Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Daryl and Beth is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the Walking Dead story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

MAJOR appreciation to wonderful beta-readers Suz Singer, Rubiredslippers, Darkskiesandprettylies, and EmElleAre55 who took time to read this chapter and send me edits.

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Beth knew she should feel something about her daddy getting murdered right in front of her. So far, all she felt was numb. She had no idea if she would ever see her sister again, or if Maggie was even alive. For all Beth knew – Maggie, Glenn, Carol, Rick, Michonne, Carl, the baby, and all of the others were dead.

The only reason she was still breathing was because of the man walking two paces in front of her. As if her eyes were burning a hole in his back – right between the wings – Daryl Dixon turned to look at her.

Right now he was still Healthy Prison Daryl, his clothes were relatively clean - albeit the blood, his hair was trimmed, but not so far that it didn't skirt playfully over his eyes, and he was only sporting a two-day beard. She had seen Forest Survival Daryl once before, after they lost the farm, and she suspected she'd be seeing him again in the very near future.

She knew him well enough to be able to read the emotion written in his expression. Anger. Despair. Grief. No fear, of course. She couldn't remember ever seeing the crossbow wielding walker-killer express fear. Sadness maybe – sorrow even – but never fear. She'd seen him angry plenty of times, and she'd seen him self-loath on more than one occasion, but as far as she knew Daryl wasn't afraid of anything.

He was quiet now, clearly perturbed. Whatever he was thinking – he wasn't sharing it with her – not verbally at least. But she could tell by his tense shoulders, and the way he was stomping through the brush that he wasn't happy. He hadn't said a word since he told her they were at a safe distance to slow down a bit. She was grateful for the reprieve. The back of her knees ached, and her arm was sore from firing the gun so many times. "Ya all right?" He asked her.

No, she wanted to say, but instead she gave him a stiff nod, crossing her arms over her chest. Beth wasn't ready to talk about it yet. He turned forward again but – after a minute – she noticed he'd slowed down even more. She couldn't help wondering if he was getting tired himself, or slowing down for her. She guessed the later was probably true. He didn't look very tired, just pissed. She wished she had his stamina, but she'd been inside the prison for a long time, and her body was feeling the effects of the mad dash away from the prison, and all the walking they'd done since.

Beth didn't know where the archer was leading her and she realized - with a small shock - that she didn't care. She knew she should be freaking out about Maggie. Heck, she should have insisted they turn around and go back for Maggie. But if her sister, and the others, had survived the Governor's attack on the prison, they would have run just like Beth and Daryl had. They would have been smart enough not to stick around, with walkers overrunning the place.

To distract herself from thoughts of Maggie's demise, she did an inventory of what she had on her body. The only clothes she had were the ones she was wearing when they'd high-tailed it out of the prison, and they were covered in sweat, dirt and blood. Beth never took her bracelets off, so she still had those. She had the bug-out-bag that Daryl had the good judgment to scoop up on their way out, and tucked into the bag was the crow-bar she'd armed herself with back at the prison. She'd stopped to wipe the blood and brains off the make-shift weapon after her last walker kill. Just before the attack someone – Daryl maybe – had given her a hand-gun, and she held it in her right hand. She looked down at the gun, and was almost surprised to see the glint of metal under her fingers. She'd been holding the firearm for so long that it felt like it had become a part of her, an extension of her own blood and bone. Even though they hadn't seen a walker in hours, Beth was still grasping the weapon with the anticipation of another run-in.

She decided she liked the feeling of the heavy, cold metal under her palm. It was a safe feeling. Beth had long ago lost touch with the things that used to make her feel safe. Things like her mama running her fingers through her hair while humming Beth's favorite gospel hymns, the farmhouse that she was born in, and how it had always seemed like an impenetrable fortress to her. But nothing felt safe like knowing that her daddy was asleep in the next room. Now the things that made her feel safe were almost non-existent. She could count 'em on one hand. One, the gun. Two, Daryl. Three, …she stopped herself. There was no three.

Walking in silence behind Daryl, she began to grasp something she hadn't before the attack. She realized that the gun did actually make her powerful, at least in a sense. It meant it didn't matter that she was small, scrawny, and barely an adult. She could still be deadly. Like Carl, she thought to herself. Hewas younger than her by several years, yet he had become a formidable member of the group. They counted on Carl because he could shoot.He was proficient with his gun, and he wasn't afraid to use it.Beth laughed bitterly at her naïve line of thinking. It was stupid to think the gun gave her power. With a gun, she could be powerful. But it wasn't too difficult to knock that gun out of her hand. And then she was powerless again.

For some reason, thinking of Carl caused a memory to flash in her mind. Michonne's sword glistening in the sun-light as the Governor swept it in a downward arc connecting with her daddy's neck. She saw the act repeated over and over again in slow motion, which was worse than how it happened in real life.

