The silence was eerie as almost everyone sat in the courtyard, watching the group prepare to move out and meet their executioner. The disapproval hung heavy in the air as already several had tried dissuading their leader from this foolish endeavor. It would not end well, they alleged.

Samara was afraid. This was a huge risk that might not turn in their favor in the end. Rick, Daryl and Hershel's life could be lost and what would happen to the group then? Even one life lost in these times could mean life or death. They would have to flee the prison and seek refuge elsewhere, their tails tucked between their legs.

Goddammit, if they die…

Her gaze wandered over to Rick. Poor Rick, who was met with nothing but heartache at every turn, must now confront his wife's probable killer and act civil for the good of the group, when she knew all he wanted was to strangle the man with his bare hands.

And Daryl…

She bit her lip savagely, feeling tiny crimson pearls gather and stain her teeth.

It was similar to a funeral procession, their farewells. Everyone was grim faced and Rick hugged his children for dear life as did Hershel with his daughters and son-in-law. Daryl talked in hushed tones with his brother and from the looks of it, Merle was not pleased. He scowled and spat, his opinion on his brother's trip plain as day. Daryl soon parted with his brother, a bitter touch to the hunter. Next was Carol to which the woman embraced him fiercely, offering encouraging words. Even Beth seemed to jump at the chance to bid her farewells to the hunter, offering him a quick embrace and shy smile.

Then the man turned to her, unsure if he should approach or not. Samara knew what hesitations traveled through his mind, but she had no qualms. The others would sooner or later learn of their thirsts so why prologue the inevitable. Besides, what the others thought of their dysfunctional relationship did not matter in the slightest anymore. Samara had always done what she wanted, damn the consequences.

Tentatively, the man advanced, his eyes fleeting for a fraction of a second towards the others, mindful of an audience. Samara could tell from her position that barely anyone watched his excursion save for his brother (who gave Samara the stink eye), Michonne, Andrea, Carol and the young blonde.

He was nervous. Not for the situation at hand, but for what awaited them out there. His veins were bulging and his jaw was locked tight. Despite the hunter's opinion that they should meet this man that dogged their heels with deadly intent, he too felt the peril that peeked around the corner.

"If things get hairy, or if you get a bad feeling, get everyone out immediately."

Samara had no doubt that he would even if she hadn't told him. The man was always vigilant of dangers and the slightest whiff of it set him off like a bloodhound.

"And if you have the shot, take it."

He offered her no answer, his penetrating eyes searching deep into her soul. To her utter surprise, the man caught her hand and gave it a warm squeeze. She faintly wondered if it would embarrass him if she mentioned the faint rosiness of his cheeks. It was surely tempting…

She wanted to go with him. She wanted to end this madness then and there. The Governor had to die—

"Keep my brother in check." Almost as if sensing her growing agitation, Daryl's grip on her tightened. "I ain't trustin' him not to try somethin' stupid."

"But you trust me?"

"Almost."

Samara smirked, but the small jolt of amusement died instantly. If Lady Luck did not favor them today then this might be the last time Samara saw the hunter. Her heart clenched uneasily at the thought of living through that miserable chaos once more.

"Come back here alive."

Her fingers wrapped around his tightly, almost wishing they could prolong this moment. But Rick was calling and Daryl would always effortlessly respond. The man almost left her side before pausing and quickly offering a small peck on her forehead.

Samara watched the car plow through the undead with a heavy conscious.


The ticking of the clock set Samara on edge. Like an addict, she kept glancing at her watch and counting the seconds and minutes from the moment the group left. How long will they be gone, an hour? Two? A day?

Samara sighed. If she continued with this behavior, she would get early ulcers. What good would worrying about something she couldn't see do? Daryl and the others were far out of her reach. The men could fend for themselves if trouble arose. Rick and Daryl were among their strongest, but that still did not ease her fears. Even a lion could be brought down.

With their official leader gone, Tyreese was left in charge and wasted no time in giving everyone tasks to accomplish. The only decision, Samara thought, as the people of the prison sat on the fearful verge. Giving them something to occupy their time with was a much needed distractor. That and they needed to continue fortifying the prison to recuperate the lost days spent locked inside the building.

Samara inspected the batch of weapons she had been given, checking the feed and loading system. By now, it was a grown reflex from countless years around guns. She was barely aware of her actions as she went through them on auto-pilot, consistently checking the time between weapons.

Some of the others were around, receiving instructions or preparing for their assignment. Only one paced restlessly as he threw veiled glares at anyone he set his eyes upon, mostly Samara.

"Carl, stash these at the loading dock." Tyreese handed him a few boxes of ammunition before turning to Beth. "You put more up on the catwalk. If anyone gets pinned down, we need to make sure that they have plenty of ammo. I'll go work on the cage outsi—"

"What we should be doing is loadin' some of this firepower in a truck and payin' a visit to the Governor!" Merle shouted, his agitated steps coming to a stop. "We know where he is right now."

