Hello everyone, did you miss me? Lol
Sorry for the delay again, but I'm here with another chapter just in time for the debut of 'We're the Ones Who Live'! So excited to see Rick again.
Recap Chapter 60 - Time To Come Home: Merle gives a wry chuckle. "What can I say, family genetics, it's like a damn lottery. I got all the charm, and he got all the stick. But hey, we do some crazy things for family, right?
Recap Chapter 44- Unconquered: "Every day he woke up and told himself, 'Rest in peace; now get up and go to war,'" Rick's voice fills the air, drawing your attention back to the story he's sharing about his grandfather. "After a few years of pretending he was dead, he made it out alive. That's the trick of it, I think. We do what we need to do, and then we get to live."
Recap Chapter 47 - Survivor's Guilt: "Politics is all about making it seem like you have all the answers... even when you don't. You've seen the people knocking on our door with gifts. We just need to pull the right strings, move the right chess pieces, and those people will follow us." You pause, aware of how much you sound like your father, the puppet master within you coming to the forefront.
Recap Chapter 56 - More, there is always more: "What? No, no. Nothing is wrong with you," Denise rushes to assure you, stepping closer. "You're beautiful! And, and, smart, and you got that whole mysterious vibe, and I mean—there's Tara, you know?"
I feel it all around
There's madness in these grounds
No disguising destruction waits
On the horizon
Time is running out
Time can't stop me now
The world may live or die
But I will rise
I'm on the warpath
I'm on the warpath
Started down this one way track
There's no turning back
I'm on the warpath
Warpath by Tim Halperin
Chapter 64 - 'Rest in peace. Now get up and go to war.'
Spencer can't shake the feeling that his mother made a grave mistake in choosing Alice as her successor. Both of his parents had been brimming with hope, a sentiment he once shared. However, everything had changed the moment Alice had fired that gun. If she can coldly kill Jamie, someone she cared about, someone she considered family, then what makes any of them safe from her?
The thought haunted Spencer — the duo that is Rick and the doctor. Who's to say—the next time the Saviors show up, holding Daryl's life over her head, he might not be next, or someone else he cares about?
Yet, despite his reservations, he follows Rick's orders, scavenging for the Saviors, biding his time. He knows what needs to be done. So, when the opportunity presents itself, with Negan showing up at Alexandria again, Spencer seizes it.
Merle stands a few paces from the front porch of the Grimes house, a lit cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. With detached observance, he watches as the Saviors, with their usual mix of arrogance and brutality, haul a pool table out of the garage across the street. They're all waiting for Rick's return — some Saviors loitering around aimlessly, while he and a few others stand on guard.
The smoke from his cigarette curls idly upward, as Merle exhales a cloud of smoke, the bitterness of the tobacco a poor substitute for the rage festering in his chest, a coping mechanism of his own. Ever since he had heard the news, he couldn't seem to put down the cigarettes, chain-smoking from the massive stash the Saviors keep.
Brooklyn is gone, and there ain't a goddamn thing he can do about it. But of course, he saw it in his brother's eyes long before he heard about what happened. There was a moment when his brother was brought back from his last trip to Alexandria, dragged out of the truck, yanked past him into the sanctuary building. But in that fleeting moment when their eyes connected, in his little brother's tearful gaze, Merle knew something had gone terribly wrong.
The Saviors had laughed callously about a dead soldier, about how the doctor had 'blown his head open'. Maintaining a façade of congeniality, Merle had stood there with a smile plastered on his face, while seething rage simmered beneath the surface. Once again, Alie had protected his brother, this time at the cost of Jamie's life. Brooklyn, he was a good kid, his friend when he had none; he was his family. The loss is a heavy blow... and here he is kneeling', calling himself Negan as his family is being torn apart.
Now, being back in Alexandria feels almost strange to him. However, he is a realist and has already accepted the fact that things will never be the same again. Despite this, a part of him desperately wants to return home, to see Alie, to be there for her, driven by a fierce protectiveness he has built toward her. Yet, he's trapped in a role he never truly wanted, a one-way path that keeps him bound to the Saviors as long as they have Daryl.
Then, an opportunity presented itself in the form of the young Grimes boy. Carl had suddenly appeared at the sanctuary gate, leaping out of one of the delivery trucks with a machine gun, demanding for Negan. The rapid sequence of events left Merle stunned—Carl spraying bullets, killing three men, before being quickly subdued. Merle hadn't been sure how Negan would react or what he could say to save the boy, but Negan had laughed it off, seemingly impressed by Carl's brazenness as he ushered the boy inside.
When the time came to return Carl home, Merle tagged along, hoping to see Alie. He wasn't sure what he could do for her or what comfort he could offer, but he needed to know she was okay. He needed to see for himself that there was still something left for 'after'.
The sound of pool balls clacking against each other snaps Merle back to the present, his gaze flickering towards Spencer, who seems to be playing the chummy buddy with Negan.
Negan's voice seems casual as it drifts over from the table. "Talk to me, Spencer. Talk to me about Rick." As the balls clack again, Merle's attention shifts, his instincts on alert. He watches Spencer closely, wondering what game is now being played.
Spencer leans on his pool stick, meeting Negan's gaze confidently. "There's a lot you don't know about this place," he begins, his voice a hint of insinuating. "People here are not who they say they are."
Negan's eyebrows arch, a sly smirk playing on his lips. "Is that so?" he asks, his tone dripping with casual intrigue. The surrounding crowd of Alexandrians seems to grow near the pool table, all drawn by the conversation taking place before them.
Merle, standing a few paces back, feels his shoulder tense at Spencer's next words, each syllable heavy with implications. "The doctor, Alice Dixon," Spencer begins, his tone deliberate, "when she first came to Alexandria, she told something to my mom." He leans forward to line up his shot, the clinking of the pool balls punctuating the tension. "She was a scientist, working for the military on a cure, or a 'treatment' as she called it, for the virus that caused all this."
"A cure?" Negan echoes, skepticism lacing his voice.
"Yes, I know how it sounds!" Spencer rushes to explain, "But my mom wasn't a fool. She was a senator, who had a knack for smelling lies a mile away. The doctor wasn't lying; she's the real deal."
Negan begins to pace around the table, his eyes locked on the ongoing game, but his mind clearly focused on the conversation as he pauses before the younger man. "And why are you tellin' me this, Spencer? Why now?" he questions, maintaining a relaxed body language that contradicted the dance of motives and hidden agendas taking place.
Spencer squares his shoulders, meeting Negan's probing gaze. "Because Rick... he's not the leader here," he reveals, his voice firm. "I know It might seem that way, but he's not. It's the doctor. She's always had the final say. Unfortunately, Rick has a well-known history of not playing well with others, and she is unstable."
Merle's hand tightens into a fist, the urge to throttle that ass-kisser nearly overwhelming. But Spencer continues to weave his narrative. "I believe you need someone more... compatible with your vision. Someone who understands what you're trying to build."
"Whoa, whoa, let's rewind that back," Negan says, his voice dripping with dramatic flair as he waves his hand theatrically. "Let me see if I got this straight — you're telling me that it's Alice, not ol' Rick, callin' the shots around here? AND she's sittin' on some fancy cure idea for the undead?"
"Yeah," Spencer confirms with a nod. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
Negan pauses, his expression shifting to one of contemplative intrigue. Without turning, he calls out, "Merle?"
Merle extinguishes the cigarette, pressing his foot on it harder than necessary, before advancing. He slips into the persona he's been carefully maintaining, a grin spreading across his face as he navigates through the crowd with a confident swagger. "Ah, playing a game of eight-ball, huh?" he quips, feigning nonchalance. "If only I had my right hand, I'd give you a run for your money."
