SUMMARY : After the Reader is kidnapped and tormented by the Governor, Daryl finds her having been brought back to the prison alive. Once back home, she struggles to distinguish what's reality as she deals with the aftermath of her attack.
You never noticed how many different shades of gray there were.
When a storm rolls in — clouds thick and dark, shape bulbous and threatening — that's one shade.
When your parents reach a certain age — the hair on top of their heads slowly draining of color, turning from vibrant and youthful, to aged and willowed — that's another.
But this specific shade of gray was unlike the others. This one was subdued. Dull. Hopeless.
You figured that must've been the purpose when building a prison cell.
The concrete walls were assembled like armor, keeping the brilliance of life away from its occupant, forcing them into a muted existence.
That's how you felt in this very moment.
You were focused on one very specific spot on the wall opposite of you — the spot where the concrete was just a smidgen lighter than the rest of the wall. You wondered why.
Maybe wear and tear? Maybe mildew? Maybe whoever sat beneath it used to rest their head against that very spot and with time, the back of their head rubbed away the color?
You kept looking, kept guessing, kept ignoring. Because if you stopped thinking about that spot on the wall, then you'd have to acknowledge the pain radiating through your body. You'd have to relive the trauma you'd just been through.
And you didn't think you'd be able to handle that.
You could hear whispers from outside the cell, hear words float through the air and bounce off the protective shield you'd built around you.
Post traumatic stress…
Hasn't spoken a word…
Won't let me take a look…can't see what damage has been done…
It was better for you to just observe that spot on the wall. Then everything would be okay.
You heard the steady click of Hershel's crutches and a second set of footsteps re-enter the cell. Hershel suddenly appeared in your line of vision, pulling a chair in front of you and sitting down, propping his crutches up against the wall.
The other footsteps belonged to Daryl, who resumed his seat beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
The tension radiating off him was palpable.
Pulling your gaze away from the wall, you locked eyes with Hershel. You hated the way he was looking at you. All you had to do was say 'please stop staring at me like I'm some kind of beaten puppy you just found on the side of the road' but your mouth wouldn't cooperate.
"Y/N, can you hear me?" Hershel spoke, his lips not matching up with the words — like there was an audio delay. He held one finger in front of your face and slowly moved it back and forth, but your eyes simply glazed over as you resumed watching that spot on the wall.
You heard the old man say the word 'concussion' but everything after that faded out.
You were vaguely aware of your skull throbbing, of different parts of your body aching when you twitched, of your stomach feeling as though it was on fire.
"Why the hell can't she say nothin'?" came Daryl's gruff voice from beside you, an edge to his words, and some of the fogginess faded — he always had a way of grounding you.
"She's in shock, Daryl. It's gonna take some time 'til we figure out exactly what happened here," Hershel responded, his voice calm and soothing.
You could feel Daryl getting more and more agitated. "I ain't gonna jus' sit here an' do nothin' while — "
"Daryl," Hershel interrupted sternly, his gaze boring into the archers. "The last thing she needs is ta' have you flyin' off the handle. Now, you pull yourself together, boy. I won't ask ya again," he finished in a firm whisper, as if you weren't sitting right there.
You felt some of the fight leave Daryl as he slouched slightly on the bed — from the corner of your eye, you could see him rest his elbows on his knees, sneaking a glance at you every so often.
Hershel reached for you.
You flinched.
Hershel pulled back.
The air got tense once more.
"Y/N, I'm not gonna hurt you. I need you ta' let me help," the farmer murmured patiently, clasping his hands together in his lap.
You slowly nodded and saw Hershel smile — this was some sort of progress, you figured.
He began dabbing a cloth on the side of your face, your flesh stinging from the contact, but you welcomed the sensation — it was making you sharper, bringing a little life back to your eyes. Hershel pulled the cloth away and you saw it was stark red, covered in blood.
This went on for several minutes on various parts of your body and by the end of it, a small pile of gauze had formed at your feet, each individual piece soaked to the brim with your blood.
You must've been in worse shape than you thought.
