Hi everyone, Thank you for patiently waiting. I've been sick with the flu for about two weeks. Finally feeling better enough to write. Anyways, let's just get to it.


One way or another I'm gonna win ya
I'm gonna get ya get ya
One way or another I'm gonna see ya
I'm gonna meet ya
One day, maybe next week
I'm gonna meet ya, I'm gonna meet ya
I will drive past your house
And if the lights are all down
I'll see who's around

One way or Another - Until the ribbon breaks

Chapter 65 - One Way or Another

Daryl sits on the cold cement floor of the sparsely illuminated room, feeling the weight of his heart as he observes the tiger relentlessly pacing in her cage. In her endless movements, Daryl sees a reflection of his own— confined and restless, unable to bridge the gap to the one person who means everything to him. The pressure builds in his chest, an urgent need to scream, tear something apart, but there is nothing he can do, no way to help his wife. This ache in his heart is not unfamiliar to him; the last time he found himself in a similar state, tears in his eyes, was when he was with the Claimers, separated from her at the prison, unsure if she was alive or dead, far from where he was...

But last night, he had a dream, a memory flickering in the depths of his subconscious as he drifted in and out of sleep. He was young again, back in his old school, standing by his locker watching the girl he loved from a distance. Everything seemed like slow motion: the rhythm of her small heels clicking against the tiled floor, the bright color of her dress, the way her dark hair flowed behind her as she took on her surroundings with a self-assured demeanor, her face bright with innocent eyes.

He woke in the silent hours of the night, in their new room within the Kingdom's walls, with his wife on the other end of the bed. She lay there, her body curled protectively, a mere shadow's breadth away yet worlds apart from him. With her back turned, she seemed to coil further into herself, a physical manifestation of her internal retreat. Despite the proximity, he could feel the distance between them, even when she touched him, a tangible and suffocating barrier.

Daryl sees her, understands her pain, in a way he cannot even comprehend his own. But he is paralyzed by his insecurities, unable to find the words to bridge the gap that has grown between them. How could he fix this when he can't even bring himself to ask what happened to her face and hair? Her hair, which he used to watch her diligently comb through every night, cascading down her back like a waterfall of silk, is now gone. In its place is a shorter, more practical style that seems to accentuate the hardness in her eyes.

So, he swallows it all because he knows that talking about it would mean bringing up Jamie, making her bleed again and reopening her wounds. Even as the shades of yellow of her faded bruises stared at him, a silent testament to her suffering, she musters a smile—a facade he knows she maintains for his sake.

Daryl lets out a deep sigh, feeling the familiar weight of helplessness and guilt crushing his chest as he sits alone, the cold bars of the tiger's cage tight under his grip. It's his fault, every last bit of it: the deaths, the pain, the irreversible changes—all tracks back to choices he made, actions he didn't take, moments when revenge clouded his judgment.

The domino effect of his decisions haunts him, each 'what if' a sharp jab. All this because he hadn't killed Dwight like he should have in that burnt forest. If he had, Dwight wouldn't have been there to kill Denise. And if he had just stayed home after Denise's death, fighting for what mattered to him, if he had not rushed out that morning of the lineup looking for revenge, then Alie wouldn't have followed him… Why did he think she wouldn't? She always came for him.

His grip tightens around the cold metal bars, knuckles whitening, as the bitter taste of regret floods his senses. Damn it all!

If only things had been different: Maggie would have had her doctor, and the group wouldn't have been out there on that fateful day. Glenn and Abraham would still be alive. And he wouldn't have been taken… Everything that transpired was a consequence of him putting himself in a position to be captured by the Saviors. He might as well have put that gun in his wife's hand, forced her to kill someone she loved. Perhaps it wasn't just Jamie who died that day; a part of her did too. And she might never recover from that… And he can't fix the damage done.

His somber reflections are gently interrupted by a deep purr as the tiger nudges her head against his hand, her coarse fur brushing against his knuckles. Only then does he realize that tears are tracing paths down his cheeks. With one hand, he continues to scratch the tiger's head, while he hastily wipes his face with the other.

The heavy metal door creaks open behind him, pulling his attention away from the internal storm. He turns slightly, hand still in the cage, his gaze landing on Alie, the very person who's been occupying his every thought.