Negan plays along, draping an arm around Merle's shoulder. His voice is syrupy sweet as he begins, "Merle, buddy, you won't believe the bomb Spencer just dropped about your sister-in-law. Says she's sitting on some magic potion that could potentially fix our little undead problem. And to top it off, he swears she wears the big boy pants around here." He pauses, looking at him sideways. "Now, why haven't you mentioned this little tidbit, huh?"
Merle plays dumb, his expression molding into one of dismissive indifference. "Oh, that mambo jumbo?" he replies with a casual shrug of his shoulder. "What do I know? She's always gabbin' about it, but I say you have better luck findin' a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow than fixin' this shit-infested world."
He pauses, feeling Negan's scrutinizing gaze on him. "As for her leadin' the pack," Merle continues, "I reckon Rick just likes to keep her entertained, keep her... invested, if you catch my drift?" he adds with a roll of his eyes and a scoff. "Women."
Negan's eyes narrow into calculating slits, "Hmm, maybe," he muses, a silent scrutiny playing across his features. "Or maybe you're covering for your family. What is it you said again — the things we do for family, right?" He echoes, repeating the words Merle had said to him when they first met, as Negan's grip on his shoulder tightens, his fingers pressing deeply, the pressure a clear communication of dominance and control.
Merle understands the unspoken threat; it's a language he's become all too familiar with. But he doesn't flinch, and the pressure doesn't ease up as Negan's scrutiny shifts; he turns to Arat, the woman with blonde-tipped hair standing among the onlookers. "Is the doctor back yet?" he questions with a casual tone that belies the intensity of his interest.
"No, sir," Arat responds promptly, her posture stiff.
Merle ain't a fool; he has seen that look in Negan's eyes before, a fixation on a woman he can't have. It doesn't surprise him, of course — the moment they arrived at Alexandria, Negan asked about Alice. Gabe had been the one to answer at the gate, informing Negan of her absence, claiming she was out on a scavenging trip. But Merle knew better; Alice had never gone scavenging before, not even once. She was far too valuable to be riskin' it out there.
"The moment she's back," Negan instructs, his grip finally relaxing as he releases Merle, "let her know we need to have a little chat."
Merle steps back, understanding that this is far from over. He knows his position is more fragile than ever. Just as easily as he gained their trust, Negan's suspicion has been aroused, and he will likely put his loyalty to the test.
Negan turns his attention to Spencer, his demeanor shifting seamlessly from menacing to friendly. He leans on the pool stick, his smile wide, "Well, my new best friend Spencer," he says, eyeing him expectantly. "Tell me more. Go ahead, spill all the beans."
A smug smirk plays on Spencer's lips, a hint of triumph in his eyes as if he's just played a winning hand. "My mom was the original leader here. She built this community, united these people, saved countless lives. And then they showed up," he says, a bitter edge to his voice. "Rick and the doctor. And not long after... my mom died. Just like my dad and my brother."
Negan plays along, tilting his head, absorbing the story with a theatrical sigh. He lifts the glass of liquor from the pool table's edge, swirling it contemplatively. "Man oh man, Rick and his gang of goons show up, and all of a sudden, you're an orphan." His voice drips with mock sympathy. "That's a real tearjerker, Spencer. Good thing for you, they're not in charge here anymore."
"It doesn't matter," Spencer insists sharply. "Their egos are out of control. If it's not the doctor stirring the pot, then Rick will find a way to screw this up, trying to do things their way and take over." He leans over the pool table, lining up his shot with a focused gaze. "That's what they did to my mom. And they'll do it again." The crack of the cue ball hitting its target punctuates his words.
Negan watches Spencer closely, a calculating look in his eye, but Spencer presses on with his pitch. "I get what you're trying to build here—a network of communities, all contributing, all for the greater good. I may not agree with your methods, but I understand them," he says confidently. "I'm my mother's son, and I can be the leader she was. That's what this place needs," he adds, gesturing to his surroundings. "That's what you need."
Negan hums thoughtfully, circling the table with a languid swagger, the liquor in one hand and pool stick in the other. "What I need, huh? So, you're saying I should put you in charge," he muses, his brows arching in delight. "You know what I'm thinking, Spencer? I'm thinking about how Rick threatened to kill me, how he clearly hates my guts, but he's out there right now gathering shit for me, so I don't hurt a hair on any of these fine people's heads." With a swift motion, he downs the remaining liquor, the glass hitting the table edge with a clink. He leans forward, cue stick in hand. "He's swallowing his hate and getting shit done. That takes real guts."
As the pool balls collide once more, filling the air with their sound, Negan puts aside the cue, his actions intentional as he leans over the table. "You know who else has guts?" he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper as he closes the distance between them. "The doctor. She was down on her damn knees, ready to meet her maker, beggin' for Lucille to spare the man she loves, even after she saw what I did to her friends, cracked their heads open right in front of her." He looms over Spencer, his demeanor shifting, the atmosphere crackling with tension. "Yet, she's still here, workin' to prove to me that she's worth the investment, that this community has something to offer."
Spencer stammers, backpedaling to regain his footing in the conversation. "T-that's not—I wasn't saying—"
But Negan steamrolls over his protests, his voice calm yet commanding the space. "And then there's you, Spencer..."
Perhaps Charles was onto something—the universe sure seems to have a twisted sense of humor. 'Cause everything unfolds all at once, as if by some cosmic design, it all falls into place.
You stand before the only two graves in Hilltop, marked simply by two sticks, your arms folded tightly across your chest, your shoulders tense. Your expression remains stoic as you observe the green balloons tied to one, placed there by Enid. You had been surprised to see her here, trailing after Maggie, and you wonder when or how she managed to find her way to Hilltop. But she had shyly waved at you when she caught your gaze, and you offer only a nod, your thoughts elsewhere.
Maggie seems to appreciate her presence, possibly seeing in her a reflection of Beth, a semblance of a younger sister. Another surprise is Maggie herself, who seems to have channeled her grief into fierce determination. Sasha had shared the story of how the Saviors unleashed walkers into the community just to prove a point. That night, Maggie had emerged as a hero, saving the community by driving a tractor over a car. This act of bravery, coupled with her genuine warmth and authenticity, seems to have endeared her to the people of Hilltop.
Which led Maggie to step up in ways Gregory never could, filling the void left by his incompetence, her farming background invaluable in a community of farmers. You can't help but be impressed, as you watch her navigate life without Glenn with such strength and grace.
Meanwhile, you find yourself blending into the background. Aside from the bruises that mar your face, drawing occasional concerned glances, you're just another refugee from Alexandria. All you do is sit on the steps of Jesus's trailer, watching the world go by. Your mind, however, is anything but still.
The path forward is unclear, and you're uncertain how to proceed. You're prepared to fight with every fiber of your being, but there's more to it than that. There's still much you don't know about the Saviors, and fighting Negan means dismantling the cult he's built, facing God knows how many outpost stations he's established. You need people and weapons to level the playing field, to avoid a repetition of the lineup.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a rumbling noise. You tilt your head, trying to identify the sound. It sounds like a motorcycle, and your first instinct is that the Saviors are back, but the noise is singular, not the usual convoy of vehicles you've grown accustomed to hearing from them.
With a sigh, you move, your steps slow and contemplative. You're not sure who could be riding a motorcycle to Hilltop, but you make your way towards the source of the sound, curiosity edging out caution.
