Daryl lay bleeding on the forest floor, drifting in and out of consciousness. Whenever he surfaced, it was only to meet a terrible pain that overwhelmed him and forced him back down into the darkness.
His sleep was haunted by fever dreams. Vague images floating through the black: his father raising the belt. The smoke rising off the rubble of their house, and the sheet covering his mother's (strangely small) remains. Merle yelling, Merle leaving, Merle coming back again. The flash of the firebombs dropping on Atlanta, the feel of heat on his face. The faces of his friends- Rick, Carol, Glenn, Maggie... Sophia…
Sophia…
Hours passed before he was able to wake up fully. He rolled over and promptly vomited, skull throbbing and vision filled with stars. He heaved again and again until his stomach was emptied. His chest burned, the straining of his muscles aggravating his battered ribs.
"…help…"
No one responded. He was alone.
I'm going to die here. I'm going to die alone and no one will ever know what happened to me.
That thought was enough to get him to try sitting up. His first few attempts were futile- every time he tried, his head swam and he collapsed again. Finally he was able to grab onto a tree and get enough leverage to pull himself partway up. He leaned back against it, breathing like he'd just finished running a marathon. The roughness of the bark on his bare skin helped him focus. He rested his cheek against the coolness of the tree, focusing on collecting himself, slowing his breath.
Gotta move. Gotta find help.
It seemed like divine intervention that he hadn't been found by a walker yet, but Daryl wasn't going to push his luck any further. He regarded his wrist for a moment, noting the bruising and swelling before pulling at his shirt. The material was worn and tore easily. Grabbing at the sticks lying on the ground next to him, he fashioned a splint from the cloth and wood. It was messy, but it would do until- if – he could make it back to the prison.
One step at a time.
He struggled to his feet, and held onto the tree until he was sure he could stand on his own. Each breath he took burned. Broken ribs, broken wrist. Split head. Shit, he was in bad shape.
Common Dixon. Move your ass, ain't no one else gonna do it for you.
After a long moment taking in his surroundings, he regained his sense of direction. It would be a long haul, but at least he knew which way the prison was. Now it was a matter of getting there before the dead got him. Merle had left his crossbow for some reason, but there were only two bolts left. Daryl gingerly leaned down and grabbed it out of the dirt with his (blessedly) uninjured right hand.
At least he had one thing going for him.