Chapter Fourteen is ready for you, today. I am obliged to warn you there are not-particularly-graphic references to sex in this. We're getting close to the endgame, now... seems like it's all gone pretty fast, to me. Thank you for sticking with me so far—I've been really looking forward to telling the end of this story. It's all been sitting in my head since June, and now I finally get to start sharing it with you. Enjoy!
Returning and Rest:
Carol stared at the wall.
It was Daryl's wall, and she was in Daryl's room. The early morning light made dim patterns on the faded wallpaper, and over Daryl's blankets. His body warmed the sheets around her, and Carol could sense him lying there at her back—could hear him breathing. It was unusual that she was awake before he was.
She turned towards his window. It was an overcast morning. She could see the branches of the oak trees against that grey sky outside. And inside, against the glass, those ears were still hanging on a string by the window latch.
He kept them, as if he wanted to remind himself of something.
Daryl shifted at her side. He was a restless sleeper. He was always stirring, moving. As if there was just too much inside his head for his body to contain it all. As if he was off his guard when he slept, and everything started creeping its way out.
And he didn't say anything about it, of course, but she could tell he had vivid dreams.
He let out a hard breath. Whispered something she couldn't understand. He was dreaming right now.
And she watched him, a while. Took in the open vulnerability of his face. It pulled at her. Drew her to him.
So she leaned over—kissed him, and woke him up.
In Daryl's dream, he was deep in the forest, with the sweat clinging heavily over his skin.
And the abandoned house was there. The one where he'd searched for Sophia, that summer. The one with the cupboard, where someone little had slept.
But this time, he could see a whitetail doe in the doorway, standing there on her delicate, spindled legs. Their eyes met, and she turned—slipped soundlessly through the open door, and into the shadows beyond.
So he followed her.
But when he stepped inside, he wasn't in the abandoned, country house. He was in that tower in the city—the one where Merle lost his hand.
And there were trees everywhere. The roots tangled over the flooring. The trunks were tall throughout the hallways, and all the rooms were full of briars—wrapped around chairs and climbing up the walls. The trees branches rose up into the ceiling above his head, and their leaves fell down from above in a slow shower.
And the doe was nowhere to be seen. So he tried to find her. Moved forward into a wide network of offices and storerooms. Scanned the scattered leaves for tracks.
He looked for the deer, and he looked for Merle. Looked for Sophia, and looked for his mama.
I'm done lookin' for people.
He'd never be done. Never. He'd always be looking—searching—seeking—seeing. Because Daryl knew who he was. He was a hunter. Hunters search. They seek. They find.
And in his sleep, he sensed a movement in the air above his face. It pierced through the dream, and he started to wake up. The trees grew dim, and the city tower faded along with them.
He opened his eyes, and there was someone there.
Carol. Carol leaning over him.
Carol's lips on his, and sunlight.
Carol.
Being with her was like wandering out in the deepest woods, where no one else would ever go.
That was the only way he could explain the feeling—even to himself. The life he'd led gave him no other language for what she was to him. And so when Daryl woke that morning, and she drew him into that kiss, it was all he could think about. The forest.
She was the early morning. She was the roots inside the earth.
And when he leaned over her, and took her in his arms, she was the smooth flow of the water. When he found himself with his lips on her neck and his hands on her skin, she was the rich soil and the fresh vines twining around the sapling trees.
She was as quiet as the deepest woods. Gentle like its shaded groves. Calm like the morning air, moving imperceptibly through the branches.
He stroked the tips of his fingers across her side, and she yielded to the touch. Sank into the mattress beneath him, and let out a soft sigh. It flowed over his cheek, and ear. And that soft stirring of air on his face—it was enough to break him.
Just to touch someone like that—to know that he could do it, and it was safe. It opened up all sorts of strange, new possibilities in his mind. Things he'd never considered before.
Being with her was rest. It was beauty. It was everything he'd ever loved.
It was peace.
That afternoon, Carol went outside, and watched the others throw the ball in the backyard.
It never occurred to her to join in, but she always liked to look on from a distance. There were never enough people to play a real game—so they tended to make up the rules as they went along. And no one minded—that wasn't the point of the thing, after all.