You come around the large red brick house, which you recently learned is called the Barrington House, only to see a crowd forming by the gate. The onlookers are curious, their attention fixed on something, or rather, someone at the entrance. You take a few more steps down the dirt path, only for your feet to abruptly stop. And in that moment, your entire world narrows down to a single point of focus.
It's Daryl.
He's here, in the flesh, surrounded by Maggie, Sasha, and Enid, all greeting him warmly as Jesus watches with a smile, still seated on the back seat of the bike. But Daryl seems scattered, his eyes darting around, searching. And then, in a moment that feels like it stretches into eternity, your eyes lock. Your stomach tightens, a wave of emotions you've been holding back since that fateful day at the lineup surging forward with overwhelming force. You bite your lip, and your shoulders slump as tears start to flow down your cheeks, all the pain, loss, and desperation regurgitating back… God, how desperately you've needed him.
Maggie notices Daryl's gaze and follows it, her eyes landing on you standing down the dirt road. With an understanding look, she steps aside, creating a path for you. Your vision blurs with tears dripping down your chin as you take a tentative step forward. Daryl's face is pinched as he fights back the raw emotion, and he quickly moves to close the distance between you with rapid steps.
It's only in this moment that you finally acknowledge the thought you've suppressed—the fear that no matter how much you bargained with Negan, no matter how much proof you provided of your usefulness, Negan was never going to let him go. The possibility that he might never come back to you.
Daryl's feet bring him to stand before you, and you take him in through your tears – his face marked by bruises, dark circles under his eyes showing many sleepless nights, and dried blood scattered across his skin. His hand trembles as he reaches out towards you, tears he desperately fights making their way down his cheeks. His hand is gentle, almost feather-soft, as if he's verifying that you're real, that this moment isn't just a figment of his tormented imagination.
You barely register the crowd around you, their eyes fixed on this raw, emotional display. Your focus is entirely on Daryl, feeling the warmth of his hand. "Hi," you breathe out, your hand moving to cover his trembling fingers against your cheeks, your voice barely a whisper as he takes in your bruised face and chopped hair. "You're here."
Daryl responds by pulling you into his chest, his fingers weaving through your hair, the other arm wrapping tightly around your waist. You cling to him just as tightly, letting all the bottled-up grief and solitude flow freely as you bury your face in his chest. All you can do is weep for everything you lost, for everything that went wrong—Jamie, the baby, Glenn, Abe—as Daryl buries his face in your neck. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your skin. "I'm so sorry."
You pull back slightly, standing on your tiptoes, pressing your lips to his face wherever you can reach, until your lips find his. All you can taste is the saltiness of your combined tears as you kiss him desperately. "I love you," you whisper against his lips, the words barely escaping. "I love you so much." Because, in the end, everything you've done, every choice you've made, every sacrifice, was for love.
He nods, face still pressed to yours, fresh tears brimming in his eyes. "I love you," he whispers back, his voice thick with emotion.
In the background, you're vaguely aware of Maggie covering her mouth, crying silently, her hand pressed against her stomach, the weight of her own loss profound in this moment. Sasha moves in close, gently rubbing her back, understanding her best friend's feelings.
Gently pulling away from Daryl, you release a sigh, brushing away your tears. Maggie, through her tears, gives you a heartfelt, albeit tearful, smile. You return the gesture, your eyes then scanning the crowd for another familiar presence. "Merle?" you ask, looking back at Daryl.
Daryl shakes his head, his voice rough as he wipes his face with his sleeve, "He ain't there when I took off, and we couldn't look for him." Your heart sinks a little with the acknowledgment, the uncertainty about Merle's fate lingering in your mind, wondering if he knows of Daryl's escape.
It's then that Jesus steps forward, offering a small smile. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up," he suggests, mainly addressing Daryl, as he motions towards the Barrington House. Daryl's hand touches yours, and you look up at him nodding, fingers sliding into his, and together you follow Jesus back down the dirt path.
It feels almost surreal, walking side by side with Daryl. You find yourself repeatedly asking if this is real, if Daryl is truly back, or if you're seeing things again. But you hold onto him tighter, leaning your head on his shoulder as you enter the Barrington House and climb the winding stairs, trailing behind Jesus.
He leads you to a room along the hallway. "Here it is," Jesus announces, holding the door open. The room is sparsely furnished, with matching floral wallpaper that adorns the lower levels, a twin-size bed nestled in the corner, and a single sofa against another wall. It's clear this must be Jesus's room, or at least his temporary space after he gave up his trailer to Maggie and Sasha. "Why don't you guys take this room? I'll bunk with Kal," he offers, confirming your assumption as he steps past you towards the closet.
You had initially planned to stay with Maggie and Sasha, perhaps even crash on the floor, but now that Enid is here and Daryl...
"Here are some clean clothes," Jesus says, extending a set of faded pants and a dark button-up shirt from the closet. "I hope they fit," he adds, offering them to Daryl. There's a brief moment of silence as Daryl takes the clothes. Jesus then looks between the two of you. "Oh, just so you know, plumbing is a bit limited, being an old house and all. There's only two bathrooms, and the nearest one is just down the hallway," he explains, pointing back the way you came.
"Thanks, Paul, really," you say with a small smile, and Daryl gives him a nod. As Jesus moves to leave, he places his hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze, a silent acknowledgment before he walks out, granting you and Daryl some privacy.
Alone, the emptiness of the room amplifies the heavy air between you and Daryl. He glances down at himself, noticing the dry blood and stains on his shirt. "I'm just gonna clean up," he says, gesturing with the clean clothes in his arm.
"Okay," you respond, your voice steady, though your mind races, trying to decipher his expression. Daryl hesitates, his steps uncertain as he heads toward the bathroom. Left alone, the silence engulfs you, and the enormity of recent events weighs heavily. You take a deep breath, trying to navigate the storm of feelings raging within. The desire to be near Daryl is overwhelming, to bridge the distance created by your separate ordeals, yet you feel fragmented, a hollow shell to which he has returned.
Nonetheless, it only takes you a moment to decide to follow after Daryl.
You find the small bathroom down the hallway and quietly open the door. Daryl looks up as you enter, his grip tight on the sink's edge, his posture one of someone bracing against the world. The clean clothes sit neatly folded on the closed toilet seat, untouched. His eyes, red and swollen, meet yours as you shut the door behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the small, tiled room.
"Hey," his voice is rough, a clear attempt to steady himself. The space between you is palpable, filled with unspoken words and shared trauma. Without a word, you close the distance, standing on your toes to gently press your lips against his in a soft, reassuring kiss. Your hand cradles the back of his neck, feeling the tension that knots his muscles.
Daryl's response is hesitant at first, a deep breath betraying the turmoil beneath his stoic exterior, then growing more desperate. You can feel the guilt that consumes him, the burden of blame he's placed on himself for everything that's happened—to you, to Jamie, to everyone.
Gently pulling back, your eyes meet his, your fingers moving methodically to unbutton his shirt, peeling it from his shoulder. The bruise that marks his face extends down his body, the red rope burn on his neck from when that Davie guy choked him, now a dark, angry blue. Biting your lip, tears well up as you take in the extent of his injuries, the bruises on his ribs telling a story of survival.
And in that moment, you realize you can't tell him about the baby. You can't add any more weight to his already burdened shoulders. So, you decide to bear it alone.
"I missed you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, carrying the weight of all the nights spent longing for this very moment. Your hands move to your own shirt, lifting it over your head, letting it fall to the ground. "And I really want to feel good right now." The words are more than a desire; they're a plea. You want to feel anything other than the numbness that has consumed you, hoping that, even if you can't close the emotional gap between you, you might find solace in a physical connection.
