He'd once speculated that the women of the group were like its beating heart but he hadn't realised how true that was until he saw how Rick grieved. He hadn't realised how true it was until he had faced Carol's death and a truth that he had denied to himself for longer than he cared to admit. She was the beating heart in his chest, the blood that burned in his veins. He realised it far too late of course, story of his life, he realised a lot of things too late. His heart had stopped, when it had believed she was gone.
Something inside of him snapped when he realised that her last moments had probably been spent terrified and alone. He hadn't been there for her. Just like he had always done before, he had let her down when it really mattered. The ache in his chest just wouldn't leave, twisting and burning with every breath he took. It didn't seem to matter what he did, he couldn't get the anger out of him. No matter how many walkers he took down, how many times he slammed his booted foot or clenched fist into the nearest wall, it just refused to leave.
He stood at the side of the grave that they had dug for her, nothing more than an empty hole in the ground, an empty hole to bury the end of everything he had come to think of as home in. He felt their eyes on him while they waited for him to speak for her. He wanted to but found that he couldn't, he'd never had a way with words. Had he spoken he would have shattered into a million pieces and none of them could have rebuilt him. Glenn had suggested that they bury her scarf, the one she had worn the previous day and he had found, just so that the grave contained something of hers, but Daryl hadn't been able to part with it, it remained in the inside pocket of his vest, just over his heart, still smelling of her.
The following morning, he slipped out before first light and searched the woods surrounding the prison. At sunrise he made the lonely trek to her grave and allowed himself to feel everything that he had locked away when he had stood there with the others. He kept his tears at bay but he honoured her memory and all the things that she had done for him by laying a single Cherokee rose at the foot of the simple wooden cross. He had told her once that the roses bloomed when tears were shed and he believed that although he hadn't shed his own tears, this particular rose had bloomed for her memory.
Carol had been soft where he was hard, gentle when he was rough, compassionate when he was cold, and more than anything, strong while he was broken. He would count the cost of her passing for each remaining day of his life.