Daryl was out there, this time. He didn't always join them. But this time, he seemed like he really wanted to.
And to her, Daryl seemed a bit more effusive than usual. Most people wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but Carol could tell. When T-Dog tripped him, and offered him his hand, Daryl took it. Lingered a brief instant in his grip before letting go.
She strongly suspected he needed some comfort—was reaching out to the others for it, in his tentative, quiet way. He hadn't mentioned Merle to her since the night before, when he came back from his visit to their aunt's house. But of course he hadn't forgotten.
When the game was over, Daryl passed her by—touched her arm, and went back into the house. The others followed. And before she knew it, she was alone in the backyard. She could hear the wind in the trees beyond the iron fence.
Carol sat on the porch steps for a long time. Breathed in the cool air, and watched the sun go down.
Merle stared up into the swelling dark. Into the tall branches soaring out above his head.
After he killed the two girls, he left them there in the grass. Didn't really know what else to do. And he went straight back to the car and headed for the woods. Went to lie out in the leaves on the forest floor.
And the place was full of walkers, but he didn't care.
He didn't want to go back to his aunt's house. There was nothing waiting for him there but a barrage of questions he couldn't answer.
So he sprawled out in the leaves, and used some of the stash he kept hidden in the car—some he'd held back from the others, and kept for himself. He hoped it would dull the strange, suffocating feeling welling up in his chest. Like there were things inside his ribcage, trying to claw their way out.
His mind was a tangle of urges and worries and fears. He didn't know what to do next.
And something stirred in the distance. A shape. A walker. He ignored it. He had to think.
Most of all, he wanted someone to talk to. Merle was never very good company for himself. He worked best in front of an audience.
Before the damned apocalypse ruined everything, he'd had plenty of people to listen to him talk. Billy, and Timmy, and his other buddies. They were fucking idiots, but they'd listen when they had to.
The shape lurched closer. He didn't look at it. He could hear its ragged groans. Sense it out of the corner of his eye—moving through the trees, close at his side.
Daryl was the best one to talk to, of course. He was as sharp as anyone Merle had ever met. And somehow, he didn't have to say anything for those smarts to wear off on you—just by getting him to listen they seemed to seep on through. And then you could figure out whatever you were trying to understand.
But when Daryl wasn't around—when he was out squirrel hunting or whatever the hell else it was he did—Jenny had always been real good about listening to him ramble on. She'd lie there on his bed, leaning back on his pillows, twining a lock of her dark hair around her fingertips—and let him talk and talk about whatever bullshit was floating around in his head.
So he wanted Jenny, then. Felt that hollow, nameless pain crawling around in his ribs, again.
He wanted Jenny, and she was gone. He could almost laugh out loud, at that. It was bitterly funny. He wanted to talk to her about what went down—wanted to sort it out with her. Wanted her to make him feel better about her own fucking murder.
Irony was rarely ever lost on Merle.
The walker was right on him, then. Sank to its knees in front of him. Leaned over him, snarling and hungry.
It had been a woman. Its tangled hair hung down over him. The dirty locks stroked his cheek as it leaned in. The skin on most of its face was gone. He could see its grinning teeth, and the tendons flexing on the jawbone.
And Jenny wasn't there, so he talked to the walker, instead.
It was just reaching out for his shoulders—sinking in to bite him. He cuffed it to the side, hard. It rolled on the dirt. Fell down a low slope. He sat up on the ground and watched it go.
"Tell me somethin'," he said. It turned and glared at him from below. Started crawling its way back up to him.
"Tell me why things gotta be like this?"
It reached the top, and struggled to stand. He stood up, too. Waited for it.
"Why are things so goddamned fucking unfair?"
She tried to grab him and he threw her to the side. Spun around to watch her struggle—she looked left and right, like she'd lost track of exactly where he was.
He drew his hunting knife. Tilted his head.
"You gotta know somethin' about it, right?"
She saw him. Started rushing full tilt for him. And he stepped to the side as she came at him. Pulled her into a headlock with his bad arm. She struggled against him, and he could smell the rot all over her while she did it.
"I mean—you're dead."