Looking up to hold his gaze again, you find Daryl's eyes, red and haunted, looking back at you. There's a vulnerability there, a raw openness. His hands, though hesitant at first, find their way to you, his touch gentle. You lean into him, and he lowers his head to press his lips to yours. There, in that small bathroom, against the backdrop of faded floral wallpaper and borrowed clothes, you give yourself back to him, at least physically.
"Ohh. How embarrassing. There they are. They were inside you the whole time. You did have guts. I've never been so wrong in my whole life!"
Merle stands rigid, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turn white, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. A trail of blood winds across the ground, staining the soles of his boots, yet his gaze remains unyielding, fixed on Brooklyn's girl, as Arat pins her down. Her knees pressed into Rosita's stomach; a knife dangerously close to her eye.
Negan's face is flushed red with anger, the veins in his neck bulging as he holds an empty bullet casing. "This was homemade," he growls, his voice barely contained, a dangerous edge to his words. "You may be stupid, darling, but this," he gestures with the casing, "you showed some real ingenuity here."
The events had unfolded rapidly; one moment Spencer was kissing Negan's boot, throwing Merle's family under the bus, chumming it up to be the man in charge, and the next, Negan's large hunting-style knife was slicing through Spencer's gut in the most gruesome display Merle had ever seen. And he's seen some downright crazy shit.
There was a part of Merle that felt glad. He had been barely containing himself, itching to shove his own prosthetic knife down Spencer's throat just to shut him up. So, when Negan did the honors, Merle could only offer a cold smirk to the boy as he crumbled to his knees, groaning like a dying catch of the day.
But that satisfaction was fleeting. The crowd had stood frozen in horror, their eyes wide with shock. And then, in a moment charged with tension, Rosita pulled out a gun, pointing at Negan and fired. The shot had reverberated through the scene, the bullet lodging into the barbwire bat, narrowly saving the man in charge from a direct hit to the face.
Now Rosita's expression is one of unbridled fury, her gaze unflinching as she stares past the knife under her eye at Negan. He looms over her, his tall frame casting a shadow over her petite form. "Now let's try this one more time," Negan says, his fingers still clutching the empty shell for her to see. "Tell me who made this bullet, or Arat's going to have to carve up that pretty face of yours." His smirk is chilling, his eyes dark with anger. "Such a shame, really."
Merle's gaze shifts between Negan and Rosita, the tension thick in the air. He knows the stakes are high, and every second Rosita remains defiant brings her closer to a grim fate. He also knows Brooklyn would want him to protect her… but his hands are tied.
Rosita's anger and pain is etched into every line of her face as she leans into the knife, the blade cutting into her face. "It. Was. me!" She hisses at Negan with fierce determination. Merle can understand her rage; losing two men she cared about in quick succession, one after the other, weeks apart, would harden anyone.
Negan's reaction is to throw his head back in laughter, a mocking, triumphant sound that fills the air. "Oh man, you are such a badass!" he says sarcastically, pointing at Rosita with his bat. A tense pause follows, elongating the moment as Negan seems to weigh his options. "Fine, have it your way," he concedes with a dismissive wave of his hand.
When Negan's glance shifts to Merle with a look of expectation, a cold realization hits him. In that moment, Merle knows—he's being tested. "Merle," Negan calls out, his tone deceptively light. "Kill somebody."
Merle doesn't hesitate, his decision seemingly made long before this moment. His hand instinctively moves to the gun at his waist, his mind flashing back to a conversation with Alice before he joined the Saviors. "There's a price for joining them, you know? It ain't gonna be simple. They're gonna wanna see some proof of loyalty, might even ask me to off one of our own."
"NO, IT WAS ME! IT WAS ME!" Rosita's screams fill the air as Merle draws his gun. But survival has always been his creed, and he'll do whatever it takes to make it out. He has his family depending on him, and he can't afford to let Alie down, not again.
"Then that's what you do," Alie's words echo in his memory. "Pick someone. Do whatever it takes to bring Daryl back. I can live with it."
In a split second, Merle makes his choice. He points the gun randomly and pulls the trigger. "BANG!" The sound of the gunshot reverberates through the air, and Olivia, the lady who keeps track of food and armory inventory, collapses to the ground as the bullet finds its mark.
The soft morning breeze caresses your skin, carrying the crisp scent of dawn. Seated on the steps leading out the back door of the Barrington House, you cradle a bowl of breakfast in your hands. Before you, a few feet away, lies a sea of sorghum harvest swaying gently in the wind, their green stalks a vivid contrast against the azure canvas of the sky and the morning sun. The tranquility of the scene, undisturbed by the turmoil of the world, offers a momentary solace.
You glance at Daryl, who occupies the step below yours, his spoon scrapes against the bowl, stirring an unfamiliar sorghum dish sprinkled with cucumbers and baby tomatoes—a courtesy of one of the ladies in town. A sigh escapes your lips as you observe him, clad in clothes borrowed from Jesus that surprisingly suit him. His hair falls around his face, and the morning sun illuminates his bruises, softening their appearance and making them seem less severe.
Beside him rests Rick's Colt Python and the rag he had been using to clean the gun before your arrival with breakfast interrupted him. After being intimate in the shower, you had returned to your new temporary room. The night had been spent together, cramped on a twin-sized bed that brought memories of the prison days, sharing a hard, small mattress.
Yet, amidst this familiarity, there's a stark difference—an unspoken chasm that has settled between you two. Even as Daryl held you through the night, your back against his chest, a numbness enveloped you, an emotional withdrawal that left you feeling distant, untouchable. Inside, a deep-seated rage simmered, your thoughts relentlessly circling back to Jamie and the loss of your baby—the haunting memory of blood running down your legs. You knew Daryl had been awake the whole night as well, his occasional shifts and the soft caress of his fingers on your abdomen doing little to soothe your thoughts.
Another sigh leaves your lips, your gaze inadvertently landing on the gun again. "How did you get out?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as you aimlessly push your food around the bowl, your appetite lost.
Daryl doesn't respond immediately, his spoon pausing mid-air. When he finally speaks, his voice carries that distinctive low rasp you've come to know so well. "Sherry," he says simply. "She unlocked my cell and gave me the bike key."
Sherry. Dwight's wife. The revelation catches you off guard; you hadn't expected her to be Daryl's savior. You had always thought if anyone were to get Daryl out, it would be Merle, especially considering how comfortable Sherry seemed in her role among Negan's wives.
Your gaze drifts back to the sorghum, your expression turning pensive. "I've been going over and over ideas on how I could get you out, if that was even possible." It was a plan that consumed your thoughts from the moment you left Alexandria, wondering if you'd ever see him again, let alone rescue him. Yet all it had taken was Sherry. "Maybe send a message to Merle… figure out a diversion."
Daryl shifts slightly, his gaze tilting up to meet yours. "It wouldn't have worked," Daryl interjects, his eyes a mirror of solemn understanding. "They let him play 'cause it's Merle. He knows how to talk the talk and strut his stuff, but they're keepin' a close eye on him. They're watchin' every move he makes..."
His words hang in the air, and the thought of Negan's next moves comes to mind—a tactical game of chess unfolding in your head. "Well, now that you're out, they'll be looking for you, and Alexandria is the first place they'll go," you state, your voice steady as you process the implications. "They'll come looking for me to get to you," you add, understanding the leverage you now hold. If they had you, Daryl wouldn't stray far. They know he would come for you, so why chase him when you could be the bait?