"Are you suggesting that we just go in and kill him?" Tyreese scowled subtlety, only a faint frown on his forehead. Merle was not among his favorite people. He had been the one to capture Michonne, after all.

"Yeah, I am."

"We told Rick and Daryl that we'd stay put." Michonne quipped from her place beside Samara, her voice deep and gaze foreboding.

"I've changed my mind, sweetheart. Being on the sideline with my brother out there ain't sittin' right with me."

"The three of them are right in the middle of it with no idea we're coming." Tyreese diverted Merle's attention. "They could get taken hostage or killed. A thousand things could go wrong."

"And they will."

"My dad can take care of himself." Carl said, standing with his back straight in the face of Daryl's brother.

"Sorry son, but your dad's head could be on a pike real soon."

"Don't say that to him." Samara snapped in warning. What the hell was Merle doing? Did he want to start a fight? "Not now." Not so soon.

Merle scowled and spat her way. More and more the man resembled a caged beast, longing for freedom. Understandable as he had been accustomed to partial freedom in Woodbury, coming and going as he pleased. Now, he had been reduced to dwelling in a morose prison with curfew and restrictions among people he neither knew nor liked…and the feeling was quite mutual.

"It's not the right move." Tyreese barked decisively, not giving Merle's influence even an inch to spread. "Not now. Can't take the risk of putting them in the crossfire. That's my decision. It's final."

Merle grimaced and backed down. To Samara's utter displeasure, the man approached her table. From the corner of her eye, she saw the way Michonne tensed, in case of the unpredictable.

"The three of us can go there." He hissed as he loomed over the two women, unaware of the glare burning in his back from said temporary leader. "We can sneak in and take 'em out. We can do this."

"I'm not risking it." Samara said brusquely. Tyreese's fears were valid. Who knew how a cluster fuck of that proportions might end.

Michonne, as silent as ever, denied him with a shake of her head. She of all had more reason to want the Governor's head, but she remained put knowing the risks involved.

"You care for my brother, so why are you leavin' him out there for the wolves to chew on?"

"Because he asked me to stay."

"He could be dead by now!" The veins in his neck bulged with barely suppressed anger.

"Stop trying to rile me. I'm not leaving the prison and neither are you. If you try, I will beat you senseless. Stay. Put."

With a snarl of frustration, Merle spat and left the area, retreating in the other parts of the prison. With his shadowy presence gone, the room stifling air seemed to ease by a fraction. The man was too tense and too eager for blood. He could pose a danger later on when his fuse reached its limits. She would have to keep her eyes and ears pricked.

The truth was, Samara wanted nothing more than to hop into a car and speed over to the meeting point, and if she somehow ran over the Governor, all the better. Waiting had never been her forte, especially when she knew that her hands were free to act, but she had promised the sheriff that she would listen to his command. The woman had calculated the risks and knew that it could only end badly if she ambushed the sight. There would be loses and she would not have that on her conscious. For all she knew, the Governor posted hidden sentries or had the place surrounded with his soldiers. The man was cautious enough to attempt it.

There was nothing else to do but wait and hope.


Daryl rummaged through a dead walker's pockets. With a small smile of success, he discovered a pack of cigarettes. A full and intact one, even.

Turning, he offered one to the man leaning on one of the rusty water tanks, his eyes vigilant for any possible dangers.

"Nah, I prefer menthols." Martinez refused.

Daryl snorted derisively as he lit one up, enjoying the taste of nicotine he had been deprived of for days now.

The hunter counted an hour since Rick and the Governor entered that barn. At first glance, Daryl had sensed the man's imposing presence. Even with one eye and bandaged fingers, the man sent a shiver of uncertainty down his back. There was a deep, seething malice hidden in that lone eye and it dawned on Daryl then and there the truth of this meeting.

His grip on his crossbow had tightened to a bruising crunch. It had taken Hershel's calm voice to sooth his agitated nerves. The hunter wanted nothing but to cave in the man's skull, to fill him with arrows until not a patch of skin could be visible. This was the bastard that hurt his friends, that cut off Samara's finger and he was standing right in front of him and Daryl could do nothing about it lest he turn this 'peaceful' assembly into a bloodbath. But the thought was there…One quick move and he could end it all.

Rick was another story. Daryl could have felt his anger from a yard away. The man was filled to the brim with pure hatred, but the sheriff kept himself in check as the two faction leaders entered the barn. The geek had tried to waltz inside alongside them but the Governor barred his way. He was not needed, his rigid one eye conferred.

Milton sat tense, his attention on the barn door, vigilant of any raised voices or signs of a scuffle. Hershel had joined him not long after and the two eloped into a silent conversation that seemed to calm the nervous man.

Now…the other problem that Daryl felt like strangling with his bare hands was the Hispanic that infiltrated his people and disclosed their location, Martinez. Daryl might not have known him for long but his actions have landed him into the list of names Daryl had no qualms in killing without a single before thought. The man was scum—a traitor and a deceiver.