"Hey," she greets him, pausing as she takes in the scene with the tiger. "Wow, you're good with her," she notes, almost as if his affinity with the tiger doesn't surprise her. Approaching, she holds out a plate. "I brought you breakfast."

Of course, he had been with her earlier, holding a spot on one of the outdoor benches while she stood in line for their breakfast from the kingdom's communal-style dining. Only to watch her get ambushed by the King and his entire entourage as he came to join her with his own plate, the King talking animatedly, seemingly vying for her attention. Daryl had rolled his eyes, already aware of the constant surveillance she was under.

"Thanks," Daryl mutters, accepting the plate adorned with slices of fruit, homemade bread covered with cheese and jam, noting she's only carrying one plate. "Didja eat? You wanna split this?" he asks, already scooting back from the cage, placing the plate between them.

There's a tenderness in her eyes as she smiles softly. "Nah, I'm okay. Don't have much of an appetite." she replies, her eyes gesturing towards the exit. "I'm gonna go check out the Kingdom's library."

"I can come withchu, keep ya company," he offers quickly, ready to stand up and bring the food with him.

"No, it's okay. You eat up," she insists, stepping forward to halt his movement. He looks up at her, every fiber of his being wanting to protest, reluctant to leave her alone for too long in this unfamiliar environment. But the expression in her eyes makes his stomach drop, "I need some time alone, just to think," she adds softly before leaning down to kiss the top of his head, then turning to walk away.

It takes only a few seconds for Daryl to hastily rise and follow, a piece of jam-covered bread in hand. He couldn't bear not to. His footsteps are brisk as he swings open the door, only to collide with Richard on the other side.

"There you are—your wife just said I'd find you here," Richard remarks, nodding in the direction Alie had gone. "Morgan says you're a bowman. Come on, there's something I want to show you."


You sit at one of the outdoor tables, your eyebrows pinched in concentration, an open book resting in front of you. The afternoon sun casts a warm glow, but it's hard to focus on the words. Not because of the bustling activity of the Kingdom, but because you can feel eyes boring into the back of your neck like a physical touch.

With a sigh, you turn to look back, catching sight of Jerry, one of the King's guards, standing just a few feet away, leisurely munching on an apple. When he meets your gaze, he waves his fingers with a bright smile breaking across his face.

You offer a tight smile in return, your lips barely shifting. The overbearing presence of the Kingdom's guard, meant for your protection as per the king's orders, feels more like a shackle. This is only your third day here, yet the constant surveillance, along with the king's well-intentioned but suffocating hospitality, leaves you feeling trapped. With an impending conflict ahead, this added attention is the last thing you need. But you suppose you brought it on yourself.

Daryl, too, seems irritated by the overt gestures of welcome—gifts, flowers, all part of the king's campaign to persuade you to stay. But your resolve remains unshaken; your thoughts are with Rick and the plan you must devise before reuniting with him.

Shaking off the distraction, you attempt to refocus on the pages before you—a book you found in the Kingdom's once school library titled 'Fire and Fury: The Allied bombing of Germany and Japan by Randall Hansen,' describing battle plans from World War II. 'History always repeats itself,' your father used to say, and you're hoping you'll find your answer within these pages.

However, you don't even make it halfway through the page when a bag drops onto the table with a thud. Looking up, you're met with Daryl's intense gaze, his face flushed with anger, veins throbbing at his neck. Laid before you are Jamie's military uniform jacket and your own rifle, alongside your backpack with your belongings.

"Come on, we're goin'," he says curtly, as he adjusts the straps of a new crossbow slung over his shoulder.

"What? What happened?" you ask, confused and alarmed by his demeanor.

Daryl's gaze hardens as he takes your elbow, urging you to your feet. "I need to check somethin' out, and I ain't leavin' you here for that guy to get any ideas," he growls with a protective ferocity in his eyes. "Sacrifice my ass! Come on."

Without hesitation, you follow his lead, slipping into the jacket and feeling the familiar weight of the rifle against your back.

"Yo, dude, where are you going?" Jerry calls out, attempting to follow you.

"Out!" Daryl snaps back, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As you start to move away, you cast a backward glance at Jerry, who remains by the deserted table, watching your abrupt departure. "Daryl, what happened?" you press in a hushed voice, trying to keep pace.