The whole time Hershel worked on you, Daryl remained by your side, completely still except for his incessant foot tapping. You knew Daryl better than anyone — he was itching for a fight. The only thing keeping him here was the fact that you needed him.
You wanted to tell him everything — how you were taken, how stupid you felt for blindly running into their trap, how sorry you were that he was the one who found you curled up outside the gate after they brought you back.
You wanted to tell him everything that had happened to you since you'd been missing.
Your brain was screaming at you to just open your mouth, to say something, to say anything. But your body wouldn't cooperate, leaving you trapped like a prisoner inside your own mind.
Your arms were wrapped protectively around your stomach, a position you hadn't let up since you'd been let go. Hershel reached for your arms and you flinched, jerking back instinctually.
Daryl straightened up, hands slightly outstretched, unsure how to help and you wished you could do something about that panicked look in his eyes.
You peeked down at your shirt, noticing the droplets of blood seeping through the material, and tightened your arms further around your middle. Hershel was looking at the same spot, mouth set in a tight line. He shared a worried glance with Daryl, obviously needing to tend to all of your wounds.
You opened your mouth, wanting to explain why no one could ever see what was under your shirt.
The two men froze, waiting with baited breath for you to finally speak — but no words came out, leaving you to simply snap your mouth shut.
Things were beginning to appear less foggy, less muddled. The pain was becoming clearer, the memories tangible, and your stomach churned.
The day had started out so normal. How did everything change so quickly?
You stabbed your knife through the chain linked fence and into the brain of a walker pressed up against it. This had been going on for twenty minutes but the dead just kept coming.
Ever since the Governor attacked, killing Axel in the process, the amount of walkers had tripled — apparently drawn in by all the gunfire that had followed. You grunted as you yanked your knife out of another skull.
It was early morning, most of the group just waking — except for Daryl, who was on guard duty in the watch tower and Rick, Michonne and Carl, who had just left the prison. They decided to go scouting for more weapons and ammo in preparation for the next attack — this time, your group wouldn't be blindsided.
You turned slightly, glancing up at the archer in the tower. He was pacing the length of the platform, scanning the trees, gripping onto a rifle with his crossbow strung across his back.
As Daryl turned on his heel to pace in the other direction, he shot a look your way— he'd always made it a priority to keep an eye on you. You sent him a little wave, feeling your heart beat just a fraction faster.
He nodded once in return, scanning the area around you before focusing back on the trees.
You and Daryl had a special bond.
It was hard to explain and even harder to understand sometimes. It was unspoken. A mutual understanding that the other person's life meant more than your own. You'd die for the man. Hell, on a couple occasions you almost did. And if not for him, you were pretty sure you'd be six feet under by now. You owed him your life.
You sighed, forcing your gaze from him and continued working on the fence.
A couple minutes had gone by when suddenly, you'd heard something.
It came from beyond the trees and you could've sworn on your life it sounded like…crying?
You paused, lowering your knife to your side as you swung your eyes up at Daryl — he was still patrolling back and forth, clearly having heard nothing out of the ordinary. But as you looked back at the fence, a few walkers began stumbling away from you and towards the trees.
You weren't crazy. The dead had heard something too.
Just as you were about to call up for Daryl to come check it out with you, the noise got louder and you were positive now that it was someone crying in the bushes outside the fence.
Your stomach dropped as you squinted, trying to see who was out there. The walkers who'd heard the noise disappeared into the trees and suddenly, the person wasn't crying…they were screaming.
And you took off.
You were vaguely aware of Daryl shouting your name but he was too far away to stop you. You couldn't stop yourself from sprinting to the opening of the fence, pulling the gates open, and running head first towards whoever was in peril.
You didn't think. You didn't slow. You didn't hesitate. All you could think of was that someone was in danger and needed your help.
Bursting through the trees, knife up and ready to strike, you scanned the now silent area. "Hello?" you called out, staining your ears for any noise.
A lone walker limped its way towards you, arms outstretched. You quickly approached it, stabbing your knife through its temple.