A show of strength had ensued between the both of them. Who could shoot faster and further killing their undead target with one shot. Who could take one down with barely any sound and further down the list they went, until they found themselves patrolling the surroundings, a safe distance between them.

Daryl watched the man behind hooded eyes. He could handle a weapon expertly and swing his baseball bat like a pro. This was no ordinary civilian.

"You army or somethin'?"

"Nah, I just hate these things." He toed a dead walker, a look of faint disgust contorting his features. "After what they did to my wife and my students I just can't feel anything but rage towards them."

The man paused then made a motion towards the cigarette pack in Daryl's hand. He lit one up and inhaled the rush of nicotine deeply into his lungs.

"Never thought that Merle would find his brother again. I mean, come on. What were the chances? I always thought it was a wild goose chase, something for Merle to hang onto in this messed up world." He chuckled softly, almost mockingly. "Boy, was I wrong."

"He knew I was alive and I knew he was." Daryl said firmly convinced. "Sometime, somewhere, we'd come across again. It ain't no miracle."

"Maybe to you. The way I see it the chances of you two finding each other again were like the same chances of finding a cure for this undead plague." Martinez scrutinized him meticulously. "You ain't like him. If he was here, Merle would've spat at me, made some racist japes, maybe even tried to swing a fist. You must be the smart one of the family."

Daryl's frown deepened. Was this man subtlety provoking him?

"Trust me, if this was no peace talk, I would've beaten you bloody. You brought that asshole to my doorstep. I ain't forgettin' that."

Martinez shrugged, not at all perturbed. "We all have our jobs to do. Nothing personal, man. I gotta survive in this world too."

"Doesn't have to be over our dead bodies."

The man smiled. There was an air of futility laced to it. "It ain't up to me to judge that."

No…it was up to the two men in that barn, squabbling over their right to live and die.

"By the way, how's the Native?"

Something in Daryl shifted. There was an extreme caution to him and the words he would utter.

Martinez must have sensed his reluctance and elaborated on his inquiry with an air of amusement. "I used to be her guard when she came to us. At first, I didn't think much of her and I couldn't see what the Governor saw. That is until she killed Micah. Chica's got some brass stones on her."

"What do you mean?"

"She didn't tell you?" The man smirked almost arrogantly. "That crazy woman volunteered for the arena. She wanted to fight one of assholes that brought her to Woodbury. She did and to top it all off, she threw him onto a biter." The man whistled appreciatively. "I've seen some fights before, but that definitely is in the top five."

She never said any of that, Daryl thought as he felt his expression settled into a frown. In fact, he barely knew anything of what happened to Samara while she had lived with these people. There hadn't been any time. He did not appreciate this man having the advantage while he lay in the dark.

"Made me think…" He exhaled a cloud of smoke as he gazed into the grey sky above, a pensive air about him. "She would've done well in Woodbury if we came upon her first. Governor liked her well enough. She could have been his right hand."

That irked Daryl…badly.

"I thought Merle was."

Martinez scoffed with a tinge of animosity. "Yeah, and look how that turned out. Something tells me that woman ain't no Judas when it comes to people she cares for."

No, she ain't. Samara might grumble, threaten and butt heads, but in the end she would always be there in case the group needed help. Perhaps it was that old law enforcement behavior—protect and serve—that kept her dutiful to the well-being of the group, but Daryl also knew that she had grown attached to them in her own distant and brusque way.

"Samara would've never been part of you." Daryl proclaimed firmly, ignoring the distant mocking voices in his head.

"Keep telling yourself that, man, but I think she would've been more at ease with us than you guys. You people are the quiet, passive type. Governor ain't." A shadow passed over Martinez's eyes, of something dark and disturbing. "And she ain't either."

Later, he would wonder why he had remained silent. Why he had not vehemently refused the Hispanic's assertion. Perhaps, because somewhere deep down he too knew the truth of it. Daryl himself would not be the person he was today if he had split from the group a long time ago. It was not hard to imagine himself without the influence of Rick, Carol and the others. Samara wouldn't be any different.

Martinez had a knowing look about him. There was a clarity in those orbs that straightened Daryl's spine.

"You know this is a joke, right? They ain't gonna work anything out." He gestured towards the direction of the barn. "Sure, they'll do their little dance and tomorrow, next day...they'll give the word."

The hunter didn't need to be told. He had realized it upon seeing the Governor. There was no peace to be found no matter how much this Milton craved it. Words were wind these days. How you acted was all that mattered.

The grey skies above them darkened ominously.


It was by chance that she heard it.

At first it had been faint, but upon investigation the sounds of a scuffle became increasingly clear as she heard Tyreese's voice mingling with Merle's in a cacophony of insults. A woman's voice joined and vaguely Samara identified it as Sasha's.

That goddamn idiot! He did exactly what I told him not to do!

