AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I posted one yesterday that I think people missed. I also posted one earlier today. Please don't forget to read those before you read this one (and leave me some love if you feel supportive and inclined).

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

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Daryl had been nervous to hand Sophia over to anyone, in the morning, to free himself up for going into the solitary confinement hallways—which he couldn't help but think of as concrete and metal tombs—to search for Carol. He'd put the trip into the hallways off for longer than he meant to, taking his time to dress and feed a cranky Sophia who was beginning to be violently angry that her Mama didn't appear, no matter how much she called for her, to give her the milk she begged for piteously.

The only reason that Daryl had finally passed her over and had taken the flashlight and his weapons to go on his search, was because Hershel, himself, had found him hiding in the cell with Sophia.

"Can I come in?" Hershel asked, stopping at the door.

"Might as well," Daryl said. "Everybody else does what the hell they want." He immediately felt sorry for snapping at the old man. "You ain't deserved that," he offered. "I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry," Hershel said, working his way into the room on his crutches. He sat on the bed that Daryl had made up—not that he nor Sophia had done much sleeping the night before. She'd only slept when she'd cried herself to sleep, and he'd never managed to do that for himself. "I suppose it's Maggie that deserved that more than me?"

"She's at the top of my list," Daryl offered.

"She meant well," Hershel said. "Maggie's heart is often in the right place, even if her head isn't always. I blame that on the fact that she lost her mother too young—and I wasn't always the best substitute for a mother. Maybe I forgot to teach her a few lessons, here and there, that she might have used."

Daryl's stomach clenched at the thought. There was so much of it, at the moment, that touched something inside of him.

"You done OK," he said.

"And so will you," Hershel said. "Raising daughters—especially when you're grieving and they're grieving, isn't easy. But there's nothing more rewarding than seeing them grow into young women—even if they grow into young women who missed a lesson, here or there."

"They wanna take her away from me," Daryl said.

"Nobody's going to take your daughter away from you," Hershel said. "She's right where she needs to be. You're doing everything you can for her, and you'll continue to do everything you can for her. For now, though, the best thing that you can do for her is to focus on yourself, just a little."

"I ain't got time," Daryl said. "I gotta—look for Carol."

"That's what I mean," Hershel said. "Closure is—so important. It doesn't stop the hurt, mind you. I still miss Josephine. Even though I loved Annette, I never stopped loving Jo." He laughed to himself. "I never stopped loving Annette, either. It's funny how hearts work. You think you've loved all you can…"

"I ain't never gonna love nobody but Carol," Daryl said, matter-of-factly. "And Sophia, but that's different. It's a different kinda love."

Hershel didn't try to argue with Daryl in any way. He didn't tell him some nonsense about loving again. He simply accepted what he'd said.

"My girls—are what keep me going. Every day."

Daryl gathered Sophia up, dragging her out from where she was crawling under the bed, and then he bent down to reach under the bed and grab the plastic dog that she'd been going after. Carol usually kept their cell meticulously clean—sweeping it every day with a broom—and there was nothing more than a little dust stuck on the dog. Daryl brushed it against his shirt to clean it before offering it over to Sophia's outstretched hands.

"Thanks, Dada," she offered.

"You welcome, Soph," Daryl said, kissing her forehead. Her face was still damp from her last bout of angry crying, but she was calm for a minute. He looked at Hershel. "I got nothin' if I don't got Sophia."

"It looks to me like you've got her," Hershel said. "And she's got you. She'll be here when you get back." He smiled at Daryl. "I could stand to spend some time relaxing in my cell anyway. I'm exhausted after everything with Lori. Maybe Sophia would like to spend a little time playing in Papa Hershel's cell."

"Can you handle it? With your leg?" Daryl asked.

"I'll get Beth to help me if I can't," Hershel said. "But you need to take care of Daryl for a little while. Take as long as you need. As many days as you need. Son—there's no time limit on grieving. And whenever it gets dark, Sophia's going to be waiting on you."

Daryl thanked Hershel. He helped the old man up with one arm, still holding Sophia, and he followed him down to his cell. He thanked him, told Sophia that she should behave for him, and slipped away while Hershel, having dragged the girl into his lap, distracted the baby with a board book he kept in his cell to read with her.

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Daryl sat out on the grass in the failing light of the day.