But the second you yanked your weapon from its skull, a blinding pain erupted in the back of your head, the ground came rushing up to meet you, and the world faded away.
A strangled gasp escaped your throat as your pulse skyrocketed.
You turned to look at Daryl, your mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish, and you immediately reached for him.
He wordlessly took your hand in his.
You knew he was uncomfortable with physical touch. But he was even more uncomfortable seeing you so shook up.
His touch grounded you further.
You squeezed his hand, closing your eyes and taking a breath. His fingers felt rough and calloused wrapped around yours.
But he squeezed back just as tight.
You stopped struggling.
What was the point? The man was going to do whatever he wanted regardless of how much you fought back. But it sure as hell didn't mean you were going to break.
The Governor needed information — information about the prison, about your group — information you were never going to give. He could torture you until your last breath and it still wouldn't change a damn thing.
And he knew that.
You grimaced, the ropes binding your wrists to the arms of the wooden chair you sat in digging further into your flesh. Blood trickled down the side of your head and down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your body had gone numb, dull aches and pains radiating through you, spiking every time you shifted.
The Governor stood in front of you, chest heaving, fingers tapping along the bottle of whiskey he held. The sight of your blood on his knuckles made your stomach churn but you refused to give him the satisfaction of throwing up.
He stared down at you, cold and calculating. "It didn't have ta' be like this, ya know? All ya had ta' do was tell me what I wanted ta' know," he murmured lowly, all his 'southern charm' long gone. He sighed heavily, taking a long drink straight from the bottle before tilting his head. "Now, what're we gonna do with you?"
You glared up at him, shrugging casually, forcing yourself not to cringe from the pain that small movement caused. "You could let me go," you shot back cheekily, feeling your lip split open further as you smiled at the Governor.
In the next moment, the man back handed you, your cheek stinging from the slap.
You spit a glob of blood onto the concrete floor, heaving a breath as you turned to face him once more. Suddenly, the Governor slammed the bottle down onto the table beside you, bent down, and clasped onto the tops of your forearms.
"Or I could kill you," he growled, so close you could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"You could," you concurred, leveling his stare fiercely, unsure where the sudden boldness came from. "But then my people would kill your people…and then your people would kill my people…and round and round we go," you singsonged, silently wondering if you'd finally lost your mind. Regardless, you leaned in closer. "Between you and me, I don't think you've got the sack to kill me," you whispered, lingering on each word. "You'd rather make someone else do the dirty work."
The Governor scoffed, his one eye squinting at you, the other hidden behind the eyepatch. "You think you're real clever, don't ya?" he hissed, his eye tracing every inch of your body, making you squirm in your seat.
His hands dug further into your forearms, the skin beginning to bruise beneath him. You couldn't help but wince, the pressure grinding the bones in your arm together.
The Governor laughed, deep and menacing, as he finally stood up, letting go of you. Then, like a lion stalking its prey, he began circling you. "Maybe, just maybe, there's another way ta' make you talk."
His fingers traced up your bicep and over your collarbone as he came to stand behind you, a shiver jolting through your body. He clamped his hands down on each of your shoulders, squeezing them lightly as he brought his lips to your ear.
"It didn't work with the farmers daughter, but maybe it'll work with you," he jeered, his breath tickling your neck.
A red hot anger coursed through you as you yanked against the ropes, only stilling when he began to laugh.
"Oh, no, don't stop now," he chuckled darkly. "I like it when you struggle," he whispered as his hands began to slide off your shoulders and further down your chest.
You pushed the memory away, feeling tears spring to your eyes no matter how hard you tried to hold them back.
And then suddenly, someone was storming into the cell, pushing through the group that had suddenly appeared around the entrance.
"What happened?" came a demanding, familiar voice and you let out a sigh of relief.
Rick.
Before anyone could answer him, he was crouching down in front of you, a shaky breath escaping his lips. He stared at you, eyes deep and distressed and his expression told you that you looked just as shitty as you felt.
"What happened?" he asked again, this time directly to you, his voice much softer.