Why was she even surprised? Merle was not exactly a creature prone to listening to orders, especially of people he did not like or didn't have a smidgen of fear of. It was inevitable that he would fly off the handle.

Turning the corner, she came upon both Merle and Tyreese, angry and tussled, exchanging blows while Sasha hit the Georgia redneck over his back with a baseball bat. Merle howled in pain and that small distraction allowed Tyreese to expertly tackle the man to the ground as only a football player could. The impact of spine against cement was loud enough even for Samara to hear and wince over.

It didn't take long for Samara to figure out what might have happened. There were enough weapons in the room to start a fight and considering the half full duffel on the ground and scattered ammunition, Merle had most likely wanted to supply himself so he could run after his brother and 'save' him. Only problem was he got caught red handed.

Unholstering her gun, the Native calmly padded over to the brawling duo. At this point, Tyreese had the man in a powerful lock, paralyzing his movement especially that of his prosthetic hand. But the old redneck was strong as he bucked into the other man's hold almost escaping.

Merle froze in his fury as he felt the cool muzzle of a gun pressed against the side of his temple.

"I say one thing, you do the other." Samara whispered softly, her eyes betraying the calmness of her body. There was livid fire raging inside those green orbs. "If you don't calm down right now, I will put a bullet through you."

"You won't." Merle snarled. "Daryl—"

The gun cocked loudly making Merle's words vanish from his tongue.

"Don't test me. I don't have the patience for your unpredictable behavior right now. Daryl and Rick wanted us to stay put and we will, you included. So, shut the fuck up and stay calm."

It was bad enough they had people in the field with heavy chances of not returning. They did not need Merle throwing hay into the fire. If he did not calm down, Samara would shoot him in the leg and confine him to a cell to bleed out until he was weak enough to cause no more trouble. Killing him was too extreme, but hurting him felt just right.

Merle must have calculated his odds of getting out of this predicament alive and unharmed and came to the conclusion that listening might not be the worst choice in that moment. The man deflated entirely under Tyreese's rough handling, but Samara could see the strain in his locked jaw and knew that his ego was far from satisfied.

"Let go of me!" He shouted at Tyreese, wriggling. "Let go!"

Once obeyed, Merle got to his feet and shuffled out of the room on quick and rigid feet. On his way, he glared venomously at Samara, dark times promised ahead.

Once he was out of hearing range, Samara let out the breath she had been holding. This just proved it—Merle was a loose cannon. He will never adapt to the group or the hierarchy of the place, not unless Rick proved his dominance. From a certain angle, Merle was a simple beast. He would follow an alpha stronger than him but only if proven worthy and considering Rick's current mental state, there was no chance of that happening.

Samara would not be surprised if he tried breaking out of the prison again. A tiger never changed its stripes, after all.

Without even thinking her steps followed in his wake, her voice echoing in the large room enough for the two occupants to hear.

"Have two capable people with the ammo and weapons at all times. I don't trust him not to try that again."

She did not need to see or hear Tyreese's agreement to know he full-heartedly approved.

Following the enraged bull proved to be quite easy as the man trampled in his path, his boots creating a loud resonance.

"What are you trying to prove?" She spoke into the dimness of the corridor, a safe distance from him. "That you're a great warrior or some shit?"

The man stopped and whipped back with desperate anger, spit flying as he yelled.

"I'm just tryin' to keep my brother alive!"

"And how do you think chargin' in there is gonna help?" Samara challenged his logic. "You'll just get everyone killed, your brother included."

Merle was thinking on impulse. He wanted the Governor dead and he wanted it now, didn't matter if some died along the way. The end justified the means. She knew how deceiving that train of thought was. For a long time, Samara had been a close adept of that doctrine. Had gotten others in precarious situations to achieve her goal and never once looked back or felt any guilt. But not anymore, not when she had people she had to protect.

"This is not the way to kill the Governor. Ambushing the 'peace talk' will only result in death—of our people and theirs. Think about it for more than a second. Hershel is old and crippled, he would be the first to go. Then Rick because he would most likely try and save Hershel and then your brother. You know how prickly his temper is. Once he gets angry he doesn't think reasonably anymore. A trait I see you both share."

If she hadn't cared…If she hadn't befriended Rick and forged this strange relationship with Daryl…She would have followed Merle into the fray. This opportunity was once in a lifetime. She could have sniped the Governor from a safe distance and end this recurring nightmare she was currently living in. But losing them…The Samara of now could not bear it.

"I'm scared also, Merle. I'm fucking scared that he won't return, him and Rick and Hershel. That all of this was just a wicked plot to get them alone and kill them or worse, capture and use them against us." Samara swallowed the knot in her throat and felt her chest constrict painfully. So many scenarios ran through her head that a low pounding headache wormed its way to the surface. Acid built up in her stomach as a result of her fried nerves causing a burning that had her dry heaving.

—She was a mess on the inside, but she stayed put.

