AN: Back from the dead! I did not realize the irony of that sentence until I typed it. How sad is that.
Lots of swearing, courtesy of the Dixon brothers. This chapter is generally pretty low key compared to the last couple. The action will certainly pick up again. But for now, some introspection.
Saya = the katana's scabbard (i.e. what it's sheathed in). I probably used it awkwardly, but alas. It'll have to do.
Read, review, enjoy!
The Belle and the Blade – Chapter 5
Daryl opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the light of the room. He found he could only fully open one eye – the other was swollen over. Just like dear ol' dad used to do. He thought bitterly.
He cast a weary glance across his surroundings. The walls of the room were stone. From the unfinished ceiling hung a large fluorescent light, casting an unhealthy glow on the cement floor. The cement itself was spattered in blood here and there. He wondered if it was his or someone else's.
There wasn't a whole lot he could remember clearly – the folks they'd hit had murder in their eyes when they'd caught him and he was sure he wouldn't last long in this god-forsaken town. But they hadn't killed him yet.
Instead they'd elected to stick him in a room, beat the shit out of him every few hours (leaving him little in the way of sleep), and stick needles in his arm. Drugs would explain the poor memory the last – how long was it, days? A week? There were no windows in the room. No sense of time, sense of day.
The door on the opposite side of the room opened and Daryl sneered, his muscles tightening in anticipation as he struggled against the ropes restraining his limbs. He heard his brother before he saw him.
"Joe! What the fuck?! Just let me talk to him, I can talk him down. He's fuckin' losin' it, can't you see that?" Merle yelled at his captor, a tall, pale gangly man with a pistol in hand. His metal arm was gone and his arms had been hog-tied at the elbows. Judging from the angry, red welts, the rope had been there for several days at least. I'll bet he had a fun time taking a piss. His face was messed up too – made colourful with bruises and his jaw was red and swollen.
The man named Joe pushed Merle unceremoniously to the floor beside his brother. He finished by spitting in their direction before he turned and left, locking the door behind him. Daryl listened closely. It sounded like there was a plain lock and a couple of deadbolts. So much for an easy escape.
He didn't look at Merle when he finally spoke. "You look about as shit as I feel."
Merle didn't laugh.
Daryl tried again. "Do you know how long they been holdin' us?"
"Not really."
"D'they say what they're plannin' on doing?"
Merle turned to his brother with an incredulous look.
"Does it seem like I'm privy to that kind of information anymore?"
Daryl met his brother's gaze with hard defiance.
"How the fuck am I supposed to know. Maybe they dropped you in here to ferret out information. Maybe they beat you up to make it look like you're a traitor when you're really still that fuckhead's little bitch."
Merle lunged a leg out and kicked Daryl hard in the thigh, but in the process tipped his own body over and faceplanted onto the floor. Daryl grimaced in pain but looked over to see Merle struggling without the use of his arms, attempting futilely to right himself. He let out a sputtered laugh.
"Touchy subject, huh, bro?" Daryl chuckled.
"Shuddup!" Merle finally managed to awkwardly push himself back up into a seated position, his face red with an amusing mix of strain, embarrassment, and anger.
"How the hell did you end up with that fucker anyway?"
Merle panted, still a bit out of breath from his struggling. "That fucker saved my goddamned life. Which is more than I can say for you."
Daryl's expression darkened.
"I looked for you," he said, his voice a low growl.
Merle chuckled. "Well then, la-dee-da. I am ever in your debt, your royal fucking highness."
It was Daryl's turn to lash out and kick the other man. He maintained his balance though, planting his boot even harder, right to Merle's knee.
"Aggh, fuck! Alright, alright! Jesus!" Merle hissed. "Happy fuckin' reunion."
The locks on the door clicked then – one, two, three – and a tall, handsome man with an eye-patch walked through it, flanked by two men with guns.
"Sounds like you two are gettin' along like gangbusters," the Governor's dark drawl enveloped the room. The man's face was scarred and broken around the patch on his right eye. His features seemed more drawn to Merle, the lines deeper. Gone was the charismatic, charming leader he remembered.
Merle recalled the manner in which he'd injured his eye: there'd been a mad scramble as the two women had fled Philip's apartment. The Governor had checked his undead daughter for any signs of injury (Besides the fact she was already dead, can you fuckin' be-lieve it? Merle had thought) and then swept out into the room to take after Andrea, but he'd slipped, falling over into the wall of aquariums and impaling his eye on broken glass. Merle had been the one to take out the shard as the man screamed in agony.
"Philip, you gotta believe I didn't have nothin' to do with all this!" Merle tried, but as soon as the Governor's angry eye was turned on him, he sat back firmly against the wall, shutting his mouth. Daryl resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's panicked tone.