He drove the knife down into her rotting skull. Tugged it out.
"How fucking fair is that?"
And the thing landed on the ground. He looked down at the crumpled body. Let out a breath.
"Fucking useless fucking geek."
The thing was a poor damned substitute for a living ear. And Merle knew he needed one. Needed the best one.
He needed Daryl.
Daryl was sitting out in that tower above the house, keeping watch alone. He went up there, and sent Beth and Hershel to bed. They'd gladly taken the extra sleep.
Daryl needed somewhere quiet to think.
He'd had nagging thoughts about his mother all day. And as he sat in the tower, he tried to remember everything he could about her. Tried to remember her face. So fresh and pretty and delicate—framed with that long, brown hair.
He thought of that night in the late December. Of her coming into his room, holding him in her arms. Crying. Stroking his hair back until he fell asleep.
It nagged at him. There was something he'd been missing. Something about that night. Something he remembered about it. Something he understood on some unconscious level that he just couldn't articulate, yet.
He got close, then. But then he saw a movement outside, and the mental picture faded away.
A shape. Right by the back fence. Something moving. Reeling around.
A walker.
There had been fewer than he expected over the month they'd spent in the house. Just one or two at a time—whatever wandered out of the woods. And now there was another straggler.
He grabbed the binoculars, and looked. It wasn't a walker. It was Merle.
He sighed. Of course it was Merle.
It was like he knew Daryl was up there, watching, and that no one else was awake. He seemed to have this unbelievable ability to get Daryl alone. And even seeing him way down there got Daryl feeling completely exhausted.
He grabbed his flashlight, and headed for the stairs.
By the time he reached the backyard, Merle was halfway over the fence. And by the time Daryl made it to his side, he'd fallen off the fence. Raked his calf all the way along a sharp edge on the wrought iron. Daryl could see the blood running off the scrollwork in the glow of his flashlight.
And Merle was on the grass then, sprawled out at Daryl's feet. He looked up at Daryl. His eyes were glassy and Daryl knew he wasn't completely sober.
He smiled.
"Hey there, little brother."
Daryl sometimes wondered why Carol never mentioned his scars. He was covered with them, after all, and no one else had ever really had much of a chance to see them up close. Merle had, of course—there wasn't much secret between the two of them. But Merle didn't count. Carol was a woman, and so with her it was completely, entirely different. She'd had her hands on him—all over him. Her lips. And the whole time, she never said a word about those scars. He didn't notice her ever really looking at them, either. It was like they simply didn't matter to her.
But to Daryl, those scars told many, many stories. They'd always matter, to him.
There was the day he'd fallen out of his favorite maple tree, when he was fourteen years old. He'd carved a girl's name in the bark, that day. Climbed up high to do it.
It was a girl from school. One from a group of girls like sylphs—all slender bodies and large eyes and long, shining hair. And to Daryl, they really were mythological creatures. Lovely, distant beings that floated through the hallways as if they weren't even real.
And he was enchanted by them—by one of them, in particular—so he carved her name into the bark.
He'd done it just to see the letters there, looking back at him. To make something real out of the name they spelled. But a moment later, he'd scratched it all out again. Gouged the bark with his knife. It was stupid. Pointless. He was angry at himself for even thinking of doing it. And his carving knife slipped in his hand, and he sliced open the webbing between his thumb and index finger. And he startled at that—lost his balance on the branch.
And down he went.
He hit branch after branch. Got all sorts of scrapes and cuts and bruises on the way. The fall banged him up but good. It was a beating worthy of his daddy.
More than one of those wounds left a scar—just like Daddy's beatings did. And it was a miracle he didn't break any bones in that fall—he could easily have broken his neck, really. What a way to go that would have been. Death by pathetic fucking stupidity.
But the branches broke much of the force of his fall, and he landed on the forest floor in a heap—stunned and breathless, with the blood gushing all over the place from his hand. And he lay there a long time on the leaves—humiliated to the point of tears, even though no one had seen it happen.
And after that, he managed to shuffle back to the house, bruised and disheartened and defeated.
When he opened the door, Merle was there. Sitting on the couch with his boots on the coffee table—flipping through a magazine. Judging from the lurid cover, some kind of pornography.