"But I can't go there, or you for that matter. I can vividly see what will happen if we do and I won't allow it. The only thing we can do is wait."

And hope they come back.

"Bullshit." Merle snorted derisively. His blue eyes were narrowed into stony slits, his anger now a tiger stalking its prey from the shadows. "You know I'm right. I know you thought of it too. I saw the way your eyes lusted for blood when I first suggested it. If the two of us go there, we can do this. End it all before it goes any further. So what it the old man or the sheriff dies? Better them than the whole lot of ya. Because trust me when I say this, sweetheart, you don't want that man knocking on your door twice. There ain't gonna be a third time. The folks here, they're strong, good fighters, but they ain't killers. If it comes to war, then you're all screwed."

Samara felt her toes curl in anger, but she did not let herself express more than that. She would not reveal even an inch of her thoughts to this man. This was a battle of their own the two of them were fighting—a battle of wills.

"Rick is. Daryl is. So is Michonne and Andrea. Carl put down his own mother." And the others would too when push came to shove. Nobody was impervious to their baser instincts.

"Mercy killin'." Merle spat in disgust. "That don't make him an assassin."

Samara sneered knowingly. "But you are."

"When I have to be." Which had been probably often enough in the Governor's employment.

He took a step closer to Samara, his eyes shining like the treasure of a magpie. "Me and my brother, we have a few calls we use when we hunt. I'll give him a heads up. He'll warn the others. Maybe that'll save 'em." Even in the slight darkness, Samara could see the eagerness about him for chaos. "You blast the Governor's head off, I'll take care of the rest. We'll be home before you know it."

Goddamn you.

"You're on your own. You get people killed, it's on you."

Spurned, Merle spun around with a few choice curses and left her in the empty hallway to brood.

Samara felt her fingers go lax, her nails coated in fresh blood and crescent moons glaring angrily on her palms.

Goddammit.

Why was it that it took all in her power to turn away? That his offer had sounded so tempting to almost goad her into doing it? With an already established alarm system, their chances of eliminating the Governor without casualties on their side grew immensely. Daryl would get the others to safety or at least buy time to assure it while she, Michonne and Merle could sneak in the area. Her sword-wielder friend would also come without a doubt. Michonne would be in her element there, she could take out any sentries in silence with her katana. Andrea would be a major asset as well. She was their best pair of eyes—she could pick off any soldiers the Governor had from a distance. The chaos would assure Merle and she delivered the finishing blo—

No. Stop thinking about it.

Russet fingers raked through her hair in frustration. She should be there, delivering a hail of bullets, not confined to the prison by a man's orders. But she promised. Daryl never said it, but she had seen it in his eyes and Samara had silently vowed to stay back and not act.

Samara shivered. Her promise might just come back to bite her in the ass one day.


The sun was high in the sky when the group returned.

Samara felt her breath come easier at the sight of the entire group alive and in one piece. Her silent steps took her to the man on the loud motorcycle. The Native would be a liar if she said that her heart didn't skip a beat at seeing him again.

Dammit, it's getting worse.

"Good thing one of us gets to keep their promises." The woman said as she stopped beside his bike, her arms crossed casually across her chest.

The short lived smile withered away like a husk as Daryl shut the engine of his behemoth. There was a tension in him that alerted Samara that the man was on edge. Angry even.

"It didn't go well." Samara hadn't expected any other positive ending in this meeting of giants.

"It was a joke." The Georgia man spoke gruffly. "Ain't no peace talk. Governor was just sizin' us up like Merle said."

"What did he say?"

The tension in his shoulders intensified as his frown deepened. "Rick won't say a word. Somethin' happened. Somethin' he ain't tellin'."

Samara's eyes found the man in question. He appeared the same as always but there was no mistaking the heavy burden on his shoulders weighing him down. His eyes were too focused, too sharp. Samara knew that something was eating away at his heart.

The Native felt Daryl's eyes on her back. The man was scrutinizing her like a prized horse with a tinge of annoyance hidden beneath the surface.

"What?"

As if slapped, Daryl reverted back to his usually frowning self, not a hint of anomaly present.

–It seemed Rick wasn't the only one with a chip on his shoulders.

Inside the prison, everyone gathered around Rick to hear of his exploits. Nervous and fearful, the group stood straight and tall in the face of adversity. Whatever may come their way they will handle it with all the strength and willpower their bodies could muster.

Samara sat at the back of the group with the Dixon brothers in her vicinity.

"So, I met this Governor." Rick said, as his hands rested firmly on his hips. There was a grave air about him as if the funeral procession had finally reached its destination. "Sat with him for quite a while."

"Just the two of you?" Merle asked, a doubtful look about him.

The sheriff nodded.

Samara almost choked on her own silent curses when Merle turned towards her with a knowing expression, whispering poison.

"Should have gone when we had the chance, hun."