Daryl doesn't answer immediately, his hand finding yours, intertwining your fingers reassuringly as he leads you toward the gate. "I'll fill ya in on the way," he finally says.

Soon the gate swings open, and you step out into the open air, a stark reminder of the danger that possibly waits for you. Beside you, Daryl moves with purpose, his eyes scanning the desolate streets as he leads the way, his crossbow efficiently taking down the occasional walkers that cross your path before they pose any threat.

As you continue your walk, Daryl begins to recount the recent events. Richard, the Kingdom soldier you met upon arrival, apparently has been fervently advocating for the war against the Saviors. He had been the one to give your husband the crossbow, trying to enlist his help.

Richard's plan was to sacrifice someone the King cares about, to provoke Ezekiel into joining the war against the Saviors. This someone is a woman living in solitude not far from the Kingdom. Even before Daryl could finish his story, his body language makes it clear who Richard's target is: Carol.

Richard intended on blowing up the Saviors' truck as they come to collect their tribute from the kingdom, creating a trail for them to follow when they come looking for revenge—a trail you're currently following.

Now you understand Daryl's concern, why you're out here marching down the street. He fears that Richard, in his desperation, might redirect his plans towards you, leveraging your safety to coerce Ezekiel into action.

Throughout the entire journey, you remain silent, holding back any words that threaten to spill out. You know how much Carol means to Daryl, the deep bond they share. You can see his tension, his uncertainty about whether Carol even wants to see him, especially after her last letter expressing a wish to distance herself from the group.

"This way," Daryl's voice interrupts your reverie, leading you through an alleyway until he abruptly halts. You barely manage to stop in time, bumping into his sturdy back. Across the street, there she is—Carol, stepping into a little rundown house that still has its fence, a basket cradled in her arms.

"Come on," Daryl whispers, a note of relief softening his voice. Despite the tumult of emotions the sight of her brings, you follow, feeling his warm hand guiding you across the street and past the gate.

As he approaches Carol's door, you hang back, allowing them a moment of privacy. His knock is gentle, hesitant. Carol's voice is firm from behind the door as it swings open, "I told you, I don't need—," her words trailing off into a sharp intake of breath as she sees Daryl.

The moment is charged. Carol's eyes, brimming with tears, lock onto Daryl's in a display of raw vulnerability. "Jesus brought us to the Kingdom, and Morgan... he said you'd gone… and we were out here..." Daryl's voice falters under the weight of their shared history. You watch from the sidelines as Carol, chokes on her words, before pulling Daryl into a tight hug. "Why'd you go?" Daryl murmurs into the embrace.

It's only then that Carol catches sight of you, and as your gazes connect, the color drains from her face. "I… Alie?" she stammers.


Carol's breath catches in her throat, her heart plummeting to her gut as she steps forward, her wide eyes darting between Daryl and the woman step below, seeking validation that the figure before her is indeed Alie.

The transformation is stark: Alie's once long, luscious hair, which Carol had always admired, is now cut short, barely touching her chin. Her face is marred by yellowish fading bruises, as she stares up at Carol with chilling contempt.

Her mouth opens and closes, speechless as tears trail down her cheeks. At that moment, Carol knows; she sees it in the doctor's face that something catastrophic has happened back in Alexandria. Everything she feared, everything that kept her up at night the entire time she's been away—it's all here in Alie's presence so far from home, only sealing the silent verdict.

Once again, Carol tries to form words, but the sharpness in Alie's eyes, the emotionless expression etched across her features, the hard line of her lips only starches the moment. Yet before Carol can utter a single sound, a guttural growl slices through the heavy silence—walkers approaching the fence almost lured by their collective presence at her door. Carol instinctively retreats, her hand motioning toward the open door. "Please, come inside," she implores, her voice a fractured whisper, a gesture that feels hollow.

Alie's gaze shifts to Daryl, and whatever she sees on his face, she lets out a sigh, before taking the two steps past him into the sanctuary of Carol's home.

As the door closes behind them, they stand in the cramped entryway, the small, outdated living room feeling even more constrictive. Alie glances around, the furnishings screaming 'old lady's home.' Carol takes that moment to breathe, holding herself tight, her eyes wet as she steps closer, reaching out tentatively. "Alie..."