The memory made something snap inside Beth. A completely unexpected wave of intense anger surged through her veins, and it was all she could do to keep one foot in front of the other. She gasped involuntarily, unable to hold in the pulsating rage threatening to clench up all her muscles.

Hearing her intake of breath, Daryl spun around, bringing his bow up instantly. His eyes took her in before he squinted, checking the woods behind, and around her. She reached out, putting her hand on a tree for support and doubled over.

There were no tears. Only stars dancing behind her eyelids and a hollow ache inside her gut like she'd been kicked by a horse. Rather than sorrow, she associated the pain with fury. Beth knew utter and total wretchedness. She had felt that before over and over again. Before she had wanted nothing more than to give up and die. This wasn't the same type of feeling. This wasn't grief, or at least not any kind of grief she had ever experienced, and she'd been through the ringer a few times; her friends and neighbors, mama dying and comin' back, Jimmy, Patricia, Zack, and now maybe everyone else – except Daryl.

It wasn't right. Daddy was good and he died. The Governor was evil, and he was still breathing. "Beth?" A husky voice drew her from her revelry. Beth rose up, and met Daryl's eyes. He was looking at her with obvious concern. "Ya need a break, girl?"

She felt like the earth was swirling around her feet, but somehow Daryl's electric blue eyes anchored her in place. "Daryl," she choked out, reaching for him.

He took two strides before he was next to her, putting his arms protectively around her. She let him shift her weight off the tree and onto him instead. She laid her head on his chest, grateful for this rare gesture of comfort from him – knowing it wasn't easy for him. "Daryl, did ya see what he did to…to my…?" She couldn't finish. She couldn't quite say the word 'daddy.' Not yet. Not out loud.

Daryl's grunt told her he understood what she meant without her having to say it. "I saw it." He said, his chest vibrating against her cheek as he spoke. She felt the weight of his chin on top of her head, and he stroked her hair softly probably waiting for her to cry. Hadn't she told him that she didn't cry anymore?

They stood like that for a moment, and she imagined them drawing strength from one another. He'd held her like this before, so it wasn't a first for them, but something was different this time. She felt a fierce tidal wave of affection towards the archer. Simultaneously she had an irresistible longing not to lose him. Not him. Daryl was the only familiar thing left in the wild world she found herself surviving in. He was her anchor to normalcy, her northern star – and he blazed brightly, just like a star. Daryl had always been the group's guardian angel, had always made her feel safe. There was a bible verse that had always reminded her of Daryl:

"I know all the things you do. I have seen your love, your faith, your service, and your patient endurance. And I can see your constant improvement in all these things." Revelation 2:19

"Sit down." Daryl said, helping her down to the ground. She put her back to the tree and watched him check the forest around them again, before he pulled the crossbow off his shoulder and propped it beside her, within arm's reach – always within arm's reach. If anyone needed to worry about wearing their weapon so long that it became a part of them, it was Daryl.

He squatted next to her with one knee propped up, his forearm resting on it. He was worrying his bottom lip into a thin line like he did when he was contemplating something really hard. They sat in silence for a few minutes, both lost in thought.

Beth's rage wasn't going anywhere. Beneath the lighter thoughts of Daryl was the remembrance of her father's murder. She sat and silently stewed. She couldn't remember ever being so consumed by her own anger before. It felt like her blood was boiling. She wanted to lash out. Kick something. Hit something. Kill something. 'Where's a walker when you need one?'

"Figure we'll get some rest t'night. Loop back around ta the prison in the mornin'. See if we can catch up with some uh the others." Daryl said, breaking the silence. He picked up a twig, and started rolling it around between his index and thumb fingers. She could feel his restlessness. He was uncomfortable with what he took to be her grieving. He stood up again, quickly as he sat, and whipped the crossbow into place on his back.

She thought about what he was proposing. Finding the others. If the others survived, she thought. Even if they did, they could never go home again. Not with that mass-murderer alive and knowing the prison's location. Not with all the walkers the battle had drawn in. Between the walkers and men like the Governor roaming about, could they ever really be safe? Would they always be on the run? "I can't look for them right now." She said, catching herself off guard by her own statement, having only just realized she'd made a decision.

He cocked his head at her, and frowned. "Watcha mean?"

"What's the point in finding them if we're always running for our lives? Nowhere is gonna be safe as long as the Governor has this vendetta against our group. Don't ya think we have enough to worry about with the dead walking around? Daryl," she paused, taking a deep breath, "I need your help."

His eyebrows crunched inward even further and the wiry muscles in his arm flexed as he adjusted a bit. "Shit Beth jus' tell me watcha need. Anything." She couldn't help glancing up from her dirty hands – her right one still clutching the gun - to meet those sizzling blue eyes. His tone was soft, comforting. He probably thought she was acting crazy because she was overwhelmed with grief or in shock or something. But this wasn't about grief – it was about preserving good and destroying evil. Wasn't it her responsibility, now, to ensure that what happened to her daddy didn't ever happen to anyone else? And wasn't Daryl the most likely out of the entire group to be able to dish out some vigilante justice? Except for Michonne, and where she had failed, Beth thought Daryl would succeed, because he wouldn't have to do it alone, he'd have her. Now that she was thinking about it, it almost seemed as if the task she was about to suggest was sanctioned by heaven itself with the two of them coming together like they had. She almost smiled as the image of the wings on Daryl's back came to mind.