"That either of you are alive should be considered nothin' less than a blessing considerin' your crimes."
Merle hadn't learned his lesson as well as he'd thought. He started in again. "What the hell did I do to deserve–"
"YOU LET THAT BITCH TAKE HER!" Philip roared, the vein in his forehead bulging.
Merle's brow furrowed as he tried to unravel what the man meant.
"Andrea? Sir, I may have been late to the party, but it looked like blondie was leavin' of her own accord, not to mention she tried to kill you," Merle said weakly.
Philip shook his head, his lips curling into a snarl. His voice was low this time. "You let that black bitch take my wife."
Merle's face contorted in confusion. He recalled the picture he'd seen in the Governor's possession a few times – the one with his daughter and wife, the family that had died in the apocalypse. The woman in the photo had borne a bit of resemblance to Andrea. But to actually believe that–
"She took my Josie and you didn't do a goddamned thing." The man seethed. He crossed the room and knelt down, putting his face inches from Merle's – the older Dixon brother couldn't meet the harrowing gaze of that pale-blue eye. "Michonne was supposed to be dead, Merle." He spoke low, just loud enough for the Dixon brothers to hear. "So on top of everything else, you lied. You are a filthy, lying, fucking TRAITOR. And I will not have traitors in my midst."
"Sir, I think you're a little confused," Merle mumbled, still unable to look at the other man directly.
Philip's face opened up, his eyebrows raising and his face breaking out in amusement before he erupted in laughter. The sound of it struck hard in the half-empty room, causing both brothers to flinch. He stood, casting his towering shadow over them both.
Daryl squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to block out the memories that rushed in – a man with power, with fury, a man with brutal fists; an unstoppable, drunken force.
He braced himself for an all-too familiar bout of beatings.
But they didn't come.
Instead Philip turned away and crossed back to the door where he paused, half-turning back to address them.
"You'll stay alive until your friends get here. Then we'll cut each and every one of your throats. One by one."
Andrea awoke in a cold sweat inside her sleeping bag, breathing hard. For the past few nights she'd had the same nightmares of the town she'd fled. And of the man she'd nearly killed.
They were always some version of the events that had taken place – she and Michonne in Philip's apartment, Penny stumbling out of the vent in the back room. Only the dreams never ended the way reality had. There was always some twist in the events: Michonne being brutally killed before her eyes or Penny attacking her or Michonne, sealing their fate with a bloody bite.
In some of them, there was a woman in the apartment too. She had a blank-faced stare and knife wounds in the front of her chest and the back of her head. The woman would stare at her, clouded eyes seeming to bore into her innards, curling them up like copper wire.
Andrea rubbed at her eyes and turned to look at the form sleeping next to her on the floor of the tiny shed. Michonne, in an unusual turn, had slept like the dead the last few days, finally surrendering to the exhaustion she'd been saving up. The blonde smiled at her, thankful that at least one of them was getting some proper rest.
Unwilling to attempt sleep again for a little while, Andrea rose to her feet, eager to go to the bathroom while she waited for tiredness to settle in.
She threw a blanket around her shoulders and picked up her knife for good measure. She stepped softly over Michonne's body and through the shed door, shutting it quietly behind her.
The group had been camped out at this rest stop for the past four days or so, catching up on much-needed sleep and nourishment as they tried to figure out their next steps. The stop was composed of a convenience store and two sheds out in back. They'd delegated floor space quickly, dropping the mattresses, sheets, sleeping bags, and whatever else they'd managed to scavenge from the prison to form makeshift beds.
The sheds had been delegated quickly – Andrea and Michonne in the smaller of the two and Tyreese's group in the other. Andrea had the sneaking suspicion that the only reason the decisions had been made this way was due to Rick's hesitance to trust any of them, but she appreciated the privacy anyway.
She made her way slowly across the grass amidst the darkness, heading to kneel between a few trees. When she was pulling her pants back up, she heard movement ahead of her. She raised her knife.
There were voices, angry whispers back-and-forth between two people. She took a few steps forward and the two figures came into view, just behind the convenience store.
"And I said I don't want to talk about it! You constantly askin' doesn't make me want to tell you any quicker, so just stop." Maggie's voice was strained, as though she was holding back from crying. She turned to leave Glenn's side but he reached for her arm to hold her there. She stopped walking but wrenched her arm from his grasp.
"Please, Mags. Just talk to me!" Glenn struggled to keep his voice low.