Alie's hand is sharp as she swats Carol's before it can make contact. "Don't touch me," Alie bites, her voice a cold blade. "I'm here for Daryl. I have nothing to say to you."

Carol's shoulders shake as her face crumples. "Alie… please," her voice is meek, a soft plea, cracking with emotion, as her mind reels back to the last time she saw the doctor, the conversation they had right before Denise's death. Alie had seemed so happy then, sitting together on the porch with homemade cookies, talking about Daryl and her decision to have a baby. It was then Carol had felt she could leave with peace of mind because Daryl was going to be alright, his future was as bright as the woman sitting beside her. It had made her feel reassured when she left, so happy for him...

Through her blurred vision, Carol turns to Daryl, her voice a mixture of desperation and fear. "Daryl?" She extends her hand to him, reaching for some semblance of understanding. "Daryl, please? Did—did they come? Who, Daryl? W-Who?"

Daryl's eyes briefly meet his wife's before settling on Carol. "They came," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, each word heavy with reluctance. "We fought 'em... and we got 'em all. Made a deal with the rest. Everyone's alright."

Carol shakes her head, silently urging for the truth she knows is being withheld. But she doesn't need to press, because Alie is there to rip the band-aid off. "Why are you lying?" she challenges her husband, her voice cold with contained fury and grief. "You've never been one to lie, Daryl. Don't start now. Tell her."

She turns to Carol, her eyes a storm of accusation. "Tell her how they forced us to our knees, how they killed Abraham first, beat him to death with a bat." Her voice cracks, emotions finally piercing through her tightly held composure. "How they made Maggie watch… as they cracked Glenn's head open all over the ground."

"Alie," Daryl interjects softly as he steps closer.

But she continues, relentless in her truth, "They took Daryl, tortured him. He's only just escaped. We're hiding in the Kingdom now, trying to keep him safe." The room seems to shrink around Carol, waves of guilt and shock washing over her as she covers her mouth in horror, another hand clutching her stomach.

"And I... I had to..." Alie starts but stops, unable to finish her thought, her throat bobbing as she swallows down the full extent of her trauma. Daryl's hand lands on his wife's shoulder as he tries to comfort her, gently pulls her to him, and Carol knows then that there's more pain buried than what's been revealed.

"I'm sorry," Carol weeps, tears flowing freely now, mourning for the friends lost, people she considers family. "I didn't think… anything like that would happen." But how could she explain why she ran, why she tried to run even as far back as Terminus? How Daryl had stopped her then, only for her to get pulled into Beth's ordeal. After that, she stuck around, and for a moment, she thought things were going to be okay when they got to Alexandria, that they would make the place strong and protected.

But the attacks by the Wolves had changed everything for Carol. Forced to kill, not just against enemies, but those who could no longer be saved too—women who reminded her of her old self, people just as desperate to live as her—some of whom she burned alive.

God, it wasn't until she burned those Saviors, after that experience, after Denise's death, that everything caught up with her. That this endless cycle of violence wasn't going to end, and despite being so capable of it, she's grown tired of how much the world has demanded from her. Afraid of what will happen to the people she loves, of losing them, as much as she is afraid of what she would become to prevent it. It's only then that she realizes she hadn't given herself a second to breathe since losing her daughter.

Carol's confession breaks the heavy silence, "I couldn't... I could... I would. I couldn't lose you; I couldn't lose any of you... I would have killed to protect the people I love, and I didn't have it in me anymore… I didn't know if there'll be anything left of me after." Her words are a raw admission, seeking understanding from Alice, someone she had grown to trust and care for beyond her connection with Daryl.

Alie's eyes are red, though she doesn't shed a tear when she pulls back from Daryl, her voice soft yet laden with vulnerability and disappointment, "But we needed you. I was alone and I needed you..." Her voice trails off, and the simplicity of her words offers Carol a glimpse into everything unsaid, the isolation she must have felt.

Alice turns to Daryl, her resolve strengthening despite her emotions, "I don't want to be here anymore," she says, shaking her head, the word 'here' meaning more than just Carol's secluded home. "And I can't just sit around and wait at the Kingdom either. Let's go back to Hilltop, regroup, plan our next steps. Keep our eyes on things."