He raised his eyebrows. "I want -" she started, but then she knew she had to word it right. Want was not a strong enough word to describe the burning longing she felt for retribution, to even the scales. "I need to kill the Governor."

His eyes widened, and he rocked back on his heels with a low whistle. "Wasn't 'specting you t' say that."

She swallowed. "Will you help me Daryl? For my father."

"Girl, you must be more tired than I thought. Stupid notions like that'll get you killed. 'Sides Governor's long gone."

"It doesn't matter." She pushed up off the ground trying to stand, but was forced to lean against the tree as a she got dizzy from standing so fast. "You're a hunter, right? An expert tracker? If anyone can find him, you can." She brushed her hands on her pants.

"Aint happening, Beth." He said, his eyes cutting over her shoulder toward the forest behind her.

She felt the anger surging through her again and she used it, spitting back. " You said 'anything' remember?"

He held his hands out, palms up, "How's I s'posed to know you been thinking 'bout revenge all this time we been walking. I thought you might need a hug or something." He toed around in the dirt, avoiding her eyes.

"A hug?"

He shrugged. "You're a girl aint ya?" When he saw her shocked expression, he continued. "Shit Beth, I know no hug is gonna fix it. Aint nothing gonna fix what you seen but time. Never should uh seen it." He turned away from her, and in his profile she could see his jaw muscles working.

She tensed, jumping on the opportunity she saw. "You know what, Daryl. I don't believe good people can survive in this world anymore. I saw that man…m…murder my father in cold blood. My daddy was a good man. He didn't deserve to be butchered like…" she stopped herself fearing she really was about to cry. "I see the truth now, Daryl. There are two kinds of people can survive in this world" she held up two fingers on her left hand. "There are the ones that are bad. They're bad 'cause they do what has to be done to survive - even if it's wrong. Then there are truly evil people who enjoy doin' wrong. We got a responsibility, Daryl, don't you see?" He looked back at her as she said his name. The torment she felt was mirrored in his eyes. Daryl and her father hadn't been close – not like daddy and Rick had - but she knew they trusted and respected each other, and in the zombie apocalypse that was all you could hope for from the people you kept close. Her father's death – and the loss of their home and group - was burdening the archer's soul whether he wanted to admit it or not because it was reflected in his agonized eyes.

Daryl shook his head, and put his hands on his hips. "No. Yer daddy didn't deserve that, 'course he didn't. But you really want t' go gunning for the Governor, Beth? Aint gonna bring Herschel back. Aint what he'd want for you neither." He spoke the last part so quietly she could barely hear him.

"I know."

He started again before she could say anything more. "Governor's no walker. He's a living breathing asshole an' he aint gonna die easy, else someone would uh done it already."

"I know that too." She remembered something and felt it was worth mentioning for the sake of the argument. "Michonne did put his eye out though."

He scoffed. "No offense, but you aint no Michonne."

"You think I don't know that? But he's not invincible, Daryl. He's just flesh and blood, like you and me, and he can be killed. You're as good as Michonne." She threw out her hand toward him, "Maybe even better. You could teach me. We could be partners, at least until he's dead. Then if you wanna go off on your own, I'll understand." She said a silent prayer that he wouldn't take her up on that last part.

He considered her words for a moment. His oily black hair dusted his lightning blue eyes. For the first time she noticed that his naked shoulders were splattered with dry blood. She could see him biting his bottom lip and she knew what she'd said had struck some kinda chord with him. Was it possible? Could they find the Governor? Could Daryl teach her how to track? Would he help her hunt and kill a man?

Before answering her he looked around them checking the woods again, probably buying himself some time to think. She waited patiently being accustomed to Daryl's tendency to mull over an answer for so long that you might have forgotten what you asked him before he finally gave a response. Surprisingly, he didn't take too long this time. "You best sleep on this, Beth" was all he said.

She considered his advice. Would she feel the same zealous drive to cut out the Governor's heart when the sun rose tomorrow morning? She felt pretty sure she would. But she also recognized the wisdom in what the archer was saying. If she wanted to survive long enough to kill the Governor, she was going to have to learn not to make rash decisions. Rushing into stuff was stupid and she'd seen good people get killed that way. "All right," She conceded. Then she had a thought. "What if it rains tonight? Will ya still be able to track him?"

He looked up at the sky. "Aint gonna rain." He pointed north. "There's a cabin up the way. Found it on a run. We'll track up there. Head out in the morning."

She nodded, and gestured for him to lead the way.

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Thank you – in advance – for taking time to read my story. If you feel like leaving me a review, I would love to hear from you.