"I will talk when I want to talk. If that isn't good enough for you then that's too goddamned bad." Maggie stormed through the store's back door, slamming it behind her. Andrea jumped at the sound, but stayed crouched out of sight. She felt bad about overhearing the spat, but walking in on the middle of it would only have made things worse.
She watched as Glenn dropped his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat, before he turned back to follow her inside. Andrea rose back up and made her way inside her shed.
"Were you talking to someone out there?" Michonne sat up slowly, leaning her back against the wall. The blonde turned around and leaned against the door. She shook her head.
"It was Glenn and Maggie – fighting about something." Andrea replied. Michonne dropped her eyes, her expression darkening. "What is it?" Andrea asked.
"Did you know what was happening to them? What the Governor did–"
"No. You know I didn't. What does that have to do–"
Michonne's eyes snapped up. "One of his men raped her, Andrea. Cesar. We killed him at the prison."
Andrea's mouth fell open. She struggled for a few moments, trying to form any coherent thought. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's not really mine to share." Michonne said, a bit ashamed that she'd caved this easily. "But… then I thought you should know what kind of man he really is." She didn't have to say which man she meant. Her tone was tinged with ire.
Andrea sighed and sat next to the other woman. She'd felt the resentment over the last few days. In spite of what Michonne had said in the prison yard, the woman was definitely not over Andrea's decision to stay in Woodbury. She couldn't really blame her for being angry. She was still angry with herself.
"I know what kind of man he is. I didn't know at first, and I should have trusted you, and I'm sorry."
"You already apologized." Michonne said.
"Well I'm gonna keep apologizing until you at least believe me, even if you can't really forgive me," Andrea said sadly.
Michonne turned to look at the blonde, considering her features in the barest light. She reached over and took a pale hand in hers.
"I do believe you." She said. Andrea turned her head and smiled.
"Thank you."
They sat together in silence for a bit, their hands lightly intertwined, before Michonne spoke again.
"Had another one of your nightmares, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you get me up?" Michonne asked.
"I'm not a kid, hon. I can fight the monsters on my own. Besides you were sleeping like such a little princess, I just didn't have the heart to wake you."
Michonne chuckled then – a warm throaty sound that filled Andrea with warmth. "Call me a princess again, I dare you," she said amidst her laughter.
"Warrior princess Michonne, keeper of the peace, master of the blade, defender of the – Oof!" Andrea failed to get the last bit out as Michonne pulled and then pinned her to the ground beneath her. The blonde burst into a stream of giggles at the sudden move, struggling against Michonne's limbs but finding no give in the strong form above her. She finally settled back against the sleeping bag beneath her.
"Fine! I submit! I will never suggest you're any kind of royalty ever again," Andrea smirked up at her captor.
"Good." Michonne said plainly. Her eyes raked over the woman's body before she carefully leaned down and pressed her lips to Andrea's. They moved together easily – The warrior released the captive arms and they both let their hands seek out any inch of bare skin they could find.
Andrea pulled Michonne down tightly against her and threw her legs up around her hips. Michonne chuckled at the eager move but her amusement was interrupted when the blonde flipped them over, looking down at her with a victorious glint in her bright blue eyes.
Michonne struggled playfully, pushing against the other woman's persistent limbs. "Cheeky," she muttered under her breath.
Andrea grinned and rolled her hips, sighing contentedly. "You betcha."
"Get up!" Michonne prodded the blonde in her side, eliciting yet another groan of protest.
"Just five more minutes. Please," Andrea refused to open her eyes and admit that it was morning already.
"You said that a half hour ago. Now get your lazy ass up. Beth's making breakfast." Michonne trailed a finger down the blonde's back, dragging the sleeping bag along with it, exposing the bare skin to the open air. She drew little circles against her spine, feeling out each groove under her fingertip.
"Mmm, you tell me to get up and then you do that – mixed messages much?" Andrea croaked.
Michonne withdrew her hand instantly and ducked her head down next to the blonde's. "Up. Now. Or else."
"Or else what."
"Or else I withhold any more touching whatsoever."
Andrea cracked one eye open to assess the seriousness of such a proposition. She finally gave an exasperated sigh and lifted herself up painstakingly to her feet, reaching around for the articles of clothing she'd shed in the middle of the night.
"It's your fault I'm so tired." Andrea said with a smirk.
"It's our fault." Michonne corrected. She watched as the blonde dressed and then led her out of the shed by the hand, dropping it when they reached the back door.
When they stepped inside the store where the group was more or less assembled, they were met with a stony atmosphere. The only sounds were of Beth's assembling of various cans and disposable plates and cutlery. Tyreese's folks sat in one corner, looking mighty uncomfortable. Maggie and Carl were assisting Beth. Glenn paced at the front door. Carol was sitting on the floor cradling Judith.