You couldn't find it in you to respond, your voice still lost somewhere. Instead, you just lowered your eyes, pulling your hand out of Daryl's, and wrapped your arms tightly around your stomach once more.
You wanted to disappear. You couldn't see everyone staring at you, but you could feel them.
Rick gently placed his hand on your knee in an attempt to comfort you, in an attempt to let you know that you were not alone — you were with family.
But when you raised your eyes, suddenly it wasn't Rick kneeling in front of you.
It was the Governor.
And you lost it.
An animalistic scream tore through your throat and before you could stop yourself, you tackled the Governor to the ground. A burst of adrenaline shot through you as you pummeled your fists into the Governors chest, all of your pent up rage being released.
You could feel someone else tugging on you, other screams besides your own, but all you saw was the man who tormented you, his lips turning up into a cheeky grin.
And the Governor laughed from beneath you, his voice echoing in your ears, only fueling your anger.
I like it when you struggle, he whispered, chills running up and down your spine.
You let out another cry, throwing a right hook and connecting with something solid. Your vision was blurred with tears as your shouts turned to sobs, feeling the adrenaline start to wear off, your beaten body screaming at you to stop.
And then suddenly, like a light switch turned on, you realized you weren't attacking the Governor.
You were attacking Rick.
You froze, your hand raised mid-strike, heart hammering against your ribcage. Gasping, you allowed whoever was grabbing you to finally pull you off Rick and you felt the cell wall press up against your back.
A hand suddenly grabbed your chin, jerking your face forward, and you came face to face with Daryl.
"Hey, hey, hey…easy, Y/N, easy," came his calm, gruff voice.
But his expression revealed that he was anything but calm.
Your eyes frantically bounced back and forth, watching as Hershel grabbed his crutches and stood up while Glenn rushed into the cell to help Rick off the floor. Maggie, and Carol stood outside the door, watching the scene with horrified expressions, unsure what to do.
"I-I-I," you stammered, voice cracking from being unused for so long. "I-I didn't — I didn't mean…I would never — I —"
"Hey!" Daryl barked, forcing you to look at him once more. "I need ya ta' relax, ya hear me? Ain't nothin' gonna happen ta' ya, alright?" he snapped, his voice hard yet still somehow bringing you comfort.
You took in a shaky breath, one after another, until you felt your heart start to resume its steady pace. Looking past Daryl at Rick, you opened your mouth to apologize — to explain — but yet again, you couldn't form the words.
"It's alright, Y/N," Rick suddenly spoke, answering your unsaid apology, rubbing his jaw gingerly before straightening. "We're gonna help you, okay? But we need ta' know what happened."
Daryl finally released his hold on you and turned around sharply, glaring at Rick. "Now ain't the time, man. That shit can wait," he growled, his entire body going rigid.
Rick leveled him with a patient stare. "There might not be time, Daryl. If this was the Governor, we need ta' be preparin' ourselves for another attack."
"Ya really think she's gonna be able ta' tell us shit? Nearly clawed your damn eyes out jus' now!" Daryl snarled, starting to pace like a caged animal.
"If this was some kind a message he was tryin' ta' send us, we need ta' be ready for a retaliation," Rick shot back authoritatively, the 'sheriff' side of him coming to light.
"Ain't no damn —"
"Rick's right," you finally croaked and everyone around you froze, all eyes suddenly on you. You shrunk under their stares as Daryl turned back to face you.
"What'd ya mean?" he rumbled, his voice softening after seeing how scared you looked.
You gulped, feeling a small part of you shrivel up inside. You never wanted anyone to find out about this. "H-He…he was sending a message," you whispered, feeling as though your entire body was on fire as you tightened your arms around your waist.
"What's the message?" Rick demanded, sharing an uncertain look with Daryl.
You glanced up at the archer, who's attention was now laser focused on you. Tears swarmed your vision as you dropped your hands to your sides, toying with the hem of your shirt. "Me. I'm the message," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Then, you took a deep breath and winced as your slowly raised your shirt.
And there, carved into the flesh across your stomach, was one single word.
Surrender.