AN: So, I'm on a bit of a seasonal kick (which is not unusual for me) and some anonymous person on Tumblr asked me for Caryl and Urban Legend. This is just a fun little one shot that I put together for that.

I own nothing from The Walking Dead.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Everything changed and, yet, in the end, nothing really ever changed.

Daryl would have been hard-pressed to explain the paradox, but he felt it inside himself. Of course, he wouldn't have bothered to explain it to most people. If most people had asked for such an intensive and involved explanation, he would have simply walked away without another word. The only person that he would have given that much time and effort to, wouldn't have asked him to explain himself in the first place.

With time, people healed. Wounds that didn't heal entirely, at least scarred over. The memory of them was there, and they might ache from time to time, but time took out the initial bite.

With time, the world healed. Plants and trees grew back where there had been fire-scorched ground before. People slowly returned to populate land that they'd abandoned.

Life taught those lessons. Mother Nature taught those lessons. It was important to remember that there were cycles of growth and decay, death and rebirth and, at least once a year, it was important to let go of things that no longer served a purpose.

Daryl always thought of that when this time of year came around. Here, the air was cold and crisp when the season settled around them. The night came early, and the mornings seemed to come late. Mother Nature prepared for hibernation, and the trees let go of the burdens they'd been carrying so that they danced in the wind and drifted to the ground to be trod underfoot until they were returned to the dirt from which they'd come.

There was a distinct smell of woodsmoke, it seemed, at all times, and there was a flutter of activity in preparation for the sleepy winter ahead when everything would be buried under a blanket of snow.

There were plenty of preparations for the winter still to be made, but Daryl wasn't worried. They were ahead of time, and they wouldn't starve or go cold this winter. They'd seen to that, already. Any other preparations left to be done would only ensure that they were able to live a little luxuriously this year.

Of course, they'd had plenty of practice preparing for hard times.

They'd also had plenty of practice turning hard times into good times.

Daryl set the last of the snares that he planned to set for the day, and he dropped the last handful of mushrooms, nuts, and the few assorted plants he'd pulled up into the bag that he wore slung over his shoulder. There wasn't much, but Carol always seemed to be able to make even the smallest finds into something incredible. She'd likely take the assorted handful or two of the days' finds and turn them into a stew and a pie—it was practically magic what she could do in the little kitchen.

Walking back, Daryl didn't try to move too quietly. He wasn't trying to sneak up on anything. In fact, he enjoyed the sound of his feet shuffling the leaves that littered the floor of the woods.

He stopped when he heard a familiar sound. It was the sound of tinkling laughter. Someone out of breath called out to others to "stop" and "wait up." Someone else tossed back a taunt about the slowness of the heavy-breather.

Someone said they heard something. They insisted they had. She was a little girl and, though Daryl couldn't see them, he hadn't heard any other little girl voices.

They called her crazy. They taunted her with being a baby and imagining things. They were the only ones in the woods. Daryl brushed his foot, purposefully, against the ground and scratched at the leaves. She heard it again, and this time so did the others.

Daryl practically held his breath not to give his location away and not to laugh out loud at all that followed. He heard them weaving the story for what he assumed must be the youngest of them there—the one who didn't know—why it was that coming into the woods on a crisp, cool day like today was something they weren't supposed to do and why, doing as they'd done, was nothing short of an act of rebellion and immense bravery.

Their parents, Daryl knew, likely wanted them not to come into the woods because they were afraid of the animals that lived there. If any of them were hungry, a small child may look like an easy meal for preparing for winter. In addition, though Walkers were not nearly as plentiful as they'd once been, every now and again someone died where they couldn't be put down and they walked. Encountering one of those was every bit as dangerous as it had once been, and parents remained vigilant of that—as they should.

The tale the children told, though, was one of magic and mayhem. The woods, as woods had always been, Daryl supposed, were home to those who couldn't—or wouldn't—live in the thick of society. The woods were inhabited by strange, unknown, unpredictable characters. These woods, in particular, were home to two figures that haunted the imaginations of the children who lived in the nearby little community.

The Witch, they said, lived in an old cabin in the woods. She welcomed children into her home—lured them in with magic and treats—and she ate them brewed in potions that boiled and bubbled on her fire. The Wildman roamed the woods, consuming anything that crossed his path, leaving snares to catch children to take them home and make them into his supper. Very few had seen either of them and lived to tell the truth about it.

Of course, like with all urban legends, there was some element of truth to their stories, but there was a great deal of embellishment.

