AN: Here we are, another chapter here. This is also a different take on an old scene.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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When breakfast was done, it seemed that everyone fell into the same routine that they'd been in the day before. For a short stint of time, Daryl watched them mill about, everyone seeming to be looking to everyone else to tell them what to do. They picked up tasks that weren't useful. They exchange conversation that was even less useful. Everyone wandered back and forth and discussed this or that, but there wasn't a lot of forward movement taking place. Whether or not there ever would be any true call to action, Daryl didn't know. What he did know, though, was that he had no intention of sitting around and burning the daylight hours when he knew that Sophia was out there and she couldn't be that far away.

While everyone talked about what they would do when they finally got around to doing anything at all, Daryl took himself to the barn. He surveyed the horses in the stalls and saddled the one horse that he could successfully get bridled. Daryl's knowledge of horses was severely limited. He'd worked one summer clearing lots with a man who had horses and a few times he'd been invited back to the man's barn to see his beasts and loudly appreciate them over a free beer or two. Out of his limited interest in the animals—respect for the animal more than anything—Daryl had earned himself a few quick and rudimentary lessons about the horses and riding from the man who owned them. As Daryl would tell anyone who asked, he knew just enough about the animals to be dangerous.

His limited knowledge of horses served him just enough, though, to get the horse saddled and to get it headed out in the direction of the woods. He went directly toward the house where he'd found evidence of Sophia's survival, and then he followed the creek hoping to stumble upon her whereabouts.

If she didn't give him something more to go on, it was going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. He wanted to help Sophia, but he also needed the girl to help him—even if she had no way of knowing it. Daryl followed the creek, allowing the horse to walk wherever it pleased as long as it somewhat followed his directions, and only stopped the animal when he saw something in the water, bunched up and slowing the flow of liquid, that caught his attention. He dismounted the horse and inspected what he'd found.

He'd thought it was a dress, all wadded up in the water, but it was actually something much more wonderful than a dress. Daryl's heart bounced around in his chest at the sight of it. It was a doll. And it wasn't just any doll. It was the doll that Sophia had acquired at the rock quarry. It was the doll that she was never without.

Finding the doll meant that Sophia was close by. It meant that Daryl was moving in the right direction. It also meant, though, that something had made Sophia lose the doll. It wasn't stained with blood. The only stains on the cloth doll were stains that came from mud. Still, something had spooked Sophia badly enough that she'd dropped the doll and failed to go back for it. The doll had been her only companion, as far as Daryl knew, so whatever it was must've been serious for her to abandon her friend.

Daryl didn't know if the doll had fallen in the creek and drifted downstream or if Sophia had dropped it at just that point, but he was feeling a good deal more optimistic. He fastened the doll to his belt, tying it in tight, and he searched the area for signs of Sophia's passing through. He found some tracks, but it was impossible to tell if they belonged to the girl or simply to anything else that might have come through that area. Still, taking the only lead he had at the moment, Daryl mounted the horse again and nudged her to move forward, following the direction of the tracks.

The ground sloped up, losing the creek entirely for a bit as it rose into a ridge. Daryl followed along the ridge when the tracks veered in that direction, carefully guiding the horse. He rode a short distance to the side of the tracks that he was trying to follow—sporadic and spaced out tracks that could belong to anything, but he was choosing to believe they were signs of Sophia's recent and clearly hurried passing-through of the area—and kept his eyes pinned on the ground to his side.

The ridge rose higher and higher, as many of them had a way of doing in Georgia, until it leveled out and just below him the water ran in a trickle through the deep valley. Sophia might very well choose to run through here. There was good coverage, lots of trees, and she wouldn't have lost sight of her water source even if it would prove difficult to reach it in a hurry.

As Daryl rode along, eyes on the ground beside him, he forgot one very important point about riding horses, particularly in the woods. The only way he would have seen the snake was to have had his eyes directly on the creature. He missed it entirely, but the horse didn't. As soon as the beast reared and started violently crow hopping, Daryl pulled back on the reins to try to gain some control. It was too little, too late, though and he couldn't manage to keep his seat in the saddle. When he hit the ground, Daryl grabbed wildly for anything that would hold him, but his hands came up with nothing but wet leaves and earth.

The only comforting thought that his mind offered him, and the last one it gave him before the world went black, was that the ridge wasn't high enough for the fall to kill him.

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The feelings of being shaken awake stirred Daryl. He was aware of the pounding in his head and the throbbing in his side simultaneously. His mind felt blurry and clouded. He felt like he was floating. If it weren't for the pain, he might have convinced himself he was dead. Maybe he was in hell. For a moment, wanting to escape what he felt, Daryl closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. He couldn't, though, because the shaking didn't stop.

And then he heard the growling.

Daryl opened his eyes and looked around him. His head throbbed and he could hear the sound of blood rushing in his skull like a raging river. At his foot there was one of the nasty bastards chewing on his boot. Daryl felt around and, finding his crossbow had landed near him, raised it up to shoot an arrow directly into the thing's head.

The movement from lying down to sitting sent Daryl into a spiral of pain and dizziness. He dropped back down and closed his eyes against the sensation. His throat burned. His head hurt. His eyes swam. His side throbbed.

If he wasn't dying, he was damn near close to it. He might even welcome it at this point.

"What the fuck is your problem? Look at'cha layin' out here in the dirt. Layin' out here waitin' to die with your dick in your hand. What the fuck is wrong with ya? Such a damn pussy you can't even get up now? Rollin' around in the dirt like a damn dirty-ass pig?"

