Disclaimer: Nope, TWD is not mine.
This takes place during the winter between Season 9 and 10.
Tonight is everything she needs it to be. It's a little warmer. The midwinter festival has left every inch of the snowy ground trampled; another set of tracks won't be noticed. Aaron is on guard duty for the second shift. Lydia picked him not because he was less diligent, but because if he caught her he wouldn't be nearly as mean as the others.
She hoped.
She skips the last stair entirely, landing perfectly in her worn boots. Lydia grins at her feat but a faint noise pauses her celebration. That's when she notices it: the glow from the kitchen, too warm to be from the moon. It's accompanied by soft, repetitious scratches. Lydia peeks her head around the corner just enough to confirm her suspicions.
Daryl's at the table sharpening a knife by candle light. She flattens herself against the wall and curses. The front door is right in his line of sight. It's below her room which was why she had picked it as her egress in the first place. She'd weighed other options like her bedroom window, but she knew that it groaned when she tried to open it. She had rejected the hall window because it had no porch roof below it; besides, that would require passing Carol's room and Lydia knew the woman slept even less than Daryl.
A little bit of disappointment knots in her stomach. It isn't as if she wants to run away; when she is left to her own devices it was nice knowing she was sheltered from the elements and need not fear the slap of a switch. It's just, she's put in her time. She read three books this week and successfully folded clothing. When Gauge said something snotty, she didn't snarl at him or draw her knife and drag it across his throat. She'd done what they wanted her to do so now she is going to do what she wants.
She is good at sneaking, but not good enough to make it past her insomniac guardian. If she moved toward the door, Daryl would hear her, see her, gruffly demand to know where she was going, what she was doing out of bed.
"He might let me go," the hopeful part of her whispers.
Lydia sighs, considers, and then abandons that thought. He may, but if he didn't, the forthcoming scold and extra surveillance would be almost as bad as just going back to bed. Briefly, she weighs the risks of sneaking out through Judith's bedroom. That too gets cast aside; the kid was too quick to draw her gun.
But then comes the light shuffle of the chair against the floor and the steady footsteps retreating into the basement.
Lydia releases a sigh at her stroke of luck.
She sneaks out the front door.
Winter welcomes her with a full bodied embrace. Lydia sucks in the cold, quiet air that bites at her cheeks. Clinging to the shadows, Lydia slinks down the street before ducking behind an empty house and up to the wall. She grunts as her fingers slip on the freezing metal and her legs have to catch her entire weight. Ever adaptable, Lydia finds a new path over the fence, sliding over the metal like a snake and drops to the other side.
Easy.
Henry had said she could belong here, and she wanted to believe him. But when she can sneak out like a thief and it feels more natural than eating with a fork or smiling politely, she's not so sure she can believe that anymore.
Grief vices her chest suddenly and without mercy. Tears soak her cheeks as she streaks through the woods, eyeing the thick oak tree that towers above the rest. Lydia clambers up the trunk. In her haste she scrapes her palms. Ten feet in the air, with her back to the trunk, Lydia lets out a sob. She squeezes her knees to her chest, as if by doing so she could keep it all inside.
Her cry is answered by a wolf's howl. She shudders with the haunting echo.
It starts to snow.
"Weak," her mother chastises. "Crying over some boy?"
"Shut up!" She screeches and then clamps her bloody palm over her mouth.
The wolves pass beneath her. There's five of them, all with varying shades of sleek gray fur. The leader looks up at her with yellow, honest eyes and sniffs. Uninterested, or determining her to close enough to kin, trots away.
She watches the pack move as one and another ping of sadness rattles through her heart.
"You belong out here. You belong to me."
Lydia scoffs; it was true she didn't believe Henry's promise, but she doesn't believe her mother either.
There is nowhere for her.
The trees are nothing more than dark shadows surrounded by inky black. The wind picks up and rattles the bare branches reaching unseen to the cloudy sky. It's inviting because it's harsh and frightening and familiar. She's spent more of her life curled up in dry creek beds than on an actual mattress.
But she loves her pillow, the carpet between her toes.
She likes the mint tea and tomato sauce.
Even Daryl, who, despite keeping his sharp eye on her, seemed to silently understand her claustrophobia; he sometimes invited her to help collect firewood and to check the snares.
"Weak!"
The wind changes direction and the snow falls harder.
Lydia curls around her knees. She closes her eyes and tips her head upward just enough to let the snowflakes that make it through the branches hit her skin. Usually by now she would be south with the horde, safe from the worst offerings of winter. She stares down her red nose to her numb fingers and knows at least here, there is shelter from the elements that doesn't come prepackaged with violence.
When her tears stop, Lydia wipes her nose on her sleeve and climbs down. The wolf tracks lead into the dark, but she turns and breathes into her cupped hands. Is it the cowards choice to choose physical comforts over her Mother? Without Henry to hold her hand, what was in Alexandria anyway?
Before she can settle on an answer, she's over the wall without so much as a hitch. Aaron doesn't catch her. At least she knows she can be invisible here. That's a small comfort and she smiles. It slips slightly when she reaches the house she's supposed to be sleeping in. All the windows are black. The snow makes the white paint look gray. Not for the first time, she tries to recall what her childhood home looked like. She knows she must have had one, probably with a grassy yard. But there's nothing before Alpha and the Guardians. Shaking off the ensuing headache, she pads up the stairs and eases her way inside.
She's about to go upstairs, but there's still a glow in the kitchen. The candle has dripped wax all over its plate, its low flame struggling to stay lit. Curious, she pads closer. There's a carafe, a mug, and a tea bag on the table. A cursory touch reveals the water is still steaming hot. She shoots a glare at the basement door, but it softens just as quickly.
Lydia pours herself a mug for tea. In between sips, she listens for the howl of the wolves or her Mother's sneer.
But the house keeps quiet.
Thanks for reading! There should be three parts total. Let me know what you think!-randomcat23