meaning.
Until it did.
It's all rather ironic, really. How her perspective changed. How the meaning changed. How she couldn't allow herself to see the rotting corpse buried at the farm as her beloved Sophia. How she never once looked back at Dale or Andrea.
And now she would suffer the same fate as those she failed to mourn.
No one would grieve her.
It's understandable, even logical, but the bitter truth doesn't stop the twinge of hurt from reminding her of the frail heart beating faintly beneath her chest.
And since it may very well be her dying moment, she allows her thoughts to drift to Daryl. Wonders if he'll insist on a funeral for her like he did her little girl. Wonders if he ever gave more than a passing thought to her presence; wonders if he ever considered the possibility of a future.
A final smile graces her lips as the darkness pulls her in for the last time.
It's like something out of a dream, a vision she can't wake up from. Except this time the camera has shifted, the flash too bright, too dazzling to be true. The picture of Daryl standing over her, cupping her face, staring deep into her crystal blue eyes.
Except it is real. And by some miracle the gruesome nightmare ends, replaced by the warm reality holding her with strong arms and a familiar musky scent.
But that night, instead of moving forward like she's always done, Carol allows herself to look back instead. Allows her eyes to look out over the wooden crosses acting as grave markers, allows her feet to close the distance until she's standing before three freshly dug graves.
It's all too familiar: the image of another cemetery plot growing in their back yard, the despair sinking deep into her stomach, taking up residence. Even the knee-jerk reaction of glancing upward so gravity won't catch hold of those precious, salty tears feels second nature; her body resisting, fighting as the past replays before her eyes in the most heartbreaking way.
The reopened wounds are familiar, but the resurgence of pain brand new. And this time there is no peaceful scenery to distract her thoughts, to hold her resolve. Nothing remains but a cold darkness filled with chain-link fences and undead faces.
All the beauty in this world is gone and her own little ray of sunshine snuffed out.
It takes all of ten seconds for her addled mind to explain the half circle of pebbles resting on one grave in particular, a slight crest in the formation mirroring the moon overhead. The construction is too careful, too precise for a random assortment of rocks.
And then it hits her.
By the time her shoulders sag and her knees buckle it's too late. Streams of silent tears come flooding out, overwhelming, as a whirlwind of unbridled emotion erupts at the surface in the form of an aching sob. Everything comes falling down until she's one with the earth, bent over the grave she's just narrowly avoided, clutching at a patch of dirt beneath her palm like a life-line.
It was him.
She knows even before her hand contracts, brushing more than just brown soil. Knew the instant she recognized the simple letter of the alphabet atop her own grave. But for all her foresight, her pulse still hammers in her ears, her hand still freezes in mid-air as her entire body stops, afraid to pull back and even more afraid to push forward.
It's all so familiar.
The barest hint of a delicate petal peeks through the darkened soil, the small measure of hope shining despite the darkness looming all around. A raging waterfall of pain and release spills off her cheeks, drop after shameful drop dampening the perfect white rose resting on her palm. It's an odd sort of freedom the moment she comes undone, before the very flower whose tale is composed of such relentless suffering.
And right there, in the shadow of the moonlight, covered in dirt and grime and heartache, Carol knows.
She doesn't hate goodbyes anymore.
It ends with Daryl.
She never forgets the past. Never forgets all the wasted opportunities and all the words lost in the fray. But she also never forgets her precious baby girl's bright, golden smile or soft, strawberry blonde hair. And in the end, it's her daughter's memory she strives to live up to, that she vows to uphold with everything she has.
Which means admitting she was wrong.
It's painful at first. Awkward, even. Standing, once again, before two cemetery plots, pretending with all her might that it's Lori and T-Dog she's saying goodbye to and not an empty grave. Her feet shuffle in place for ten minutes before her body turns to flee, all but ready to admit defeat. Chalk it up to a lame excuse: letting go just isn't one of her strong suits.
But then she remembers Sophia. The image of her baby, in all her sweet innocence, tugging on the hem of her shirt, asking what happened to those who disappeared. Jim. Amy. Ed.
And then her feet drag her right back to those wooden crosses, feet planted before the dried earth until her body relents and she remembers. Her baby girl deserved a better life. Deserved a better death. Deserved a goodbye.
And Lori and T-Dog do, too.
When she returns to the group some time later, hiding bloodshot eyes and a wavering voice, her gaze seeks out Carl, the boy forced to become a man. The boy forced to pull a trigger in the name of mercy and survival. And as she watches him with a fond sadness, the bare truth of their situation becomes clear.
You never know when someone you love might disappear forever.
Carol flees to the privacy of the cell block before more salt seeps from her heavy eyelids, before the others catch glimpse of the crumpling life that is Carol Peletier. Her back hits the wall as she stumbles into the cell called home, gasping at air that is much too thin. Her chest heaves when she collapses on the single cot moments later, memories of Lori flooding her vision as she glances over the cold, dark room.
