Beth kept the faith, she kept Daryl close, and she kept the pebbles. Knocking them lightly around the back of her mouth most of each day as they walked, Beth let the mineral rocks and the expired pilfered vitamins help as they could. She can only fuel her body with what they have, so what they have would have to be enough. She drank water, only half remembering what it used to be to take a drink and not fight the taste. She battled her forever-altered sense of smell, and she battled exhaustion, and more than anything – with Daryl – she battled the not knowing. Ambiguity plagued them but they found in themselves the strength to resist. They could not know what there was no sure way of knowing, but they could govern themselves under a policy of not surrendering. And this is what they did. They moved forward, they kept their heads up, and bolstered their hearts as much as they were able. With Simon they sustained conversation, at times they even laughed. Life was not terrible. It could be sweet, there could be humor mined from it, and companionship. The past not forgotten, still they are not alone; this they do not forget. It is together that they live, and fight, and together find some degree of pleasure in living again. Georgia turns sharp gold and crimson all around them, the air is cool and crisp, the skies suspend clear and vast above, and they are there to see it. So under bundled clothes, mittens and hats, and the weight of their packs, they keep at it, letting life discover them as it will.
It must have been gradual, laying in wait, much like their romance had, but one day it was evident, it was just there: the convex shape to her abdomen. No longer was it flat, and one day, unlike the day preceding it, her jeans needed stretching and a bit more of a tug to meet and fasten. One day, like the long weeks before it, she hadn't known, and then one day, she just did. Beth knew. Unequivocally she knew.
She found Daryl outside, working on an engine in the street, seeing if he could bully it into working. Beth stepped into the morning light from the house they'd made camp in, quiet and serene, feeling whole, and powerful and touched by fortune. The road ahead of them had not lessened in its severity, their path still is fraught with peril and insecurity, perhaps more so, but she stands there feeling buttressed and stalwartly prepared.
From the threshold she watches him stooped and bent over the vehicle's open engine, leaning against the raised hood, working to bring the thing to life. He doesn't look up to glance at her, but he does straighten some and scratch at his bearded jaw, "Mornin'." Beth would wait, stand there just watching him – she admires the figure he cuts, loves to watch him when he's like this, capable and sure-headed – but it is not for her to know and for him to not.
Without speaking, without needing to, with so much more than empty words between them, Beth approaches and takes his hand in hers. Rough and grease covered as it is, she takes it and presses it lightly to the physical embodiment of their faith and hope and love. The smallest swell, but definite and true. All is not lost. Life still breathes. Love still lives. Hope is still sometimes rewarded in this world. Faith still takes shape and bears substance. Children still can be born. Theirs will be. Theirs will have the chance. All is not darkness, all is not death and loss and contagion and savagery. There are still Daryl Dixons and Beth Greenes. And now, still, there is a child – growing, waiting, and like its parents, fighting to survive. More than that – fighting to live. Beth feels too small to house the emotion rising within her; it beams through her wet and sparkling eyes, through her pretty steady smile. She watches blurry eyed as her partner's entire countenance shifts and softens before her. Daryl sort of melts into his relief.
Live they will, bravely, with resilience and with eyes fixed forward, steady. Maybe, even, they will manage happiness; today is such a day. Though they do not speak they do not take this news lightly in stride. It is everything. Finding Simon, making this discovery, these are why they continue to fight. Good is still possible. Held tenderly over this triumph, their entwined hands grip and tighten, though in truth, they two never let go of one another, even when apart, even when in bouts of terrible despair. They forged themselves together so many months back in the crucible of trials and the holocaust of their pasts, so well they never need doubt the bond. They burned a house and melded themselves as one.
Together and still, their tried and tested hands witness their private redemption, cradling the slight curve in her waistline. This quiet, tearful solemn moment of grace is neither a binding together nor a reward, and they feel it soberly as such. Two pairs of blue eyes wet and blink and crease in all consuming delight and uncounted-on joy. A moment longer and tears are sniffed back and blinked away. Hands squeeze, lips kiss, and eyes look forward. Onward together: There is still good in the world. Their child will be but one.