Bright crystalline orbs peered almost longingly upon the seemingly lifeless body laying upon the bed. For a moment, Lenora had forgotten how she had come to venture into the infirmary. It almost felt like the Irishwoman's lithe frame had been lifted from the ground and feathered to Daryl's side on some dark, horrendous shroud. A tear slipped from her bloodshot eyes. Apparently, hiding within the confines of her cell and bursting into tears had not sufficed. Even in death, Lenora felt she would still be some sordid, wandering spirit with endless tears to shed.
Through it all, he had become a pillar. Daryl Dixon had become a rock Nora could lean upon when she felt damaged - worthless. There was an essence in the power he fed her; addictive and overwhelming. It forced her to do better - to be better. It gave her something to look forward to seeing - to believe in.
But now, the belief was dwindling. The damaging worthlessness had crept like a cancer back into her skull, planting little seeds of self-doubt and fear into her mind. The betterness she strived for felt like it was being stripped away by the minute… crumbling into nothingness. The essence had dissipated hours ago, the moment the news struck her that there was a chance… even the slightest chance…
"Beastie." It was a whimper. A choke of emotion. A rip in vocal chords that was barely audible to anyone but herself. It came out in a wave of sorrow and worry. The Irishwoman's strong heart skipped a beat when those slender digits braved themselves to reach for him. They clasped delicately around that large hand. At first, the squeeze was soft. "I'm so sorry." Forced out in a hard breath of a sob. Nora choked it back, trying to keep her composure in his presence - as though he would still have the ability to judge her weakness in this state. "If I'd just -"
But there were no if's. She had not been on time. She had not played her cards well. The hand she had been dealt was hardly fair. Lenora was forced to face a cold, harsh truth; one that her father had taught her long ago.
'All good things must end.'
It had been her duty to prepare for loss, for this type of attachment to be ripped from her. Yet it seemed like such training had been laid to waste the moment she had begun to care for this group, for these people… for him.
"I can't…" She couldn't break. She couldn't crumble. Not like this. "I cann'ay lose ye." Sobs raked through the girl's form. The light squeeze on his hand became as tight as a vice - as though her grip would somehow, miraculously revive him. "Da said it wouldn't be easy…" Insane ramblings that, even if Daryl were awake, he would never understand. "Bu' 'e ne'er said it'd be this hard 'n I can't do it." The Galway Archer's face contorted in heartwrenching turmoil. "Please don't make me do it… not alone… not again…"
Nora didn't realize how long she had stood there for; how long she had cried there for. Curled ever so gently over the male's body, trying to stop her wretched, weak sobs. By the time she had forced herself to calm, she straightened slightly and forced her blood-crusted hands to wipe away her tears.
"Quit yer whinin', Micky. Dare-bear'll be fine." Brannigan forced away the comment that echoed from Merle Dixon, closing in upon the younger brother once more to place a chaste kiss upon his forehead fearlessly before she straightened and turned to him. "Y'look like hell." It shocked him more when Nora managed to hold her tongue, turning her tired, dried-out eyes to him like some defeated animal as she made to simply brush past him.
Merle studied her expression from a distance as she stared back at him. His typical sarcastic, ill-mannered humor seeming to subside slightly at the all-too-familiar pain reflected behind her puffy eyes. He averted his gaze stiffly, his eyes falling to rest upon his unconscious brother as his feet guided him to be closer to him. He stopped just at the foot of Daryl's bed and an uncomfortable silence hovered between the two. His blue eyes trailed over his brother's form, taking in all of the damage his body had suffered for the hundredth time. A beating that resembled something in the darkest corners of Merle's mind. Where memories were locked away that had taunted and haunted him for the duration of his life. Things that he had often tried so hard to forget, but had never succeeded at doing.
Instead the terrible memories lingered there, forcing themselves to the surface over and over, reminding the redneck of the gruesome things he had endured. Of the violent lifestyle that he and his baby brother had been dealt by the hands of their father. Merle had almost forgotten what it was like to see the handiwork of such evil. Despite whatever horrible things he may have seen done to people, and sometimes by his own hand - Merle was never phased by any of it.