Everything looks the same.
Something should be different, she thinks. There should be a sign, a shift in the wake of Lori's absence. The room should appear smaller, more bare.
But everything is the same.
Carol cries herself to sleep, but when she awakes, her anguish turns to fervent anger. She bustles about the vacant room in an enraged hysteria, desperate for any sign of the woman she called friend. She searches and searches until her hands shake, from exhaustion and anguish both. It's only when Beth ushers in, the same misery evident on her sad young face, that Carol catches sight of the sole item left in the perpetual gloom: Lori's toothbrush.
She's out laying the useless utensil atop her friend's grave, rejoining Carl some moments later, when Rick and the others return one man short.
One crossbow-wielding hunter short.
Carol doesn't bother hiding the quiver in her voice when Daryl is nowhere to be found in the car or otherwise, doesn't bother resisting Rick's open arms when he reaches to cradle her head against the hard planes of his torso. Her eyes clamp shut on instinct, but the tears never come. She doesn't have any left to give.
Even so, she tucks her hand around Rick's elbow and pretends to find solace in the warm embrace that's becoming all too familiar this week.
His hands shouldn't be the ones holding her.
Carol sneaks Daryl's poncho into her cell that night, desperate to relish the piece of him that's still within reach. A trace of his distinctive scent lingers in the wool fabric, calming her nerves in that singular way only he knows how. At long last, the walls stop closing in, the air stops crushing her lungs, and when she sleeps, she dreams of the Cherokee Rose.
Her hurt fades with the final rays of the sunlight on the second day, but not her hope. He may have disappeared like the rest, but he's not dead.
And she'll keep waiting for him until one of them is.
So she comforts Beth and cuddles Judith. She teaches Axel and takes watch with Carl. She laughs and empathizes and cares and supports because it's all she has left. The legacy of those she lost a constant reminder, a driving force teaching her to be better. Survive. Fight. Protect. Teach.
And whenever the past seems too much to bear, whenever her existence feels wholly and irrevocably alone, she withdraws to her cell, to that final piece of him and breathes in deep.
The man himself returns two days later in a brilliant display of perfect timing, the epitome of the honorable hero she's always known him to be.
Carol doesn't even hear the quarrels revolving around newcomer Merle Dixon, her focus steadfast on the sculpted angel wings fluttering before her eyes. Even when the man of the hour drawls near her ear, whispering promises both dangerous and sweet, her clear blue gaze never relents. The elder Dixon calls her a mouse, but she pays it no mind.
Daryl Dixon came back.
And as she lies awake that night, pondering lost causes and missed chances as a wild thread of poncho dances along her palm, the simple power of the thought sends her mind reeling.
For the second time, life has offered Carol Peletier a chance to live up to her daughter's example.
And this time, she's not going to waste it.
Thankfully or unfortunately, she isn't quite sure, the redneck is just as terrible with goodbyes as she is and neither have the courage to instigate a proper farewell. In fact, it takes one of Daryl's much-too-close brushes with death for Carol to initiate a quiet conversation on the topic of being more careful. She hides her face under the guise of preparing more gauze as she speaks, whispering half-truths to maintain some modicum of control over the tender emotions lining her words. But even vague half-truths carry too much weight to contain it all. Daryl stops picking his bandage at the slight quiver in her tone before freezing altogether when her voice hits a dead end mid-sentence.
She expects him to run away. Mutter a sincere excuse and scurry away, far away, where the faint heartfelt undertones won't ring in the air on repeat. Neither had broached the subject chiseling away at her heart since the day her daughter emerged from the Greene farm a walker. Not once did Daryl admit being the one who paid tribute to Carol's empty grave. Not once did she admit she knew it, too.
Instead, nothing happens. Carol waits with baited breath, counting the seconds it takes each cold exhale to evaporate in the morning mist.
And just when the silence shifts from awkward to humiliating, just when she's scrambling to gather the medical supplies and bolt, Daryl stands from his seat on the bedroll, effectively halting her getaway. He makes no comment, no movement forward or back, and for a brief moment she considers going through with her original escape plan rather than risk more pain.
After all, she doesn't know how much more she can take.
But some small part of her, the part that vows to uphold Sophia's memory – to make the hurt matter – stands firm and waits, no matter how awkward and stiff the seconds tick by.
Because in all truth, she's been waiting for this moment. For the chance to redeem her earlier mistakes, to say everything she wished she could before more people she loved turned or wound up six feet underground.
The chance to say goodbye.