Merle was just back from basic training. The Marines. And he was at his very peak in just about every sense. Tall and young and fit—and totally sober for the first time since he'd started using. He was in a good mood, then—happy about all his adventures, and full of stories about his new buddies and all the fucking amazing things he'd gotten to do while he was away.
And so when Daryl dragged himself back into the house, Merle looked him over with a good humored smile.
"Hey bro," Merle said, dropping that magazine on the table.
"You get in some kinda bar brawl? Didn't invite me?"
Daryl didn't say anything. Stood there with his hand out, getting blood all over the floor.
And Merle just kept on talking.
"C'mon, tell me—how bad's the other guy look?"
And he wasn't sure what made him do it, but Daryl sank down on the couch next to him, and blurted it all out. Told Merle exactly what happened. What he'd been doing up in that tree, and why he fell, and how stupid he felt about the whole pathetic endeavor.
And Merle was kind to him. Smiled, and told him to come on over to the bathroom and they'd patch him right on up.
Merle cleaned out the gash on Daryl's hand, over the sink, and chuckled.
"I bet that tree don't know what fucking hit it, little brother."
And then Merle sat with him, side by side on the edge of the bathtub. Got Daryl's shirt off him, and worked on the other cuts, too. There was music spilling out from the radio on the counter next to them. It flowed over them—all thin and grainy and full of static. And something about that white noise was comforting, to Daryl.
Looking back on that day—it always made Daryl wonder what Merle would have been like if things had been different. If he'd had a better time at home, growing up. If he'd never gotten into the drugs. If he'd always been fit and happy and sober—like he was so briefly in that one, short autumn.
It wouldn't last. Merle gave Daryl a good number of scars before then, and would keep on doing it long after.
But that day was different. After he'd treated the wounds, Merle tried to cheer Daryl up. Took him to sit on the back steps and watch the stars come out. Brought him a beer. Told Daryl all sorts of tales about his exploits—things that had happened to him, past and present. Some of those stories were fucking hilarious.
Merle always loved to talk. Could keep up whole conversations almost entirely by himself. And Daryl didn't mind. He hated talking to people. Always preferred to listen.
Their best conversations had always been one-sided.
Daryl picked Merle up off the ground at the edge of that iron fence. Brought him inside, so he could patch up his leg. The cut was bleeding so bad he felt he didn't have much of a choice.
Even so, he wasn't about to wake Hershel for this one. Not with how things were getting. Hershel hadn't been there when Merle was at the quarry—but he had to have heard the others talking. And the others didn't get it about Merle—they all seemed to think he was some kind of slavering monster.
Even Carol thought he might have killed their mama, when Rick suggested it.
Merle played it all so big and loud and brash that it was easy to see him that way. But there was more going on, there. Things the rest couldn't see. Daryl knew it.
And Daryl had learned a thing or two about sutures through his taxidermy, and he had some small experience with open wounds.
So he didn't involve the others. Daryl was confident he could sew this whole thing shut himself.
He and Merle found themselves sitting at the butcher block table in the kitchen, together, with some hot water simmering on the stovetop. Daryl got Merle to stretch out his leg on a chair, and inspected the gash. It was pretty big, and still bleeding badly.
"You took my bike," Merle said.
Daryl looked up from the cut.
"Sorry, man."
Merle shook his head.
"Nah—it's alright."
He held up that severed stump.
"Can't ride no more, anyway."
A pause. Daryl worked peroxide into the wound, and it foamed up. Merle didn't flinch. Was clearly still thinking about the bike—parked just outside in the yard.
"You're takin' care of it, though, ain't you?"
"Yeah, Merle," Daryl said, "Best I can."
And Merle nodded to the leather vest Daryl was wearing, then—the one with the wings worked onto the back.
"That's mine, too."
It was true. Daryl found it rolled up in the back of one of the saddle bags on the bike. Didn't realize Merle had brought it with him, until then. And he took to wearing it. It just seemed like the thing to do.
"You want it back?"
Merle shrugged. Didn't seem to care either way. Daryl took it off—pushed it over the table to him, and it just sat there on the wood.
