Hoar frost was still lining occasional patches of moss, the edges of papery grass, and the boughs and dying leaves of tree saplings and wild raspberries where the sun hadn't hit the ground yet. The tip of his nose was cold in spite of the black bandana he had pulled up over his face to protect it against the cutting winds. The skin around his eyes was white, and the right side of his face and his right shoulder were aching. He had zipped up his jacket a while back for even without headwind it was too cold already to leave it open. If the wolf hadn't found shelter it would need to move south again – not even a wolf could survive a winter out in the open this far north.

Rick wouldn't survive the winter up here.

Daryl looked over at his Companion and found Rick looking back at him. The guilt in Rick's eyes made him uncomfortable, as always, especially since it was unreasonable. Rick had not been the one to rip his mother apart right before his eyes in the most gruesome way imaginable, and Daryl didn't think there had been any way for him to stop Shane from doing so. Rick had avoided killing people ever since, either as a Changed wolf or the Companion of a Hunter. But he knew that Rick always felt guilty after feeding, and they had passed the deer carcass on their way north from the village, picked clean, not a morsel wasted, with a wolf's trail leading both up to it from the west and away from it toward the south, toward the village – back toward Daryl.

Gnawing on his lower lip, grateful that his bandana was hiding his nervous tell, Daryl looked down at his feet. "If we don't find it within the next few days, before the snow, we'll have to move back south again," he pointed out the obvious. Rick was the one sleeping out in the open every night. He would know all too well that it was getting too cold for that.

"So will he." The rare sound of Rick's voice had Daryl glancing back up again before carefully navigating his way past a fallen tree, with its uprooted foot nearly blocking the trail they were following. "We'll find him again if he does, Daryl. We always do."

Daryl exhaled deeply, his breath pluming up from under his bandana. He didn't bother to look up. "Yeah, but we're losin' time. I want it gone." It never escaped his notice how Rick still referred to the wolf, his former best friend, as "he" whereas Daryl himself always made a point of referring to it as "it" – a beast, a were creature without a soul, a creature that he would not have to feel remorse over for killing. Daryl had killed three Changed wolves since he had become a Hunter, and two of them had severely injured him before he had succeeded in putting them down after they had attacked him, either at first sight or in an ambush.

The other four he had managed to catch in their Changed human form, and forced them to drink the potion that would keep them from Changing back again.

For all intents and purposes, he had healed those four. But of course they would not see it that way. To them, he had violated their very nature, taking something from them that they had valued ever since it had been forced on them by a bite. His only alternative would have been to kill them.

But Daryl didn't kill easily.

Still, he wanted this one kill that he was yearning for to come easy to him. He needed that particular wolf to be an "it" until the day he managed to put it down – and beyond.

.-.

They found a trail in the early afternoon, and it pointed south – back toward the village. Both Daryl and Rick went down on their knees to inspect the paw prints in the soft earth, Daryl by looking at them and carefully placing his fingertips in one of them to correctly assess its size, Rick by leaning down all the way to the ground to sniff the scent the Changed wolf had left behind.

"It's him," he declared as he came back up again, defiantly meeting Daryl's eyes. "This is definitely his scent – and he's still hungry."

Everything about this statement was triggering for Daryl. Briefly closing his eyes, he saw the huge jaws of the black wolf closing around his mother's arm, heard bones crack, smelled the scent of warm copper in the air as blood gushed out of his mother's throat. Panting, he opened his eyes again. "It," he stated forcefully, staring back at Rick. "It is hungry. This is not a man. It's a beast, and we're here to save the people from it."

He rose from his crouch and reached out to steady himself against a tree. He'd gone without food or water for too long – breakfast with Carol had been at sunrise, what with her busy from dawn to dusk. Rick followed suit, though he didn't have to steady himself. Unless he were to overexert himself, he would be good to go on his meal of the previous night for at least three or four days. He gave Daryl a worried look. "Let's get you back. You need food, and warmth, and rest."

"I'm not a pussy," Daryl snarled, instantly angry and defensive, and glared up at his Companion as he started following the wolf's trail toward the village.