The voice was familiar. It was very familiar. Despite the string of profanities and abuse, it was a welcomed sound. It sent a warm rush through Daryl's body. He opened his eyes. He never expected to see his brother alive again. He certainly didn't expect to see him there.

Daryl didn't stop to ask himself what his brother was doing there.

"Merle?" Daryl asked. He found that his voice didn't work well. It worked as poorly as he'd imagine any other part of his body might work at the moment.

Merle laughed at him. Daryl laughed quietly at his brother's reaction—it was so familiar, and the familiarity was comforting. Merle stooped down next to him.

"What the fuck you doin' out here, lil' brother?" Merle asked, repeating himself for good measure. "Rollin' around in the mud like a damned pig."

"Lookin' for the lil' girl, Merle," Daryl said. "She lost her lil' girl."

"You into lil' girl's now, brother?" Merle asked, giving Daryl shit.

"Ain't like that," Daryl said. "She lost—she lost her lil' girl."

Merle hummed, musing over Daryl's words in the familiar way that he always chewed over whatever was said to him.

"So it ain't lil' girls you into—but they still got you out here rollin' in the damn mud," Merle said.

"Horse threw me. Fell down. Lookin' for the girl," Daryl responded again. His head continued to swim. He closed his eyes again and only opened them when Merle spoke once more.

"Sure didn't waste no time lookin' for me, lil' brother," Merle said. "Not for your own brother. Your own flesh and blood. You run off an' forgot about me quick as you could."

"Weren't like that," Daryl said. He shook his head from side to side and immediately regretted the action. "Went back for you. Looked for you. You was gone. If you'da stayed. If you'da waited."

Daryl never did finish what he was saying. He closed his eyes again against the feelings in his head. His brain felt like it wasn't resting the right way up in his head any longer. He might've drifted off again. But then Merle woke him.

"That's enough of a nap, Derlina," Merle said. "Get the fuck up. Look at'cha. Bleedin' all over the damned place. Get the fuck up, Derlina. Go lookin' after her lil' girl if that's what'cha doin'. But don't'cha forget, lil' brother. She don't look at'cha like that. None of 'em don't. Use you for what they need, but they only ever gonna look at'cha like redneck white trash. She's only ever gonna look at'cha like redneck white trash."

Daryl's stomach churned at Merle's words. It was an unwelcome sensation in a long line of unwelcomed feelings. He swallowed against the nausea.

"No," he said.

"They ain't'cha blood," Merle said. "She ain't'cha blood. That lil' girl? She ain't no kin a' yours. Ain't nobody ever loved you like I do, lil' brother. Ain't nobody never gonna love you like I do."

"It ain't like that," Daryl muttered, dropping back off to sleep, finding it impossible to stay awake, even with Merle standing over him and waiting for him to get to his feet—even with Merle calling him names to try to spur him on to something that he knew he didn't want to do.

The blackness wrapped around him and Daryl closed his eyes, swimming into it.

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Climb! Hike up your damn skirts and climb! Show me you some damn bigshot. Kick off your damn high heels and climb, brother!

Sitting on the ridge with his back against a tree, Daryl sat and watched the woods around him. Merle was gone. Actually, Merle had never been there. Not in flesh and blood. Daryl knew, now, that his brother had only been an apparition. He'd been a ghost. Not the kind that walked through walls and spooked the shit out of kids by wearing bedsheets and waving chains, but he'd been a ghost nonetheless.

Merle was a ghost that lived deep inside Daryl. He'd always been with Daryl—possibly from the very first breath that Daryl had drawn in the world—and now Daryl had proof that his brother would always be with him—possibly until his final breath. His brother was an asshole. He was a first-class, grade A asshole, but he was Daryl's asshole. He had ragged Daryl on until he'd made it up the ridge and was safely on solid and familiar ground, but then he'd never come back after Daryl had lost consciousness again.

It was typical Merle.

He always had a knack of being there when Daryl absolutely couldn't survive without him—showing up just in the nick of time—but he would always sort of disappear when the danger was mostly done or he was sure that Daryl could make it on his own the rest of the way.

Daryl sat against the tree and watched a tree in front of him to judge his vision. It was clearing up. His head was getting less heavy and he wasn't spinning quite so often. He'd bandaged his side the best he could—since he'd been lucky to catch an arrow all the way through it on his way down-and he'd drank some of the dirty creek water. As his mind cleared, he was starting to get his bearings on where he was and where he'd come from. He could find the horse's tracks even if the asshole horse had left him there and run off to save his own damn skin.

Daryl could find his way back to the farm just as soon as he was able to steadily stay on his feet.

Merle had showed up just in the nick of time. If he hadn't come, Daryl might've not make it out of the creek bed. But he was gone, true to himself, the moment that Daryl was sure that he had it from here.

Daryl laughed to himself, his vision ever-improving.

"I got it from here, brother," Daryl commented to the empty air around him. "Don't you fuckin' worry 'bout me. I got it from here." Daryl moved his hand and touched his side. After the fall, the doll was worse for the wear. She was muddier and stained, now, with Daryl's blood, but she was still there. He still had her, and he knew that she was proof that he was on the right track. In just a few moments, he'd feel clear-headed enough to get to his feet. He'd feel strong enough to attempt the walk back. He'd get help and he'd tell them about what he'd found. He'd tell them that he knew he was on the right track, he just got side-tracked by a nervous ass horse and a stupid snake. "I won't find her today," Daryl said. "But I'll find her. And—you was wrong about one thing, brother. You was dead ass wrong. They might see me as the white trash piece a' shit he raised me to be—raised you to be—but she don't. She don't. You was wrong about that, brother. You been wrong about a lotta damn things—like sayin' I didn't go back for you. You might still be wrong about a whole lot more."