A/N: This chappie is also Daryl's. It's also a little short. It happens, sometimes. ~ CeeCee
"I'll never say that I'll never love;
But I don't say a lot of things." ~ The Chain, © Ingrid Michaelson
"One can acquire everything in solitude except character." ~ Stendhal
The three other cars are there, bunched up at the reinforced gates of the prison like patient, waiting dogs. Michonne is standing to the side, shading her eyes. Looking towards, what Daryl sees now, are people slowly gathering, walking towards the shallow indentation in the ground that can be nothing other than a fresh grave.
Daryl walks up to the metal gate, pounds to be let in. Glenn leaps out of his car, pulling his hair, staring at the group gathering in the late afternoon haze, runs over to stand beside Michonne. He looks desolate, and Daryl knows why: the grave is likely Marie's. So many dead mommas, he thinks, and it hurts. Just hurts, so badly.
The gates grind open, and Carl is standing there, with a few other teens. The cars, except Glenn's, move solemnly into the prison yard, and Daryl wheels his bike past the gates, kicks down the stand. Glenn wanders in on foot, completely ignoring the car, which is still running. He looks as if he's been punched in the gut. Daryl gestures to one of the other teens, who drives it through so they can close the gate.
"Marie," Carl says, kicking the ground, sending pebbles flying. "Having the baby here made her sick. 'S what Hershel and Carol say. But I dunno," he squints over at Daryl, then glances behind him at the graveside. "I'm thinkin' – I'm thinkin' maybe we're just not s'posed to try that anymore. Try havin' babies. Someone always dies." The kid's face is the color of spoiled milk under his freckles as he stares at Daryl, who hopes to hell Glenn didn't hear him.
"C'mere," Daryl mutters, and Carl trudges over. He roughly grabs Carl's collar, lifts him onto his tiptoes. "Don't ever, ever want to hear you talk like that again, got it?"
The boy struggles, wriggling, his face a mask of fury and sorrow. "Fuck you, Daryl!" And Daryl can see it's the memory of his momma that he's really struggling with. He drops his hand and wraps his arm around Carl's shoulders in a rough, half-hug. They stand there for a few moments, these two who lost their mothers as boys, but trying, struggling, so hard, everyday, to be men.
oooOOOooo
He and Glenn move silently towards the graveside. Nearly the whole prison has gathered, standing in little clumps of humanity. Carol is on the near side of the crumbly dirt hole in the ground, surrounded by her knife skills students. The tough blond kid that wanted to learn how to use his bow is sobbing inconsolably into Carol's tee shirt. Her other hand is held by Ellie, who dark hair surrounds her shoulders like a cape.
Glenn pushes past him, touches Carol on the shoulder. She turns, dry-eyed, face awash with sorrow…and something else. Something that sets Daryl's heart pounding, but he's not sure why. Something in the set of her mouth and the tilt of her head.
"Where is Maggie?" Glenn clutches at her arm like a drowning man.
"Inside," Carol says, her beautiful eyes serene. "With the baby." She let's go of Ellie's hand momentarily to place it on Glenn's face. "We'll do everything right for her Glenn, please believe me." He nods, makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob. Grabs her hand briefly drops it, runs towards the prison.
"Carol?" Ellie is looking up expectantly at her, hand out. Carol clasps it again in her own, looks at him.
"Glenn told you?" She says quietly, as people finish gathering, and he nods. Hershel stands at the head of the grave, his worn Bible in one hand. Next to him are Tyreese and Sasha, waiting with their shovels discreetly places behind them. The brother is watching he and Carol with curiosity. Carol notices, and sends a small smile in his direction. He smiles back. Daryl feels like someone's set him spinning, faster and faster, on a merry-go-round and won't let him off.
"Do you want to hold my hand?" Ellie is looking up at him. "You look sad. If you hold someone's hand, it feels better, less sad," she finishes solemnly, and her small fingers curl around his grimy palm. Daryl accepts them cautiously. She smiles up at him, then at Carol. "See what I mean? And I'm lucky, I have two people holding my hands."
Now Carol is looking over at him, the little girl's arms stretched between them. She strokes Conner's unruly hair with her other hand. Now her smile, that smile, is all for him, at this moment.
"You're right, Ellie," Carol agrees, but she's still looking right at him. "When you're holding someone's hand, it's much better." She looks down now, and the kid is grinnin' ear to ear, pleased. Then her eyes land on the grave, where Hershel is about to begin, and her face clenches. She squeezes Daryl's hand tighter, and he squeezes gently back. Her smile is wobbly, but it's back.
"It makes you less sad," she says again, staring at the grave. "Doesn't it?"
He feels the kid's warm, trusting hand in his own, feels Carol's eyes on him, like two warm weights.
"Yeah," he coughs out. "Yeah, you're right, I guess it does." And he means it.