Andrea was the first to break the silence.
"Good morning…" she tried to seek out anyone's eyes. Hershel finally looked up from his seat at the counter.
"Morning," he said quietly.
She stepped closer to him and folded her arms across her chest.
"What's going on?"
Hershel's mouth twitched. "Rick's gone."
"What do you mean gone?"
Maggie interrupted. "He went out to 'patrol' a few hours ago. Hasn't come back yet."
Carol sighed in frustration. Her voice was quaking when she spoke. "Daryl's probably dead by now. And here we are sitting on our hands while the bastard that's got him gets away with it. And Rick doesn't even have the decency to–"
"You keep your opinions to yourself for now." Hershel interrupted gruffly. "He's coming back. He just needs some time to himself. Man's had a hard go of it and he's been more than strong for all of us. He deserves better than your misguided anger."
Carol ran her tongue over her teeth but stayed quiet.
"Did he say where he was going?" Andrea asked.
"Not specifically, no." Hershel replied sadly.
Michonne came to Andrea's side and looked between her and the old man. "Let me go look for him. I can track him."
"And then do what?" Hershel dropped his voice lower. "You think even if you find him, he'll come back?"
"Don't you?" Andrea asked, confused at the sudden change of faith.
Hershel held her gaze for a few long moments. "Honestly? I don't know how he's withstood this much this long."
Michonne looked at Andrea squarely, seeking wordless permission. The blonde nodded. Before Michonne could turn to retrieve her sword, Andrea grabbed her hand and squeezed it for comfort, then let her go.
"You've been out here a while." Michonne stood a few paces from Rick. She found him at the apex of a tall green hill, grasses blowing lightly in the wind. He was seated a few metres from the corpse of a recently-downed walker. His hands were bloodied. And weaponless.
When he didn't answer, she sat a couple feet from him. She glanced around to make sure the area was clear for now, relaxing a bit. It wouldn't do to spook the man.
She sat with him in silence for a while, neither breathing a word, each looking out across the horizon. Searching.
"I can't lead them." Rick's voice was shaky. Michonne didn't move a muscle. She merely waited for him to continue or return to silence.
"They keep lookin' at me like I know something they don't, and I just keep losing them. I'll just get 'em all killed if I keep going. Or worse." He thought of Shane, of Lori, T-Dog, Axel, Oscar, Daryl – all of them and more: gone. What good was he to them? What good was he to anyone?
Michonne waited a few beats for his words to hang in the air. "You don't have to shoulder it by yourself, you know." She spoke solemnly. "Sometimes you do. When it's just you. But you have people here. Capable ones, too. They'll help you if you let them."
Rick turned to look at her, as if suddenly realizing he was speaking to a real person and not another vision. She'd said more words strung together than he'd heard her speak thus far. He recognized how well she spoke when she chose to. She didn't meet his gaze, choosing instead to continue looking out over the landscape.
"Leading well doesn't have to mean leading alone." She added.
He hesitated. There were too many unknowns, too many decisions, unanswered questions, risks – his problem was he had no idea where to start anymore. And he was fearful of how things might end no matter what he chose.
"What do I do?" He asked, searching her features.
She turned to look at him this time. "About what." She replied.
"Daryl."
She sighed and dropped her eyes to the grass for a moment. She looked back up to him. "Is this man worth dying for?"
Rick blinked once at the question. "Yes."
"Then let's go get him." She said, as if it were the simplest decision in the world.
"And what if we do? Die trying to save him."
"I don't deal in what-ifs." She stood to her feet and brushed off her pants, re-adjusting her saya against her hips. She took a step towards him and offered her arm. "We do what we have to."
He waited only a moment before taking it and hoisting himself to his feet beside her.
When they returned to the rest stop, the afternoon was on its slow decline. Rick spotted Hershel and Maggie sitting out front, rifles across their laps, speaking in low tones. The old man drew his hand up and waved when he caught sight of them. Rick nodded towards him.
Michonne led the weary leader inside the store to get him fed.
Maggie turned to look down the road in the opposite direction, afraid to look her father in the eye. "And what do you want me to do about it."
He'd been asking about Glenn, wondering why the boy was so morose when they'd succeeded in keeping their lives.
"Nothing you don't want to." Hershel began. "But you've been through a lot. And I love you, Beth loves you, Glenn loves you – you're lucky to have as many people as you do. Don't push any of them away when you need them most."
She laughed darkly. "Always said you should've been a preacher, daddy." She ran her palm over the barrel of the rifle.
The old man reached out and stopped her hand, taking it firmly in his.
"Talk to him. Or don't. But stop treating him like he doesn't matter."