Daryl responds gently, cradling her face in his hand, and Carol senses he would agree to anything at that moment, desperate to support her in any way he can. "Okay, sweetheart. Whatever ya want." His glance towards Carol carries a silent acknowledgment passing between them – relief, sadness, unspoken apologies. Alice doesn't say anything more as she turns to leave. Daryl's hand lands on Carol's shoulder, giving her a squeeze before he too trails after his wife.

Carol, left alone in the wake of their departure, feels her shoulders drop heavy with everything she's heard. She had gotten her break, moments of solitude, more than she deserves. But now her family needs her, and she has much to make up for. In that instant, Carol is on the move, rushing to the bedroom, her hand sliding under the bed to grab her go-bag that's been ready and waiting.

With the backpack slung over her shoulder, she hurries after them, mourning the brief moment of peace she had found in the quaint house. She catches up to the couple just beyond the gate, wiping away her tears as she steps beside the doctor.

She knows Alie feels betrayed, abandoned when she needed her most. But Carol decides to try again, aiming for a subtle reconciliation because this is more than just about her. As they walk back in the late afternoon sun, Carol reaches out, her fingers gently touching the doctor's. This time, Alie's reaction is different; she doesn't snap or pull away but lets out a soft sigh as her fingers tentatively squeeze back, a silent acknowledgment of their shared pain.


Dragging her feet, Rosita advances toward Hilltop, each step heavy with exhaustion and tinged with the bitter taste of defeat. Her gaze remains downward, her fingers clenched tightly around a letter she was meant to deliver two days prior. Her body aches with every movement, yet this physical weariness pales in comparison to the deep-seated frustration and boiling anger within her. Beneath those roiling emotions, however, lies a chilling emptiness, a relentless cold that seems to gnaw at her core, biting deeper with each passing moment.

For three days, she's been tirelessly searching for guns, from sunrise to sunset, in an effort to make Rick's deal with the Scavenger's work. But every lead has turned up empty— nothing but a toy gun as the fruit of her relentless pursuit. It all just feels hopeless now, as if their fight against the Saviors will never going to happen, and that they're going to get away with what they've done to them.

This resignation has clouded her senses to the point where the creaking of Hilltop's gate snaps her back to reality, surprised, she realizes she has arrived. Her eyes, dulled from fatigue, scan the compound for Jesus, her hand unconsciously scrunching the folded paper. Finally, she spots him, Paul Rovia, engaged in conversation with the Hilltop's blacksmith. He seems to notice her approach and, excusing himself, steps forward with his trademark smile.

"Hey, I didn't expect to see you today," Jesus begins, but Rosita cuts through the pleasantries, thrusting the letter into his hands with an impatience born of desperation.

"Rick needs you to deliver this to the Kingdom. It's for the Dixons," she states sharply, her voice laced with fatigue that is more mental than physical.

Jesus inspects the folded note addressed to 'Alie' in Rick's hurried scrawl, then looks back toward the heart of the community, past the lined-up trailers. Rosita's eyes follow, landing on a scene she hadn't anticipated: Alice, walking alongside Maggie, deeply engrossed in conversation. She is here at Hilltop, not at the Kingdom where she was supposed to be.

But in that moment, another sight catches Rosita's eye. She stares at the doctor, feeling as if she's been struck by lightning, her eyes slowly widening as an idea takes root—a rifle, nonchalantly slung over Alie's shoulder, like an unexpected answer to Rosita's silent prayers. Of course! Of course, why is she looking for a gun when there's one right in front of her?

They're never going to find enough people to fight their war, enough guns to make any deal work. But she doesn't need to. She doesn't have to wait for things to 'possibly' or 'maybe' work in their favor. She will make it happen. This time, when she shoots Negan, she won't miss.


You sit on the front porch of the Barrington house, a table cluttered with books before you. Your brow is furrowed in concentration as you delve into the pages, occasionally glancing up to observe the bustling community of Hilltop, the laughter of children pulling you away from your study. Although the scene mirrors yesterday morning's setting at the outdoor table of the Kingdom, with sunlight bathing your open books, here, there's something comfortingly familiar in watching Maggie's determined demeanor among the farmers as they train under Sasha's guidance, and Enid's cheerfulness as she assists with chores.