He could stomach the bloodshed, the gore, and the cruelty of this world and the things he had seen and done, without even hardly blinking an eye or having any second thoughts about it. But when it came to his baby brother, it shed a certain light on things. It opened his eyes and let him see things from a different perspective. Merle's hard, callous and ruthless exterior melted away and the strong mask he wore slipped, revealing the more soft and fragile side of him that dwelled just beneath the surface. The part of Merle that still had humanity. That still felt pain and hurt. And sorrow and grief.
And it was because of Daryl in his current state that made Merle feel weak at the knees. As if the weight of this world had finally caught up to him and that he was going to crumble. It was enough to throw Merle in a corner of the most vulnerable state of his mind. To make him feel weak enough to actually expose such a delicate aspect of himself with another human being that was someone other than Daryl. His voice was hoarse, rough. It reflected his hurt and he didn't dare make eye contact as he spoke to the Irishwoman. "Our pops liked his Jack. Old sum bitch used t' stumble his drunken ass home late when th'bars would close. He'd reek of that whiskey. N' if you thought that 'e had'a temper when he was sober," Merle shook his head as he whistled, "it was nothin' compared ta how he got when he was shitfaced!"
Nora paused mid-step when Merle's voice reached her ears. Only a few feet from him, aiming for the exit so she wouldn't have to listen to his ridicule. However, when no sense of sick, twisted humor reached her ears, those lithe, noiseless steps drew to a pause. Nora's dirty, tear-streaked face turned in the elder Dixon's direction. Piercing blue eyes bulldozed into his spine and slowly, she turned her entire body in his direction. She never stepped forth, though. Not yet. The ground was foreign and her ability to tell whether or not he was being sincere was fogged by her exhaustion and previous hysterics.
"But… much as 'e liked that Jack. Boy, did 'e love that belt more." Nora's heart wrenched. Merle paused for a moment, almost unsure of how to continue. But hey. He'd come this far. Why stop now? "Daryl was just a kid." Another pause. "Couldn't let 'im end up with the same marks I got. Boy had too pure'a mind n' I jus' wanted'im t' keep it that way." Merle seemed pained by this - ashamed, even.
After a brief moment he seemed to gather himself and press on, "So, I'd step up in'is place. I'd yell n' hollar at my old man t' really get'im goin'. Get'im t' focus all'is anger on me. N' he would whoop m'ass so hard 'til I saw more blood in th'shower than water." Irish remained silent the whole time. Her gaze never left the Dixon, though. On the contrary, she couldn't keep her sorrowful gaze from him. "Then juvie happened." Merle's head lowered to his feet for a moment before they forced themselves back to Daryl's bed. His jaw clenched. He forced the truth forward. "N' our old pops...'e ripped through Daryl. Even gave'im a few scars that I never had. 'Cuz I wasn't 'round t'take the hits no more."
The pieces fell together for the Irishwoman. She understood, in that moment, the brotherly bond they shared. Yet still, she found no comfort in such words. Still, she found an odd, sympathetic notion for both of the Dixon brothers.
"My bruther went through years'a that." Merle's jaw clenched again. "Some o'them beatin's took near a'week t'recover from." His lone hand curled around the wooden stump he had fashioned, gripping it tightly and staring deeply at his brother. "But 'e survived all the hell our poor bastard of a father brought down on 'im." It took him a long while to finally tear his hues from Daryl's state. Cerulean pools jolted to the floor of the infirmary, as though granting his brother a moment of silence before his head arose again to glance to the ceiling like the answers to everything were written in brail upon it. "This ain't the worst hell." The words hit home with Nora. How she wished she could believe them. "He'll make it outta this one jus' like 'e did all th'others."
Brannigan remained completely still for a moment, drinking in the shocking words of encouragement. For a moment, time encompassed the grieving, offering their souls but a moment of peace. Lenora finally braved those steps, closing the distance enough to stand beside the elder Dixon for a moment.
In a light manner - almost a feather of a touch - Nora's palm rested upon his tall shoulder gently. Lithe fingers coiled around the mass of muscle and offered a light squeeze of mute thanks. Irish allowed her hand to remain there but a moment to offer an estranged sort of comfort to the both of them before she allowed her appendage to slip back to her side. There was a stronger understanding now - but a sliver of light shed upon both worlds. Two opposing characters stood in the midst of emotional calamity and somehow found a common ground - him.
Daryl was the common ground.
And so, Nora remained.