"We gotta get a message to Rick," Daryl suggests softly, concern creasing his brow as he observes your hardened expression, the rage and darkness burning in your eyes, complete with the faded bruises on your face that paint a picture.
Your gaze shifts from the tranquil greenery to meet his. "I'm not going to run if that's what you're thinking," you declare, trying to read his expression.
Daryl looks away, his hair falling forward to curtain his face again. "I ain't gonna ask ya to," he murmurs, his voice barely audible.
"I'm ready to fight," you state firmly, your gaze returning to the horizon. The words of your father echo in your mind, a mantra fueling your resolve. 'You have it in you, just as I did. That proclivity for danger. You don't need to feel shame, sorrow, or despair. You need to rage, burn it all.'
You need to prepare, have a solid plan to take them all on, to take him on. Now with Daryl back, you're no longer at a disadvantage, no longer playing with one hand tied behind your back. "I'm going to take everything from Negan, like he took from me." You murmur, keenly aware of the challenges ahead—Negan has the numbers, the resources, the countless outposts, and the advantage of geography. You need to combat that, with people, weapons, and a meticulous strategy. Because one wrong move, they will overwhelm you with numbers again, and it could all be over before it even begins.
But at the end of the day, you are the conqueror; it's in your nature to be a force to be reckoned with—a lioness, fierce and relentless.
You open your mouth to continue, but Maggie's voice interrupts your thoughts, "Sasha! Enid! Alie!" causing both you and Daryl to jerk, his hand instinctively moving to the gun beside him. You tilt your head to listen, but the noise of Hilltop remains undisturbed, the clinks of blacksmiths' hammers mixed with children's laughter still echoing in the background.
Sharing a glance with Daryl, you both rise, abandoning your breakfast, and quietly creep around the corner, tension still lingering in the air. However, as quickly as the alert arrives, it dissipates at the unexpected scene that greets you.
A sigh escapes your lips as you catch Rick embracing Maggie, with the rest of your core group hovering behind them as Hilltop's heavy gate closes. Rick seems to be muttering something to Maggie, his hand gently caressing her cheek, before his eyes scan the area, searching until they find you. Relief floods his gaze, as his eyes inevitably drift to your side, landing on your husband. Rick's demeanor immediately transforms, a whirlwind of emotions passing across his face as he steps back from Maggie.
You watch, biting your lip, as Daryl steps forward with his head lowered. Rick rapidly closes the gap between them, approaching the man he considers a brother. There's a vulnerability in the air as Rick places his hand on Daryl's neck, pressing their foreheads together before pulling him into a tight embrace. The atmosphere around you shifts, smiles spreading across your faces, as you all watch the reunion with a mix of relief and joy.
Maggie steps closer, squeezing your shoulder, as the group takes their turn greeting Daryl with hugs and teary smiles. You return Maggie's smile in silent acknowledgment before your gaze sweeps over the rest of newcomers— Michonne, Carl, Tara — and in that moment, there is sense of completeness. That despite everything, the gang is back together.
However, when you lock eyes with Rosita, she looks away, her body language closed off, arms folded around herself. On her face, you notice a cut that runs from just beneath her left eye down to her cheek, something new since you left almost two days ago.
Your attention returns to Daryl as he solemnly extends Rick's gun—the silver Colt Python gleaming in the sunlight, almost like a silent declaration of the fight to come. Rick accepts the gun, inspecting it with a resolved smile playing on his lips, before sharing a look with Michonne, who nods in affirmation.
Rick turns to you, his shoulders squared, but his expression shifts profoundly as if he's just now fully registering your new physical changes. The sympathy in his gaze is unmistakable as he approaches tentatively. You suspect he's been informed about your miscarriage and the subsequent events. Knowing Alexandria's penchant for gossip, it wouldn't be surprising if word had spread.
"Alie," he whispers, his tone cautious.
"Rick," you acknowledge, your voice steady you feel.
"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, his apology not just for the death of Jamie, but for the baby, and the ensuing heartbreak. "I was trying to make it work. I was trying to hold it together."
"They came back, didn't they?" you ask, noticing the somber expressions among the group.
"Yeah," Rick confirms grimly, nodding. "Spencer, Olivia... Merle was there." The mention of Merle piques your interest, as Rick glances back at Daryl, hinting at a significant event involving your brother-in-law. "They took Eugene," he adds, prompting a reaction from Rosita, who clenches her fists tightly.
Eugene is your friend, your lab partner, a caliber of his own. If not you, then it would be Eugene. At least you can take comfort knowing he's still alive, and you hold onto the hope that he remains safe.
Rick's hand is warm against your skin as he gently touches the side of your neck and cheek, drawing your focus back to him. "I'm ready, now. If you are," he declares.
"'We do what we need to do, and then we get to live,' right? That's what you said in that barn." Your voice carries a firm resolve as your hand rests over his, your gaze locked with his bright blue eyes, filled with determination. "So, go ahead and tell yourself if you have to, Rick," you whisper, echoing the sentiments Rick once shared, the profound words of his grandfather. "'Rest in peace. Now get up and go to war.'"
You know you're severely outnumbered and outgunned, but like his grandfather, you've already accepted death. You'll do what you need to do, maybe then you get to survive this. Maybe then, you get to live.
Rick exhales deeply, his eyes briefly closing. When he opens them again a breath later, he solemnly intones, "Rest in peace."
The phrase reverberates around you, and you turn to look at the assembly in surprise as each member repeats it like a mantra, united in purpose.
"Rest in peace."
"Rest in peace."
"Rest in peace."
In this moment, on the dirt ground of Hilltop, surrounded by those you consider family, a declaration of war is made—not just against Negan but against everything the Saviors represent. It all begins here.
Just like that, you turn towards the Barrington House, following Rick, with the rest of the group in tow, ready to make the first move.
As the doors swing open, you find Gregory in the hallway, an open book in his hand, seemingly en route to his office. There is a pause as he looks up, caught off guard, almost comical in its timing, but his expression changes when he catches sight of Rick.
"Oh, hell no," Gregory retorts, rolling his eyes dramatically, closing the book with a snap. "Don't you people have homes?!" he exclaims, rhetorically as he retreats into his office.
The SUV jostles along the unfamiliar dirt road as you sit cramped inside, sandwiched between Daryl and Jesus. Rick is at the wheel, with Michonne riding shotgun, while in the back seat, Carl, Sasha, Rosita, and Tara are squeezed together. Lost in thought, you fiddle with a walkie-talkie radio— a long-distance model that Jesus had managed to snatch during Daryl's escape from the Sanctuary.
Gregory's refusal to fight the Saviors doesn't surprise you. There's nothing you can say to change his mind, and as much as he's intimidated by you, he's more terrified of the Saviors than anything else. But you suppose, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter much.
Hilltop now looks to Maggie, just as Alexandria once looked to you during Deanna's leadership. Enid had been spreading the news of the intent to fight the Saviors, and when you had walked out of the Barrington House following Rick, there was a group waiting at the entrance, willing to join. In the short time Maggie has been here, she has saved their community and been hands-on helping with daily problems and solutions. You suppose, it's only natural for the farmers to side with a farmer's daughter, and it's only a matter of time before Gregory loses his sway entirely. A matter of time before everyone in the community joins Maggie's fight as well.
Shifting in your seat, you refocus on the ongoing conversation. "You said he calls himself a king?" you probe, glancing at Jesus beside you.