And when he looked up, Daryl realized that Merle's eyes were wet. And Daryl was shocked. Merle gestured in the air with his one hand.
"Daryl, God. I…"
A pause.
"Daryl, I—"
Merle cut himself off. Looked like he wanted to tell Daryl something—like he wanted to very, very badly. Like he had something pressing on his mind, but couldn't quite bring himself to speak up.
So he just trailed off—got quiet. And that was strange, for Merle. Daryl got the sense that he was afraid. And that feeling wore off on Daryl a bit—just like it would have when they were kids. He started to get unsettled. Wasn't sure what to say.
So he just looked down at that wound. Got ready to start in on sewing it shut.
"This is gonna leave a nasty scar," he said, piercing the skin with the curved, surgical needle.
Merle snorted, at that. Had recovered from that momentary lapse.
"What fucking doesn't."
Later on, Merle was playing with a stray pen someone had left lying on the kitchen table. Spinning it around in his fingers. And Daryl remembered how his brother used to draw real well.
Merle was right handed, so that was over with.
"How's that thing doin'?" Daryl asked, nodding towards the sawed-off stump.
"You been ok?"
Merle shrugged.
"Hurts a lot, sometimes. And it itches—that's the worst. Can't scratch it 'cause it's not fucking there. Enough to drive you fucking crazy, brother."
He gestured to the air. Sighed. Sounded tired.
"Hard to explain."
And they trailed off, again. Daryl leaned in close to Merle's leg, trying to see what he was doing as clearly as possible in the dim light.
And he got to thinking about what Rick said, before. About finding a witness from the time his mama disappeared.
He was currently stitching up the only surviving witness' leg.
"Hey, Merle."
"Hmm?"
"What do you remember 'bout our mama?"
He looked back at Daryl, blankly surprised.
"What was that?"
"Been thinkin' about her, lately. Bein' here… home. You know?"
Daryl drew the needle through the skin, then looked back up at his brother.
"You ever think about what happened with her? Maybe you remember somethin'?"
Merle shook his head.
"Nah, man. Sorry."
And then he corrected himself. Fell into one of those long, one-sided conversations he was so good at starting.
"Well… no. That ain't right. I remember a little."
"It was winter time—I remember that. Real late in the year. And one morning, when we all woke up, she was just gone."
"Didn't seem like anything was different, before she left… she just left."
"Always just figured she ran out on us. I mean, why wouldn't she go?"
"...and it didn't really matter, anyway. She was never really there to begin with."
"Brother… you were too little to remember, but our mama—she didn't give two shits about us. About me."
"... she wasn't all there. In the head."
"And after, it was just us and Daddy. And you know what he was like."
"After she was gone, he just sorta gave up. Went up in that fucking room like it was the only place left in the fucking world."
"Stayed in there pretty much the rest of his fucking life."
And Daryl was done with the wound—finished knotting the thread as best he could. Hoped it would hold until the thing healed up.
And Merle shrugged.
"But you already know all this. I mean, you were there."
And then Merle interrupted himself. Leaned over the table to Daryl.
"Daryl, fuck it all. Let's just go."
"We can leave together. It was good when it was just us. You and me."
"It's you and me, right? Always been just you and me. So fuck the rest of 'em. All of 'em. Let's go. Now."
Daryl stood up. Looked down at his brother, and the medical supplies scattered all around the table.
"I gotta clean this up," he said.
Daryl left Merle alone a moment, to put away those supplies.
He never actually said he wouldn't go with Merle, but it was clear Merle got the message. Seemed like he'd been expecting that answer, anyway.
When Daryl came back, he saw his brother standing at the door to the side parlor. Looking through the glass, watching Lori, lying there—obviously pregnant and fast asleep.
And it rattled him, somehow. He rushed over.
"Get away from there!" he hissed, under his breath—grabbing Merle's arm and pulling him away.
Merle chuckled, quietly. Gestured to where Lori was sleeping, down the hall.
"What, is it yours?"
Daryl shoved him back into the hallway. Glared at his brother, and pulled him towards the front door.
"Ok, Merle," he said, "It's time for you to go."