She wanted to punch him. To kick and spit at him. But worst of all, she wished she could knocked herself out for losing such a golden opportunity. The regret that plagued her mind was like a festering wound, bleeding her dry.

"He wants the prison." Rick proclaimed clearly. There was no turning back anymore. "He wants us gone. He wants us dead for what we did to Woodbury."

The man's eyes were two arctic glaciers, angry and determined, now more than ever, to survive the ordeal that was about to come. The people around him would be there beside him, through the thick and thin. As scared and doubtful as they were, Rick knew that they could survive anything thrown at them. Too many ordeals have they fought through to die here at the hands of this man.

They will fight.

They will see the light of day again.

"We're going to war."

And they will prevail.


Milton lagged behind, but he was still close enough to hear the Governor when he spoke. The two of them and Martinez had arrived not a few minutes ago back in Woodbury and everyone seemed to be on edge with the outcome of this 'secret' meeting. It had gone rather well, all things considered. No hostilities had erupted which Milton had expected with a heavy heart. To his utter surprise and relief, the two leaders had talked without once breaking into extreme argument and neither Martinez nor Merle's brother had gone for the throat upon seeing each other. Out of all of them, Mr. Greene had been the kindest. They had some interesting conversations during the wait and Milton had been grateful for the distraction.

It saddened him though that they would have to live secluded from one another. Milton felt like he could learn so much from them and he knew Woodbury would benefit also from a collaboration with the prison group, but alas, it was not meant to be. The two factions would have to live with borders.

At least it had been decide. No more blood was to be spilt, no more deaths to be had. Life could return to its peaceful days again.

"Martinez." The Governor's crisp cut voice brought Milton out of his reverie. There was something he did not like in the man's tone. Something he had heard before in his darker moods.

"Yeah?"

"Position gunmen all around that barn. The minute you see them, you open fire. Kill the others, but you keep Michonne alive."

It was like a bomb dropped in Milton's stomach.

Martinez nodded not at all perturbed by the man's sudden change in plan and jogged ahead for his current assignment. Left alone with the Governor, Milton felt his entire body tremble in shell-shock. What? He hoped he heard wrong because there was no feasible way the Governor just said that. They had brokered a truce—

"W-What about the deal?" Milton caught up to the man and gripped his arm, almost forcefully enough to cause the one- eyed man to frown in annoyance.

Please don't tell me you intend to continue this madness.

The Governor only shrugged, unaware or uncaring of the other man's aggravated state. "Well, they'll bring Rick, Merle's brother, maybe the Asian boy or Samara and Merle himself. We can take care of the whole crew. It's the best way to avoid a slaughter."

"That is a slaughter!" Milton all but exploded, his mind unable to process the man's extreme callousness.

You can't do this. You promised you would leave this confrontation behind.

"Not at our end." The Governor looked at him with a sparkle in his eye. There was even a slight upturn of his lips as if he was suppressing laughter…Laughing at Milton and his futile struggle. "We're gonna have to eliminate Rick sooner or later. No way can we all live side by side."

Milton stood petrified as the Governor merrily patted him on the shoulder and resumed his walk, leaving his 'friend' behind.

The buzzing in his ears grew louder until nothing could be heard but the angry hornet's nest. A numbness overcame his limbs giving him a tiredness he hadn't felt in ages. The tips of his fingers and toes were cold as ice and his throat constricted to the point of pain. He knew what it was—his heart was caving in. The sorrow he was currently subjected to was drowning him. Pulling him to the dark bottom of the ocean, never to be seen again.

His friend…He lied to him. To those people. And they had no idea what fate awaited them.

He could hear the screams already…see the blood…the corpses…

—What he will do to that poor woman.

As the images drove nails into his mind, Milton felt a quiet anger boil in his stomach. Slowly, it spread to his intestines, his lungs until it reached his throat, scalding it with its intensity. He wanted to rip his clothes off, tear off his hair from the roots, anything to stop this madness from escaping his body.

Why was it so hard for people to live together in harmony? Were they so indoctrinated by past teachings that they could not put aside their differences anymore? This plague was supposed to be a fresh start. Milton had taken it as one. He had overcome his aversion to people, started communicating more openly and even made some friends, something he had lacked severely in his former life.

No…It wasn't the people of Woodbury who could not move past their anger…It was him.

How much longer will they have to suffer for one man's greed?


The field was quiet.

The walkers shuffled aimlessly without a visual or hearing stimulant. There was almost a fluid swing to their movements, reminding of dancers slow waltzing among the tall grass. It could almost be said that it was peaceful, but the man could not see it. He stood stock still on the suspended bridge, his mind in a turmoil. Rick overlooked the field despondently, his thoughts repeatedly flying back to his lengthy conversation with the Governor.

—Should he accept his proposition? In the end, what was one life in the face of many?