"Yes, King Ezekiel," Jesus confirms with a shrug. "He's a gregarious man, a bit odd, but he's optimistic, and people seem to really like him."
You hum in thought, mulling over everything you've heard so far. After Gregory's rejection, Rick had emphasized the need for more people, beyond those who volunteered at Hilltop. It's then that Jesus brings up a community called The Kingdom. He recounts how he encountered them while scavenging, similar to how he met Rick and Daryl, and how Hilltop formed an alliance and trade deal with them, exchanging supplies for food and medicine. But crucially, The Kingdom, like Hilltop and Alexandria, is also under the thumb of the Saviors, forced to pay tribute to avoid conflict.
"Here, this is it," Jesus announces abruptly, leaning forward between the driver and the passenger seat, "we're here."
"This is it?" Rick questions skeptically as he pulls the car over to stop. You lean over Daryl, peering out the window, but all you see are abandoned buildings with overgrown grass.
"Yes and no," Jesus clarifies as he opens the door and steps out. "We're on the outer edge of the Kingdom." You follow behind him, scanning the desolate area dotted with the undead.
Daryl steps out after you, also looking around. "What the hell are we waitin' for then?" he asks, his impatience evident.
"Waiting for them," Jesus answers, pointing ahead.
Both your eyebrows hitch up as you see two men on horseback, wearing some sort of laser tag-style armor, spears in hand, galloping toward you, hollering. "Who dares to trespass on the sovereign land of the—oh shit, Jesus, is that you?!"
"Hey, Richard," Jesus says, raising his hand in a casual wave as they rein in their horses a few feet away.
"Who are these people, Jesus?" asks the man named Richard, his dark eyes sweeping over your group, his expression seemingly set in a permanent frown.
Jesus, undeterred by the expression, gestures towards you and the others who had disembarked from the car, curiosity painted on your faces. "This is Rick, and Dr. Alice, and they would like an audience with King Ezekiel."
Rick steps forward to lead the introductions, and you observe with the calculating eyes of a chess player, assessing what you're up against and how you can leverage it to your advantage. The exchange is brief, and after being patted down and having your rifle taken, you're led toward the Kingdom, with Richard and Jesus leading the way, and you follow with Daryl hovering beside you.
The journey is short; the desolation of the outskirts gives way to a more fortified exterior, and the imposing gates of the Kingdom loom ahead. Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you take in the sight of the surrounding wall constructed from school buses, their sides reinforced with sheets of metal, forming an imposing barrier. And even before the gates swing open, you can discern that this safe haven was once a school. Yet, nothing quite prepares you for what lies beyond.
As you step inside, you're met with a bustling community, thriving against the odds. People are everywhere, each engrossed in their own tasks—some tending to gardens, others doing laundry, caring for livestock, and looking after children. It feels full and vibrantly busy.
Your eyes sweep over the scene, a slow, dark smirk creeping onto your face. "They have the numbers," Michonne remarks, as if echoing your thoughts, "But can they fight?"
"They sure can," Jesus replies confidently, nodding toward a group of men clad in the same laser tag-style armor engaged in physical training. Your gaze follows them, taking on a darker intensity.
You don't need to see your father to hear his voice echo clearly in your head. "There is your army,"he whispers, "March them all to their deaths if you have to."
A soft chuckle escapes you at the irony, gradually morphing into an unsettling laughter bubbling up within. Your group looks at you, perplexed by your reaction. But it doesn't matter, because the universe truly has a twisted sense of humor, and you can't help but acknowledge it.
The conqueror comes to the Kingdom, you muse silently.
"Alie?" Rick's voice breaks through your thoughts, but you just smile at him, pressing a hand on his shoulder.
Your gaze drifts to Richard, "Take me to your King," you command, though the man gives you a puzzled look, he nods nonetheless, gesturing towards a building ahead.
You may not know who this self-proclaimed king is or if he's willing to fight the Saviors, but you know one thing: you'll win by any means necessary. To do that, you have to shift the power dynamics.
As you approach the king's quarters, a sense of anticipation coils within you. The game is afoot, and you're ready to engage in a strategic dance of alliances and power, that familiar game of chess. But just as the building's entrance looms before you, Tara's voice pierces the air.
"Morgan?" she calls out, and you pivot to see Morgan standing just beyond the entrance, a mixture of surprise and warmth crossing his face as he surveys the group. However, when his gaze settles on you, he appears taken aback, his attention lingering on your face. You wonder if it's the faded bruise on your cheek, your shorter hair, or the dark circles under your eyes that catch his eye—whatever it is, you must look quite different from the woman he left behind.
"Hey guys," Morgan greets warmly, stepping forward with a small smile. "Doc, yer here."
"Morgan," you respond, nodding with a subdued smile. "It's good to see you."
"Likewise," he replies, his smile broadening as he shrugs his shoulders and pulls you into a hug. There's a chuckle as you pat his back, and he proceeds to greet the others just the same, embracing Rick, Michonne, and the rest of the group one by one.
But your reunion is cut short as Richard steps out of the building you hadn't even seen him enter, catching your attention. "The king is ready to see you," he announces, holding the door open.
As your group proceeds, Rick turns to Morgan, "Did you find Carol?" he asks, and you bite back a scoff. She's the one person you pushed from your thoughts. You'd heard about Carol's departure early on, how she left on the day of the lineup, how Morgan followed after her, disappearing too. Carol made her own choice to leave when her family needed her most, when you needed her most. Now she's no longer your concern.
"Yeah, I did," Morgan confirms, his gaze shifting to Daryl, who watches him intently. "She was here, but she left."
You don't need to hear any more, so you forge ahead, feeling the weight of Daryl, Rick, and Morgan's collective gaze upon you. "Was Carol okay?" Daryl's concerned voice, the last thing you catch before stepping inside, following the others down a dim corridor.
Rounding a corner, you approach another threshold, only to stop dead on your track, your eyebrows hacking up once again, utterly flabbergasted. For a moment, all you can do is stare at the scene before you, blinking only when Rick and Daryl come around the corner, their steps quickening to catch up. They too pause behind you, equally taken aback by the sight.
Before you lies what appears to be a theater, likely from the old school days, with rows of chairs leading down to a stage at the far end. Sitting in the center, on a throne-like chair, is a man who is presumably the king, with a large painting of a castle hanging in the backdrop. The entire setup, illuminated by stage lights, resembles a dramatic school production, complete with guards or jesters stationed nearby, wielding sharp weapons.
"Jesus, it pleases me to see you!" the king exclaims, but your attention doesn't leave the tiger, an actual tiger, lounging on the stage next to him.
"It pleases him indeed!" the jester repeats, slamming his cane on the ground for emphasis.
"Jerry!" The king chides, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.
The entire scene feels like a bizarre circus show, with the man posing as a king, the tiger, and the setting of a theater.
"Tell me, what news do you bring for Good King Ezekiel? Are these new allies you've brought me?" the king addresses Jesus, finally drawing your attention away from the tiger and toward the man with salt and pepper dreadlocks and dark skin.
"Indeed, they are, Your Majesty. This is…" Jesus begins, turning for introductions, only to pause at the collected look on your group's faces. "Oh, I forgot to mention…" he starts, lowering his voice as if to explain.
"Yeah, a tiger," Rick dryly remarks. However, your mind races ahead, ignoring the absurdity of the setting, as you analyze every detail you've observed so far, playing out scenarios like chess pieces five steps in advance, considering all you've seen and heard on the trip here.
Jesus redirects his attention to the king, to finish his introductions, "This is Rick Grimes, the leader of Alexandria, and this is Dr…" but his words falter as you step forward, gracefully bypassing him.