Sophia ran around, first in one direction, and then the other, running off all the energy that she'd accumulated through the day. There was something she was chasing, yelling at it that she was "gonna get it," and, from her movements, Daryl could assume that it was either a frog or a grasshopper. It didn't matter, and Daryl was content to let her play with it.

She needed to burn some energy, and he needed a moment away from everyone else.

Daryl sat cross-legged on the grass. He reached a hand out and put his hand on the little wooden cross. He rubbed his fingers against the grain of the wood.

With the little rocks that Sophia had found for him earlier, Daryl had made a little "C" on the ground for Carol. He reached in his pocket and pulled the crumpled Cherokee Rose he'd found on a vine. He placed it in the center of the "C" before touching the cross again.

He wasn't sitting on a grave. There was no body buried there. He was sitting, rather, at a memorial for Carol.

"Found this rose," Daryl said. "It was growin' through the fence. Right over there. Right—near the buildin'. Made me think of you. Back when Sophia was so sick. Made me think of how—you treated me like I was some kinda fuckin' hero. What a fuckin' hero I am now, huh? Couldn't save you from them nasty ass fuckers. Wasn't there to save you. Now I ain't even found you so you don't gotta walk around like one of 'em. I know—know you wouldn't want that. I put down three dozen of 'em lookin' for you today. But there's so damned many of 'em in the halls an' they go here an' there. I had to stop lookin' today because it was gettin' dark an' Sophia needed to run just a lil' bit. I knew you'd—you'd understand that. You hated her bein' cooped up. I'ma find you tomorrow, though. I promise you that. I'ma find you. Maybe that's what the hell the flower was for—just—that I'ma find you so you can have some peace."

Daryl broke off. He ripped a few blades of grass from the ground and shredded them between his fingertips while he dealt with the emotions bubbling up inside him. He didn't want to admit that he really wished that he could find some peace for himself, as well, but he doubted that would ever happen.

Daryl sat there a moment longer, seeking some kind of solace in a little wooden cross and a "C" made out of pebbles, before he got to his feet.

The sun had almost set. Everyone else had gone inside.

Daryl walked over to where Sophia was playing. He identified that she was, in fact, chasing around a toad who was trying to escape her while he hunted bugs in the tall grass.

"Come on, you mighty hunter," Daryl said, scooping the little girl up. She cackled at him and he turned her around and settled her on his hip before he kissed her face. "You fuckin' filthy and that lil' toad's got work to do. Let's go get a bath."

"I hungry," Sophia offered.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I know you are," Daryl said. "You always hungry. Don't worry. Daddy's gonna get you somethin' to eat, too."

"Milk," Sophia offered, somewhat mournfully. It had been at least an hour since she'd cried for Carol. She was likely due for another round, and they were sure to have another long night.

"Somethin' like that," Daryl said, wanting to put it off for as long as he possibly could. "Come on—let's get'cha what'cha need, Soph."

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Daryl could tell, just by the light that came in through the high windows of solitary confinement, that it was afternoon. It was maybe even mid-afternoon.

The very sight of the sunlight streaming through the windows—though necessary for him to keep looking—inspired an inexplicable rage in him.

In the two days that he'd been searching for Carol, he'd walked every square inch of that part of the prison. He'd assured himself that it was closed off from the rest of the prison. The part that was damaged allowed Walkers in, but the raised-up nature of the rubble kept them from escaping. Like the back of the prison yard, where the fence had been destroyed, the hole created a kind of spillway. They could get in, but they couldn't get out.

There were probably nearly a fifty Walkers in the halls of the building—maybe there were even more that were closed into the cells. He could hear them growling and grumbling. He could hear doors rattling and feet shuffling on the ground. He'd walked circles, following their sounds, and he'd killed every Walker he'd seen. Every female he came across, no matter her stature or other defining characteristics, made his heart stop suddenly in his chest. He couldn't breathe until he'd verified that she wasn't Carol.

He had no idea how many he'd put down. Bodies littered the corridor floors all around the building. Still, none of it brought him any relief. If anything, it created a boiling anger inside of him.

He couldn't accomplish anything. He couldn't do anything for Carol. He couldn't even bring her peace in death because he couldn't find her.

Daryl made his way back to the now familiar little section of the building where he'd once found Oscar's body. A few steps away from there, he found the Walker that had killed Carol. He kicked it, as he passed by it, furious at it for having taken from him the only woman that he'd ever loved.

Carol had been precious to him. More precious than he'd even known, and he'd known she was practically what kept his heart beating in his chest and kept him looking forward to waking up in the morning. Now she was gone because of this gutless, mindless, rotting bastard.