The Witch did live in an old cabin in the woods, but the little house was in good repair, unlike the half-dilapidated shack they often described. The Wildman lived there, too. And the Witch would have welcomed any child into her home that needed shelter. She had brought a few in, from time to time. They were usually ones who had gotten lost or hurt by no fault of either the Witch or the Wildman, and she would give them treats and calm them down before delivering them back to the safety of the community and the parents to whom they belonged. Daryl did think that the Witch was capable of magic—she'd certainly bewitched him—and she did brew all manner of potions that helped with ailments and filled his belly alike, but none of them had ever proven dangerous.

The Wildman, too, was her constant companion. They'd come to the woods so many winters ago that they'd stopped counting them. They'd decided to have a quiet, private life for themselves, for whatever time they had left to enjoy together, and they'd followed through with what they'd set out to build. The Wildman did roam the woods—he lived there, and he played there, so to speak. He did consume anything that crossed his path—as long as it was good to consume—by taking it home to the Witch to prepare in her so-called potions. He set snares, but they were mostly for rabbits and squirrels, and not at all for children.

Many people had seen them, especially since they did sometimes venture into the community for something they wanted or needed, but telling the truth about it was far less entertaining than spinning a story to thrill and entertain everyone.

Daryl listened to how the story had grown since the last time he'd heard it, and he swallowed back amusement. Giving them one last bit of thrilling encounter, he scuffed his way somewhat loudly through the leaves—hearing the high-pitched squeals of "near-death-encounter" behind him—and headed toward the cabin.

The smell of smoke carried in the cool air, and the promise of warmth to knock the chill off beckoned Daryl to pick up his pace as he neared the little structure. As soon as he stepped through the door, he was greeted by the smell of something cooking.

"I'm lookin' for the beautiful White Witch of the Woods," Daryl said with a laugh, closing the door behind him and hanging his bag on the hook where Carol would get it, later, and rifle through its contents.

"My handsome Wildman!" Carol announced, coming from where she was stirring the food that cooked on the wood-burning stove that Daryl had found for her. She held her arms open, and Daryl accepted her invitation to sink into them. She laughed, happily, at the teasing as Daryl snuggled her tightly. "Children?" She asked.

"Sounded like a half a dozen, at least," he said.

"You didn't scare them," Carol said, pulling out of the hug. He shook his head.

"Didn't even let 'em see me," he said. "Leaves are loud enough right now."

In the winter, especially, maybe he did look like a Wildman. He had a tendency to let his beard—mostly grey now—grow to guard his face against the cold. And, perhaps, Carol did look a little like a storybook witch. She tended to keep her hair long and white and braided down her back, but sometimes she let it free and its natural curl made it a bit wild—just like her.

It didn't matter. She was beautiful to him, and he assumed that she didn't find him too disagreeable to look at. After all, she'd never kicked him out of their bed and, in fact, she welcomed him to bed and to have what he wanted of her body with a great deal of regularity.

They had little concern, really, for the opinions of others.

"Is there any meat in there?" She asked, gesturing toward his bag. He retrieved it from the hook and handed it to her so that she could rifle through his latest finds.

"No," he said. "Nuts, plants—a couple really good mushrooms."

"Oooh," she said, clearly delighted. "I can add these to the stew as soon as I clean them."

Daryl smiled.

"I knew you'd be able to do somethin' good with 'em."

She laughed and took her spoils to the sink to wash them.

"You mean—besides create some magical potion for luring the unsuspecting villagers to our door?" She teased. "You know—for all their stories, I never seem to catch anybody."

Daryl laughed.

"You caught a Wildman," Daryl offered. "Ain't much, but…"

"It's everything," Carol said with a happy sigh. "Why catch more when you've caught the best?"

"I'm sure fuckin' glad you enchanted my ass," Daryl teased. He followed Carol and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into him after she'd stirred her mushrooms into the pot.

"Well—you better eat a bowl of what I've brewed up, just to be sure the magic sticks," Carol said with a snort. "This time it's only rabbit stew."

"Your rabbit stew is some of the best," Daryl said. "Damn near magic, I tell you that much."

Daryl turned her around and held her close to him again, enjoying her warmth. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of the stew, and the smell of her, and the feeling of home.

The Witch and the Wildman, he figured, would haunt these woods for a long time. And, perhaps, one day, someone would tell the urban legend of how they loved each other so much that not even death could part them. Maybe they would roam the woods together for all eternity, just as happy and as in love as they were now.

Daryl smiled to himself. It wasn't a bad legacy to leave behind, he decided, and it was a wonderful life to live in the meantime.