"Alie!" Daryl jerks forward, his voice tinged with concern as if to stop you, but you don't hesitate, your steps calm, measured, and feminine as you casually stride your way to the stage, your lips curling up into a soft smile. Daryl follows, but the king raises his hand as if to say all is well.
You understand this so-called king before you is an eccentric man, made even more obvious by the way he speaks—with a flair of Shakespearean. You know you need to stand out, to make an impression that captivates his interest. As you approach him, you try to think of a strategy, anything… and Denise's words come to mind, as you recall her describing you: "You're beautiful! And, smart, and you've got that whole mysterious vibe."So, that's the role you'll play—the mysterious woman, hoping it will leave him curious.
"Who might you be, my fair maiden?" the king asks softly when you stand before him, but you purposely avoid looking at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the tiger, following the chain pinned to the stage.
"Alice," you respond, pushing down the nerves as the animal stirs, its golden eyes locking onto yours. "She is beautiful—it's a she, right?" you ask, noting the intricate patterns running down her body and her thick, powerful legs. You're no animal whisperer like Daryl, but you use your head, willing to bet your life that this tiger is domesticated; otherwise, a wild animal wouldn't be living in a community with so many people where food might unexpectedly run short.
"Indeed, this is Shiva," the king responds, his voice carrying a note of pride. "She is as mighty as she is beautiful." As if on cue, Shiva rises, emitting a low growl from her throat, signaling her dislike of being stared down by you, perhaps perceiving it as a challenge. Despite every instinct screaming at you to flee, you stand your ground, your expression neutral and composed, hoping your deduction is correct and you won't be mauled by a tiger.
"In 1974, William Blake, a famous English poet, explores themes of beauty, power, terror, and the mystery of divine creation as he describes the fearsome nature of a tiger. He writes, 'In the shadowed forests of the new dawn, lies a tiger, fierce and withdrawn. Bound by chains, under moon and sun, whispers of freedom slowly began.'" you recite, maintaining a fearless façade.
The king's laughter is jolly one that softens his features, "Ah, exquisite. You're a poet, perhaps?" He muses, as you finally turn to meet his gaze. He watches you, his eyes warm and inviting, with brows slightly raised, perhaps due to the faded bruises on your face adding to the mystery of it all.
"A Doctor," you counter with smile, looking up at him through your dark lashes. "But I, too, consider myself a big cat. My father used to say, 'You are a lioness, mi figlia.' And so, a lioness I remain."
His smile broadens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if to get a better look at you from his elevated position on the stage. "Perhaps he was indeed right. Most people cower in Shiva's presence," he comments, his voice brimming with joviality. "What can the Kingdom do for you, my fair lady? Why do you seek an audience with King Ezekiel?"
You respond with a coy shrug, your smile widening. "What can you do for me? Personally, nothing. But together, so much," you say, determined not to play the part of a supplicant begging for a king's favor. No, he will be the one to seek you out. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ezekiel," you add, deliberately omitting his title. "I'll let Rick Grimes take it from here."
With that, you turn on your heel, aware of the confusion in the auditorium from those watching the exchange, and you catch an incredulous eye roll from Rosita. You approach Daryl, who's been standing a few steps behind you, his shoulder tense, perpetually ready to fight a tiger if he must. you place a reassuring hand on his back, guiding him away, and as you both walk past Jesus, you pause, leaning to whisper.
"The King trusts you 'cause you've built that rapport. So, tell him what you know. Tell him about the cure," you instruct, confident that the king will seek Morgan for confirmation and he will corroborate Jesus's story. Ezekiel will take the bait, and he will come to you on even ground.
As you walk out, your husband in tow, you give Rick a reassuring nod and a squeeze on his shoulder as you weave past him. Rick takes a deep breath, stepping forward, "Ezekiel… King Ezekiel. Alexandria, Hilltop, and the Kingdom, all three of our communities have something in common. We all serve the Saviors..."
Your footsteps echo softly in the empty hall, the last of Rick's words fading into the distance.
You stand on the deck that wraps around the second floor of the building, leaning on the railing, your eyes taking in the scene down below. A long set of tables is set up for lunch, with people lining up with plates in hand.
The Kingdom operates in a communal-style setting, quite different from Alexandria, where everyone shared supplies but took care of their own meals and needs. Here, the general work is divided—some cook, some farm, others handle laundry, and so on. You suppose this approach makes sense, especially considering this place was once a school equipped with a cafeteria and a large enough kitchen to feed hundreds.
Your thoughts shift as your gaze drifts to Daryl, in line for lunch, balancing two plates while deep in conversation with Rick. From what you've been told by Rick, Ezekiel had demanded that your group stay the night while he considered the offer. But you have a feeling you're not playing the long game. You've set up your chessboard, with pieces Ezekiel can't ignore. The promise of a cure is a lure, something you're willing to bet he won't easily disregard. But this game is more than just about ideas. There's more than optimism to a man who would wholeheartedly call himself king. There has to be an ego there too, and you just need to find the right spot to stroke.
"Jesus has relayed something quite extraordinary about you," a voice calls from behind, and you suppress a smirk as you turn to find Ezekiel standing at the entrance of the stairs. This time, no tiger, no entourage, just him as he casually approaches you with a congenial smile. "Will my lady not be joining us for lunch?"
"My husband is getting a plate," you answer, nodding subtly toward Daryl below where the group has been led, something about a lunch cobbler.
Ezekiel joins you at the railing, and for a moment, it's quiet as you both watch the lively tableau below—children at play, families gathered around the outdoor tables. "It's impressive, what you've built here. People seem happy," you state, your voice soft.
"Achieving this was no small feat," he admits. "When we found this place, it was a boarding school, and fortunately, it came with a fence. Over the years, we've toiled and fortified it with whatever materials we could find, such as scrap metal and repurposing school buses. It now stands today as a testament to our resilience."
"And then you made yourself king," you observe, casting a quick, inquisitive glance in his direction.
Ezekiel lets out a laugh, a sound rich with self-awareness and a hint of amusement. "Do I detect skepticism? To you, am I merely a facade?" he jests, facing you fully with a relaxed lean against the railing. You meet his gaze with a calm, inscrutable look. So, he reaches out, bridging the gap first. "It was what the situation required. They saw the hair and the tiger, and people saw a king, so I became what they needed."
At his words, your thoughts drift to words you once said to Daryl, right around when you first showed up in Alexandria. "Politics is all about making it seem like you have all the answers... even when you don't."
"Your people needed someone to follow," you concede, already having pieced together his motives. "So, you put on the show, acted the part."
"Act indeed!" Ezekiel agrees with a joyful laugh, turning back to the bustling scene below. A moment of silence passes before he continues, his tone filled with nostalgia. "As a youth, my mother took me to our local community theater. I can recall with vivid clarity the enchantment that swept over me as I watched a production of 'King Arthur'," he reminisces, gesturing in the air as if he can still see it. "Man oh man! For a kid who had nothing but dreams, that experience was akin to possessing the world. Right then and there, amidst the spectacle of the stage, I fell in love with the art of acting!" His eyes meet yours, sparkling. "Arthur was a humble farmer, devoid of riches, but when the world needed him, he became King."
Shaking his head, he continues, almost perplexed by where life had brought him. "I was no one important, a zookeeper, but when the world needed it most, I pulled the Excalibur," he says, gesturing to the thriving community below.
"You became king," you acknowledge, a subtle smile playing on your lips as you play along, recognizing he has given just enough for you to make your move. "I suppose life really does imitate art. Perhaps it was destiny." You sigh, letting the weight of your words hang in the air.