And Daryl couldn't even lay her to rest.

Daryl dropped down on the floor and sat with his back against the wall. He'd killed so many Walkers that day that he'd lost count of them. He should have found her by now. Killing them made him feel a little better, for just a second, as he got out some of his pent-up anger and aggression, but killing all the Walkers in the world wouldn't bring her back.

He frowned at the floor. From one of the two sheaths that he wore on his belt, he pulled her knife. He should have found her a better knife. One with a better handle. The handle on this one, when it got wet, was slippery. That's what had happened. He was sure of it. She'd been fighting her way through a stirred-up bunch of them, and she'd lost her grip on the knife when she'd most needed it. They had boxes of assorted knives they'd gathered at places—surely ones with better handles. It was his own good-for-nothingness that had kept him from recognizing that she needed a better knife.

If he'd found her a better knife, she might have still been there with him.

Daryl reached his hand back and pounded on the concrete wall behind him. He growled, gritting his teeth, against the pain. He liked the satisfying pain in his hand. At the very least, it distracted him for a second from the overwhelming pain in his chest. He growled loudly, not really afraid of the Walkers that might come for him—he'd cleared most of them out, he felt, and maybe she would find him if he couldn't find her.

"Carol!" He yelled. He growled again, angry at the world for all the shit it had served him. Angry that he had to lose what mattered so much to him when other people got to keep everything—though he hated to insinuate that they were less-deserving. He probably didn't deserve to have ever even had her in the first place, but, having had her, he wished he'd never had to let her go. "Carol!" He called out again, this time feeling the something inside his chest snap that gave way every now and again.

He stopped and, for a moment, focused on not crying—not again. It wasn't decent to cry as much as he'd cried in the past few days. His brother would have kicked his ass for crying as much as he'd done—but he never was as strong as Merle, and hurt just made the tears come for him sometimes, especially when it was a hurt like this—a hurt that he could barely stand.

When the echoing of his own voice stopped, Daryl heard the distant growling of Walkers. They wouldn't find him. The echo wouldn't bring them to him. It would only confuse them. They weren't near him. He heard the clanging, too, of Walkers that were determined to get out of their traps—the heavy doors were to heavy to push open in their weakened states.

One such door was hardly two feet from him. He heard it, and then he watched it. It pushed open—just barely—and slammed back shut, but not solidly enough to seal. The action was repeated. Three times. Four.

Daryl got up and walked over there. He paced back in forth in front of the door. He was angry at the Walker for disturbing him. He was angry at the Walker for not realizing that he needed a moment.

He was angry at the world, really, but the rotting Walker would do.

Daryl palmed the handle of Carol's knife. He tightened his grip on the handle. He ripped open the door of the metal cell and stood, waiting for the Walker to charge him. The Walker, though, neither charged him nor fell out the door. The Walker that had been pushing the door open was crumpled on the floor. The light barely shined in and fell across it.

Daryl's heart stopped as he recognized the clothing. He dropped down, quickly, to be closer to the Walker.

She turned toward him. There was no snarling. There was no biting. There was only the breathy attempt to say something. She'd spent all her strength, though, trying to move the door. She'd spent her strength telling him that she was there in the only way she could after two and a half days without food or water. Daryl touched her face. He held it, for just a second, and assured himself that she was alive.

She was barely alive, but she was alive.

He didn't have time for hesitation.

He sheathed her knife, put his crossbow across his back, and scooped her out of the cell. She barely seemed to weigh as much as Sophia in his arms, and she sagged.

He readjusted her, making sure his grip on her was good, and he hugged her against his chest as she let go of the last bit of consciousness to which she'd been clinging.

"You don't get to do that," Daryl said, moving as quickly as he could through the corridors, headed straight for the exit and sure that he was capable of simply barreling through any Walker that dared to get in his way at the moment. "You can't! You gotta stay with me! You don't get to do this, Carol! You gotta fuckin'—you gotta stay with me!"

Daryl was almost certain he'd never run as quickly as he did that day. Practically running backwards, he slammed through the metal door and into the sunshine of the yard. He skidded on his feet as he turned and ran as fast as he could toward the cell block. People yelled at him. He heard nothing of it.

All he heard was the pounding of his heart in his ears, his own voice crying out for Hershel, and his brain's whispered prayer to allow him to cash in on any good he might have coming to him for a lifetime.