"Never said you were," Rick answered calmly, not taking offense at Daryl's tone of voice or the heat in his look. "But you were sick not too long ago, you haven't regained the weight you've lost, and I can still see the fever in you. Be careful, or you won't live to catch him."

"It."

.-.

She looked up as he opened the door right after knocking, without waiting for her to call out, and as soon as she saw him, Carol knew why he hadn't waited.

The dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes reached down to his cheekbones as he pulled down his bandana, and they were a stark contrast to his pale skin. The claw marks down his cheek were bright red from the cold, and when he took off his jacket and dropped to a crouch in front of the fireplace, he avoided moving his right arm, instead reaching over with his left hand to pull the sleeve off all the way.

He would have sat on his wet boots if she hadn't stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Her heart clenched when he flinched away from her touch in an all too familiar way, either from pain or something else, his head whipping around as he looked up at her with hollow eyes.

She wordlessly pointed at the threadbare couch facing the fireplace and the flames dancing in it, but he silently shook his head, taking a deep breath and holding both hands out toward the fire. Nodding to herself, she crossed the distance toward the couch, bent down and reached around it to bring up a stool, not quite knee-high. He lifted an eyebrow as she brought it over to him. Slowly inclining his head, he rose far enough for her to place the stool under him. "Thanks," he mumbled, his voice sounding as exhausted as he looked, as he sank down onto it.

"So," she began carefully as she sat down on the couch behind him, "have you found the wolf? Is it even a wolf?"

She only saw his silhouette against the fire, so the expression on his face was lost to her when he turned his head sideways, giving her his profile. The way he hung his head, though, the way his shoulders slumped, spoke volumes. "It is a wolf, and it's the one we've been following, yes," he murmured, his voice rough and tired. She listened to the quiet bubbling from the pot on the stove and reminded herself to get him a bowlful of hot stew in ten minutes' time once it was done – if he was still awake then.

"It will need to feed tonight or tomorrow night, from what we've seen. I've gone around the village again to make sure that everyone stays indoors after nightfall – or, even better, after sunset." He carefully rubbed his right shoulder with his left hand and raised his head again, looking back at her now, his face completely in shadow. "Please stay indoors after sunset. I'd hate for you to -" He sounded wounded, scared. How had he been a Hunter for years when the wolves he Hunted got to him this badly?

Carol nodded. "Of course I will. You've told me several times now, and I plan on staying alive. Do you know where to find it?"

"That's the frightening thing right now – it was out there, to the north, but it's circled back to the village. We found its tracks today and they lead back here. We lost it when it crossed the creek north of here." He let his head sink down, his chin touching his shoulder. He looked defeated, and the fight hadn't even begun. "We know that it's hungry, so I can't repeat often enough –" He faltered, remembering that she had only just assured him that she was going to stay indoors after sunset. Tucking his right arm in close to his chest, he lifted his other hand to gently rub the scarred side of his face. "It's been a hard day, and tomorrow will be even harder," he mumbled into his palm and looked back at her again, his body seeming to coil as he prepared to get up. "I think I'll –"

"Wait," she interrupted him. "Dinner is just getting ready. You've been out in the cold all day - you need something hot in your belly before going to bed." With his face again in shadow, she only saw his eyes glittering as he nodded once, quietly thanking her. "It's nothing – you are risking your life for us," she answered softly as she rose from the couch. Very briefly she considered touching his shoulder to reassure him, but then she remembered him flinching from her touch earlier and thought better of it. "I'll get it for you, just stay where you are."

They both ate in front of the fire in comfortable silence, basking in its heat. He held the bowl in his lap with his right hand and fed himself with his left, which seemed odd to her. Finally, she remembered that he had used his right hand to eat during breakfast – and surely he hadn't become left-handed over the course of the day. Maybe the wolves he had Hunted in the past had gotten to him in more ways than one, she mused. Maybe that was why he was a afraid of this one now.

And maybe, just maybe, being afraid would keep him alive until he had Hunted it down.