And Merle looked a little doubtful, then.
"… it's not yours, right?"
Daryl stared at him. And Merle just kept on in at him.
"You're definitely fucking one of 'em. You gotta be. That's why you won't go."
He could see it in Daryl's face. That he'd hit on something. And he grinned in that way he had that told you he could strike out any moment.
"Didn't know you had it in you, baby brother. You just carve their names in fucking trees."
Merle let out one of his long, rolling chuckles, and Daryl grabbed him by the collar. Opened the door and pushed him through it.
They made it to the porch, and Merle spun around on him. Struggled with Daryl and got himself free. Just kept on talking.
"But it's not that one down the hall. No, it's that other one. The one you brought to Aunt Sarah's when you tried to fucking drop me."
Daryl didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say, really. So he just pulled his brother down the steps, and Merle went along with him. He was a little surprised at that—that Merle didn't put up a fight. He just kept on rambling as Daryl led him down the front walk.
"But why her, though? Ain't nothin' special 'bout her."
"So why her, brother? Tell me."
"Why her—hell—why them?"
They made it to the gate. Daryl pulled it open and pushed his brother through. And Merle grabbed at the iron bars with his one hand. Rattled them. Started to get upset.
"Fucking out with it! Tell me fucking why—why them and not me?"
He sounded exasperated. Petulant. And he held up his bad arm, then—showed Daryl the stump, yet again. Seemed to really like doing that.
"They did this to me, Daryl."
Daryl pushed the gate shut, and it stood between them. And Daryl looked at Merle through the bars a moment. And then he spoke over his shoulder as he walked away.
"You did this to yourself."
Carol heard Daryl's footfalls on the stairs. Heard him walking across the hall—stopping by his door a moment, thinking better of it, then heading for hers, instead. She was up late—sitting at the edge of her mattress, holding her Bible.
And he stood in the doorway, and told her everything about Merle. What just happened. And Carol thought it over, quietly, with the Bible open in her hands.
"It sounds like he's different," she said to him, at last.
She remembered back to Merle in the quarry camp. What he was like, then. He'd been strong and confident and imposing. Just bursting with energy. Now he sounded like some kind of wounded animal—something strained and hungry and frightened.
And Carol suspected that he thought she'd go after him for letting Merle in the house—alone, without telling anybody. Suspected he'd been taking himself to task pretty harshly for it, in his own mind. But she understood.
He loved his brother.
Daryl stood in her door, and she saw he was looking over at her vanity table, then. It was covered with neat stacks of paper, and her notebooks, and the journals. And at one side, there was the photograph of his mother—the one Carol had taken from those boxes of Rose's things. She'd put it there. Looked at it, sometimes, in the mornings.
And then he nodded to her Bible.
"What you readin'?"
"Isaiah."
"What part?"
She looked down to the line next to the silk ribbon. Right against the press of her thumb on the page. Read the passage out loud.
"In returning and rest shall you be saved. In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength."
She put the book aside. And Daryl moved forward, then. Sank to the floor in front of her, and rested his head against her knees.
Merle sat out in the middle of the road. Right on the double yellow line. He was about a half mile from the painted lady. Had been headed to his car, and just gave up. Sank down where he'd been walking, as if his legs had given out.
He couldn't go to Jenny. He couldn't go to Daryl. He couldn't go home.
So he lay down flat on the asphalt, and looked up at the stars.
In the early hours of the morning, Daryl's dreams began to coalesce. He was searching—hunting, like he always was in his dreams. And this time, he was in his daddy's house. Standing at the foot of the uneven, old stairwell. In the dream, he was repelled by the very sight of the place. It was like the walls were surrounding him—pressing in closer and closer like some kind of trap.
And then he was three years old, and he could hear his mother's wracking sobs as she clung to him in his bed. And his daddy paced around in the room above them.
And then he saw it.
He understood, at last. It was there in front of him the whole time.
He snapped awake. Carol sensed it. Stirred beside him, and sat up. Looked into his face. He took her arm and stared back at her.
"Carol. I know—I know."
He looked around the room. Saw the photograph of his mama, sitting out on Carol's table.
"I know what happened to her."