It may not be today, or tomorrow, or even next year. But if there's one thing this world has taught her, it's that nothing lasts forever except death. It's not a threat but a guarantee. So no matter how bitter or melancholy it may seem now, to say it before it's truly over, it's better to know. Should the worst come to pass, should she wind up in another supply closet or should Daryl wind up on his own somewhere, at least they'll both have the comfort of this moment, this memory.
Carol likes to think, sometimes, that Sophia remembered her in those final moments before she turned. That it wasn't all pain and sadness when her daughter intended to follow the sun and met a walker's face instead. That her sweet, sweet child died as peaceful as possible, remembering her mother and the warm embrace they shared not twenty minutes earlier.
She wishes she could convince herself that were true.
But then, she thinks, she wouldn't be here now. Spilling out a whole depth of feeling, crossing some unspoken boundary she's sure Daryl will remind her of in some heartbreaking way in a minute or two. She doesn't expect him to understand, let alone reciprocate, but if there's anyone left in the world that holds a piece of her heart, that deserves to hear what she's failed to say so many times before, it's him.
It's always been him.
The telltale prickling of tears burns her eyelids, but this time Carol allows herself to feel every intricate teardrop as it kisses her face. She's long past the point of hiding, and to her surprise, she has no desire to. Her hands grasp the bedside table in a vise as she listens to her heart's aching melody, so pure and perfect and whole. Even in the face of utter fear and despair, of rejection and acceptance both, a peace washes over her, a certain tranquility she's never experienced before. It's invigorating, inspiring, even as it breaks her in two. She welcomes the intoxication, embraces it, summons it to swallow her whole with its bitter lullaby.
It tastes like freedom.
A chuckle erupts out of her, unwarranted, as she struggles to maintain decorum in front of – or in back of, rather – her waiting audience. She still hasn't turned to face him, still isn't sure if she's ready to, and given Daryl's continued statuesque appearance this suits him just fine.
At her unexpected glee, however, she feels Daryl whip to face her and if she had to guess, the poor man is more caught off guard than ever. Can't say she blames him, really; she can hardly understand her own newfound emotions, let alone explain them. And so, she allows a peek of herself as she turns a fraction of a degree, catching a glimpse of those seductive dark orbs as they probe her own.
It surprises her, then, that she doesn't feel the need to shrink back to her corner of darkness and let loose a few more freedom tears. Instead, she's drawn to that hypnotic stare and shivers under the sheer allure of the trap she finds herself snared within. So she enjoys it for what it's worth, for however long it lasts. A meek smile graces her lips, gentle and sweet, as she attempts to convey the relief she feels that he's still standing here, with her, listening to her aching heart.
That he came back and offered her one last chance.
Daryl seems to understand every last unspoken word with appalling speed, taking two steps her direction until he stands poised in front of her, still armed with that enigmatic gaze. Carol allows a moment, then two to pass between them before moving forward, pushing past the final barrier separating her space from his. She wraps both arms atop his shoulders with a boldness and grace that surprises even her, sealing her hold firm, but not too firm; close, but not too close, as she binds them together in their first real embrace.
Carol can feel the surprise, the rising surge of panic as Daryl stiffens, readying himself for the worst outcome imaginable. A mix of understanding and disappointment swells within her, so she clutches his shoulders tight in response, waiting for the moment understanding overrides instinct.
She'll wait as long as she needs to.
Her hands, timid and small and somewhat refrained, begin drawing little shapes along the hard planes of his back, comforting circles with no real rhyme or reason while she waits, patient and kind and caring. She hopes he senses it, too, the freedom, the peace, the happiness she feels inside, that her heart yearns to share. She resists wandering too far or too long – just neat little geometric shapes along the tips of his shoulder blades and occasionally his back. She knows he has scars there, so does she, but she doesn't dwell on them now. Her outlines are for healing, not breaking.
She holds him for minutes, maybe hours, before his body relaxes under her touch, soft and unresisting and oh so warm. Her fingers still the minute his body turns limp, but when his arm – that strong, firm arm that's killed hundreds of undead – snakes across her middle back to rest along her hipbone, gentle at first, then tighter as the embrace wears on, she knows she's won.
A burst of emotion, half-laugh and half-sob, bubbles out of her when Daryl wraps his other hand around her too, tugging her close against him until all she can see, sense, touch and smell is him: that perfect combination of nature and leather she's come to adore. She clings tighter, intent on never releasing her hold, and is partly surprised when Daryl returns the gesture, ushering her further within the secure crux of his arm.
Oddly enough, her chance to say goodbye feels less like an ending and more like a beginning.
And yet, Carol finds she doesn't mind. She doesn't mind at all.
Sophia would be proud.
This work is proudly inspired my by dear friend Quodl's "Goodbye" gifset, which is linked on my profile page (fanfiction hates links). Thank you for reading – hope you enjoyed! ^_^