Turning back to the scene before you, you allow the moment to breathe before speaking again. "You know, I too read the story of Arthur growing up. You may have pulled Excalibur, creating something near impossible here," you gesture towards the people enjoying a semblance of normalcy. "But Arthur didn't truly become the people's king, well at least not until an extraordinary person walked into his life. The wizard Merlin."
You pick your words carefully as you face him once more. "Merlin brought grace, wisdom, mentorship, helping Arthur become the king he was meant to be." Ezekiel's attention is undivided, drawn in by your narrative, as he too turns to face you. "It was Merlin who helped Arthur establish the round table of knights, a symbol of equality, unity, and freedom. It was Merlin who guided Arthur to look beyond his own realm, to protect those who can't."
Leaning closer, you lower your voice to an intimate whisper, as if entrusting him with a secret, "You called me extraordinary," you remind him, gently placing your hand over his on the railing. "I think I'm your Merlin, King Ezekiel." For the first time, you use his title, noting the surprise that flickers across his features at your proclamation. "There are others beyond your kingdom who need our protection, for us to fight for them. Destiny is knocking for us to save the world."
The smile that lights up his face is radiant as he covers your hand with his, a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Tell me more about this cure, Merlin," he says, nodding towards the stairs, signaling that it's time for lunch and deeper discussions. You suppress a dark, cunning smirk, allowing him to lead you forward.
Morning at the Kingdom is bright, the sun casting a gentle glow over the community as breakfast is served in the same communal style you had seen for lunch and dinner. Your group had spent the night at the Kingdom, guests of King Ezekiel, just as he had wished. Rooms were provided so you could double up, and flowers and fruits sent to your room as gifts. Daryl had looked at them, the same way he had when you first arrived in Alexandria and the gifts and food started to arrive.
But to you, this is a sign that your plan is working. Yesterday was filled with discussions about the cure, a topic that had Ezekiel hanging on your every word. The hopeful glint in his eyes tells you that your words have indeed moved him.
Now, your footsteps are confident as you walk along with your group. Ezekiel leads you through the heart of his community on a sort of tour, occasionally pointing out the horse stables, blacksmiths hammering away, and soldiers training. His pride in the Kingdom is evident with every step.
"This is life here, every day," Ezekiel states, his voice filled with warmth as he pauses to wave at a group of children playing nearby. They eagerly wave back, briefly pausing in their game of ball. "I envisioned more of this—to expand, to create more havens like the Kingdom. But every dream comes with its price," he continues, his pace leisurely, his tone shifting as he gestures towards another group. This group, a mix of adults and children, is also training, yet almost all of them are missing body parts, from arms to legs.
"Men and women lost their limbs, children lost their parents because I sent them into battle against the wasted, when I did not need to," Ezekiel confesses, the weight of his decisions evident in his gaze as he turns to face your group. He lets out a deep sigh before breaking the news. "I cannot in good conscience join your endeavor, my lady," he addresses you directly, the conflict in his eyes revealing the struggle behind his firm stance.
His refusal comes unexpectedly. Not because you assumed he would agree without hesitation, but because you hadn't fully considered the possibility of a decline. "Of course, you can," you reply, stepping forward, your voice filled with conviction. "This is no longer just about food and shelter. This is about the future—a future where those children can live in peace, grow old, and lead normal lives. It's up to us to build it, to fight for it."
Rick, standing to your left, nods in agreement, stepping forward, his voice pleading. "She's right. The dead don't rule us. The world doesn't look like this outside your walls. People don't have it as good; some people don't have it good at all. This is it, this is our chance to fix that, to come together."
Ezekiel's resolve falters, as he looks away. "I have to worry about my people," he counters, sounding more like he's trying to convince himself than you. "I have to worry about preserving what we have built here. I have to try."
Daryl, standing to your right, scoffs, his tone biting. "How long d'ya think you can keep that up?"
Ezekiel pushes back, not willing to let Daryl's irritation go unchallenged. "The peace we have with the Saviors is an uneasy one, but it is peace," he asserts, before letting out a sigh and turning to you, taking a step forward. "My lady, although the Kingdom cannot offer you the aid you desire, we can offer you a new home. You can stay; we can help you create the cure here," he begins, reaching out to take your hand.
At this, Rick snorts, his disbelief and the sting of rejection clear in his expression. Ezekiel glances at Rick, then adds, "But if asylum is all you require, we offer that too, for you and your husband, for as long as you need it. The Saviors do not set foot here; you're safe within these walls."
You don't respond immediately, your expression unreadable as you observe the king standing before you. Your ability to read people kicks in as you assess the weight in his eyes, his body language that desperately pleads for you to stay. The hope and dreams of building united communities, of successfully creating the cure like you had discussed—it's all there, written in his gaze.
It's in this moment, you realize he will join your cause. This opportunity is too significant for him to dismiss. "I'm sorry," you say, your voice soft yet resolute, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before withdrawing. "Alexandria is my home, but my husband and I will accept your offer," you add, glancing at Daryl, who lets out a huff, indicating his reluctance to stay longer than necessary. "Temporarily, of course, just until we can shake off the Saviors."
"Thank you for your hospitality," Rick interjects, his voice flat, and with that, he turns to leave, and you can see the ripple of demoralization within the group as they follow suit. You pivot as well, Daryl trailing behind you, swiftly catching up to Rick, who slows his pace for you.
You can see Rick is frustrated with himself, perhaps in the hope he had vested in the king. "I'm coming home, but we have a more pressing issue to deal with first," you assure him, your steps in sync with Rick's and Daryl's flanking on each side as the group proceeds ahead. "The Saviors will come looking for Daryl, and they will want to know where I am, likely to use me as bait. I suggest you play dumb, put on an act, say I went out scavenging and never returned." You propose, the plan forming with each word you speak. "They will assume Daryl intercepted me, a plausible scenario given his tracking and hunting skills."
Rick exhales heavily as he comes to stop by the gate. "Don't worry, we'll come up with something, keep them off your back."
You turn to the group, noting the various expressions of defeat or disappointment on their faces. It's Sasha who breaks the silence first, her arms folded across her chest. "I knew this king guy would say no, but it still pissed me off," she mutters.
Only then do you allow the smirk to spread across your face, dark and conniving. "Oh, trust me, he said yes. Just give him a couple of days to sleep on it."
Michonne's eyebrow ticks up. "What makes you say that?"
"Because people need more than just food and water. They need hope," you assert, turning to glance back at where you came from. The group follows your gaze, finding Ezekiel still standing where you left him, observing your departing group with a disheartened expression on his face. "Ezekiel is an optimistic man, and the cure represents the ultimate hope. He's joining. He can't afford to say no."
You face Rick, who watches the scene with renewed interest. "Trust me, it's happening. But even with the Kingdom, we're still outnumbered and outgunned. We need a solid plan, Rick." There's confidence in your voice, born from the understanding that Ezekiel needs time to justify his reasons for joining the war, to come to terms with the fact that people will lose their lives. But ultimately, wars have been waged for lesser cause.
"Okay, lets tackle one problem at a time," Rick agrees with a nod, placing his trust in your judgment. "We'll regroup soon."
You turn to Jesus, who's been quietly observing everything with a slight smile. "Let Maggie know it's time to prepare for battle." He nods, acknowledging the gravity of your words. And just like that, the gate swings open, and you and Daryl stand aside, watching as the group departs.
You catch one last hopeful glance from Rick as the door closes behind them.