Seeing the man again had disturbed the former sheriff. He had felt the immediate urge to lash out, to kick and punch, to hurt…to kill. Not only for his dead wife, but for the sensation of a blade slicing through his skin and muscles, pinning his hand to a table. He hadn't forgotten what the Governor had done to him and Rick was of the mind to pay him back thoroughly.

But not with Hershel and Daryl there. Not while he risked their lives and risked the chance of never returning to his son and newborn daughter.

So Rick had swallowed his anger and marched in that animal barn and sat down patiently with the man. They had talked of many things, but in the end it had all concluded to hostilities. Rick had known that no other result would have bloomed from their meeting and he had not wanted any other. Deep down, Rick craved blood. He had lost too many people—Oscar, Axel, Lori. They're deaths had to be avenged.

But then, his mind wandered off to the ones still alive. How long will they still breathe if this war continued? How many more corpses will he have on his conscious?

The man had offered a way out—Michonne. Give him the woman and he will forget about the wrongs against him. But how much of that was true and how much fiction?

As he ruminated over his options, something snowy in the watch tower caught his eye. As his vision adjusted, he felt his muscles lock in primal fear.

It was her.

She had come back to haunt him.

Ever since he had emerged from the Tombs, he had seen her everywhere. She only appeared at a vast distance, her features unrecognizable, but Rick knew. He had known the woman for twenty odd years how could he ever forget the shape of her body, her hair, the way she stood and walked. The man had denied it at first—it couldn't be her, she was dead. He tried to rub his eyes of the illusion, shake her off, and even repeatedly chant inside his mind that 'it wasn't real'. Nothing worked. She was still there, watching him with those soulful eyes. He had finally lost his mind, Rick thought. The grief had snapped his soul in half, and he still remembered the terror he felt when he realized that her specter was getting closer day by day.

Every time he saw her he felt a stab in his heart. Was this his punishment for not being there for her? Was she haunting him? He did not want her here, mostly because he reminded her of his failures—as a husband, as a man and as a father.

She did not need to haunt him for him to feel like the lowest life form on the planet…

"What do you want?" He whispered harshly.

But she never once answered. She just stood still as a statue and looked down on him, a deep sadness contorting her features. She was crying silent tears.

"I'm sorry. I—"

"Rick?"

The former sheriff immediately shut his mouth tight as one door to the catwalk opened with rusty hinges. Hershel appeared, a perplexed look about him.

"Were you talkin' to someone?" He stared around, searching for signs of another present soul.

"Just thinkin' out loud." The small smile on Rick's lips was frozen and far from genuine. His gaze wandered for a moment back to the guard tower, but the specter had vanished. She never once remained while others lingered. Her presence was for his questionable sanity only. "What is it?"

"I want to know what happened between you and the Governor." The old man walked up to him, a determined look on his aged face. "What happened that's got you secludin' yourself out here."

Rick sighed. He had known that sooner or later someone would come asking. He just wished it had been later, when he got his mind sorted out.

The Kentucky man gave the farmer a chilling look.

"He gave me a choice. A way out."

"What does he want?"

For a second, Rick closed his eyes. He would need all the inner strength he could muster.

"Michonne."

The effect was immediate. Hershel's eyes widened in trepidation and his mouth slightly hung open. Rick understood the old man's shock as he too had felt it.

"And…" The older man licked his lips, visibly nervous. "What did you say?"

Rick stared out in the distance, his mind a battlefield. What indeed


The sound of a sharp blade sliding against wood was trance inducing. Daryl had been sitting transfixed by camp lantern for a few hours now as he forged new arrows. He would need plenty for the upcoming battle, and he would not risk being left without.

'We're going to war.'

Daryl almost felt relieved when Rick had finally written it in stone. No more guessing, no more doubts—it was settled now. No matter whether they liked it or not, there will be blood.

How many will die, he wondered. That alone sunk his heart to unimaginable depths. He would once again have to bury a friend. Maybe even a brother…or a lover—

"Shit!"

He sucked on his finger as the blade slid into his flesh. The coppery taste of blood flooded his senses, sharpening his mind. He did not want to think about the possibility of losing the two people he cared more than his own self. If Merle died he knew he would lose his mind in grief. And Samara…

With a growl, the man returned to shaping his arrows. He would not think of them in that sort of gruesome situation. For his sanity's sake, he preferred not to.

Despite his attention mostly captivated by the task at hand, Daryl did not miss the light steps heading towards his cell. At night, every sound in the building increased tenfold so nothing escaped his notice no matter how much anyone tried to hide. Samara was no different.

The curtain to his cell parted and the wolf herself strolled inside like she owned the damned place. This was an issue Daryl hated. Samara had no qualms with walking on someone else's territory, but god forbid someone ever step in her cell uninvited. She did not give a rat's fart about his private space, but he let it slide for now. He did not want to start an argument over her discourtesy.

Samara settled herself on the defunct toilet which Daryl had transformed into a chair. The man could feel those green orbs watching him intently, following each stroke of his blade. He had seen her reaction towards Rick's proclamation—anger, regret, blood lust. She would be one of the few of the prison who gladly awaited the fight.

'You people are the quiet, passive type. Governor ain't. And she ain't either.'

Daryl paused in his work as the Hispanic's grating words came to mind. Back then, he did not want to believe him, couldn't, but slowly, memories of the woman and her aggression began rolling like an old film inside his mind. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Saw Martinez again." Daryl felt the blade go in deeper as his resentment bubbled. "Told me he used to be your guard."

Samara nodded casually as she scrutinized his deft fingers. At that point, he almost wanted to shout at her for treating it so lightly. Almost as if was a trivial piece of information.

"He was in the beginning." Samara elaborated as she stole one of his menthol cigarettes and lit it up. It didn't escape his notice that she sniffed in disgust at the taste. "He made sure I didn't try to run away, but he seemed bored most of the time."

"Said you fought in the arena." His eyes were on her now, his hands coming to a halt. "Thought you said Governor didn't need you for that."

Samara watched him carefully as the smoke billowed around her head, hiding her in grey shadows. She was beginning to notice the anger sizzling underneath his skin and Daryl swore he could almost visualize the cogs turning in her head on how to approach the situation.

"He didn't. I wanted to fight."

His frown deepened as his anger spiked. How could she be so stupidly careless? Who in their right mind would want to fight to the death?

"Why?" Sometimes, he swore he could not understand her.

The woman shifted uncomfortably, her eyes fleeting. "The man I wanted to fight was the twin that suggested they hang you. I wanted him to die."

Ah…Now he understood. Despite the feeling of warmth it created in his gut, the hunter would not let it delude him.

"That was stupid." He growled, his grip on the arrow tightening until his knuckles turned white. "You could've been killed instead."

"But I wasn't." Again, she spoke in that nonchalant way that irked him to the bone. "I calculated the odds. I had a fair chance of winning and I did."

That was all he needed to hear for the lid to pop open.

"Christ!" As his rage hit the point of no return, Daryl threw his arrow away. The shaft snapped in half against the force of his rage. He paced like a caged animal, too much energy inside him to sit still. "You think you're untouchable, huh? That you can't die. Well, take a good look, Samara." He raised his chin, exposing the scar along his neck. "Neither of us is safe."

"Even so, you're alive." The woman reiterated, the same cautious look about her.

"Only because of Maggie!" He spat aggressively. "Otherwise, I'd be a walkin' corpse!"

Samara stared fixedly as the smoke coiled and clouded around her. Daryl did not like the sensation; like a bug under a microscope.

"What did he tell you?"

Enough to make me angry.

He just wanted her to be more careful, to value her life more. But the annoying woman that she was, she continued on living as if she were immortal. As if nothing could touch her, neither the living nor the undead. Perhaps after so many brushes with Death it had left her in a numb state devoid of fear for the unknown, but Daryl knew otherwise. He'd deciphered her some time ago.

He just wished…

The man sighed tiredly as he sat back on his bed. It was like trying to push back the tide. Futile and, in the end, mentally exhausting. With a flick of his fingers, he beckoned her closer.

"Come here."

She did, warily at first, before leaving her smoking cigarette behind and settling in his lap. Daryl's arms wrapped around her waist and softly settled his head on her chest. The rhythmic beat of her heart lulled him into a tranquil state, similar to the one he induced on himself upon creating his arrows. Arms wrapped around his back, one hand slowly racking through his hair almost made the man purr. Those willowy fingers of hers coiled around locks of light brown hair and playfully tugged.

Daryl didn't know how long they stood in that position, wrapped round each other, but he could not say that he loathed it. Just the feel of her in his arms was enough to calm the raging tempest inside him. He feared for her, too much for his own good. The hunter wished there was more he could do but he knew the Native would not allow him. She was her own creature and detested needing others, no matter how small or big the issue.

—Perhaps that was why lately he felt such bitter-sweetness whenever they came together.

His grip on her tightened. Daryl kissed her then, but as their lips danced against each other, that same distress washed over him like a cold blanket.

"What's wrong?" He whispered against her wet lips.

"Nothing."

Daryl shook his head. He knew better. "You're lyin'. You're pullin' away again."

Samara stroked his cheek gently and Daryl felt hope slip through his fingers. There was a light smile on her face, but it was only a ghost of happiness long gone. There was only sorrow left in its place now.

He knew. As those golden flakes in her irises shimmered, he knew and he felt something break deep inside him.

"I won't like what you'll have to say, will I?"

The Indian continued to smile her sad smile as her hand stroked his skin with tenderness uncharacteristic of her.

"Let's just enjoy this."

Samara kissed him and Daryl said nothing more on the subject, preferring to hide in the lie that everything was alright. They drown in the heat of their bodies, shutting out the entire world outside their arms. Reality could wait. They only had a precious few instances before one of them might disappear forever in the darkness.

Just for a short while…They could pretend that everything was alright.