Of course, Gregory had given you a disapproving look earlier, his scrutinizing gaze lingering on Jesus and Daryl as they moved the heavy table outside for your reading. But in the end, he kept his mouth shut, only letting out an irritated scoff before retreating into his office, slamming the door—a sign he's losing power within his own community.

Your eyes continue to scan the scenic scene, inevitably landing on Daryl just a stone's throw away. He sits on a cement block, the screeching sound of metal against metal as he sharpens his hunting knife fills the air. Yet, his occasional glances towards you are not lost; pretending to be busy while he watches over you. As you turn back to your books, memories from the last twenty-four hours invade your thoughts.

You know it isn't fair. Carol's presence wouldn't have altered the outcome with the Saviors. She couldn't have saved Jamie or prevented the loss of your child. Perhaps she could have provided a shoulder to cry on, guidance when the world overwhelmed you. But she had her reasons for choosing her path, and after everything you had done, you have no right to judge people's choices.

That's why the moment you step out of her home, you let it go. You could see the shock, devastation, and grief on her face, and you wanted to hurt her, to make her feel the agony of losing loved ones who had been by her side since the beginning. But it brought you no vindictive satisfaction as you expected. Instead, it only compounded your own grief.

So when Carol reaches out again on the walk back to the Kingdom, you accept because there's a part of you that wants her back, not just for you, but for Daryl. She's someone who can reach him in ways that you cannot, offering him the friendship and support he deserves, unmarred by the trauma that sits between you two.

Surprisingly, Carol seems well-received at the Kingdom as she greets the guards with a smile, albeit a feigned one. As you and Daryl turn toward your designated quarters, she confidently strides toward the building housing the king's chamber. You don't see her after that, but Morgan does come to visit that night, ostensibly to check on you, but really it's his way of explaining why he kept her location a secret.

Later, as you, Daryl, and Morgan share dinner, you learn about Carol's friendship with Ezekiel and his apparent fondness for her. It's this information that solidifies your decision to leave her behind the next morning as you and Daryl prepare to depart. Carol's connection with Ezekiel could be the key to swaying him. So, you bet on it.

"We need the Kingdom on this. You've gotta make that happen," you whisper to Carol, as you both stand by the gate watching Jerry hand Daryl a key to an old vehicle with enough gas to get you where you need. "Ezekiel just needs a little push. Convince him, whatever it takes."

"I'll try," she replies, locking eyes with you.

You nod, pulling out a folded note from the breast pocket of Jamie's military jacket. "Give this to him for me, will you," you say, handing her the letter you had written upon learning Ezekiel was unavailable to see you off. You suspect he must have been occupied with issues related to the Saviors, given his absence from the Kingdom this early.

Though you aren't sure if your letter will make a difference, you feel compelled to make one final attempt, hoping that your departure and the loss of everything you had discussed will count for something.

.

Dear Ezekiel,

I had intended to bid you farewell in person, but fate, it seems, had other plans. I was informed you were away, and I suppose a king's job never ends.

Ezekiel, even though I haven't been here long, you know I cannot stay idle or wait for the tides to change. I had held onto the hope that destiny truly did bring us together, that you would stand by my side as we face down the Saviors once and for all.

I'm going back now, to prepare for the battle that lies ahead. But as your Merlin, I feel it's my duty to leave you with one final wisdom: Destiny seldom grants us a second audience. The choices we make are the pen strokes in the epic tale of our lives.

Ezekiel, please, there is still time. There is still time for you to join us, for us to make a difference. From the bottom of my heart, I believe we can make everything we talked about happen—joining the communities, finding the cure, putting the world back together.

But I understand if your choice remains the same. I hope our paths may cross again, or perhaps without you, without the Kingdom, we will lose, and it won't. Regardless, I am grateful for the refuge you provided for me and my husband.

Farewell, King Ezekiel.

Dr. Alice

.

You shake your head, bringing your thoughts back to the present, to the open book before you. However, you can't help but let your gaze drift to a folded paper nestled among your readings, a letter of your own—a letter bearing Rick's familiar handwriting. Despite knowing its contents, you reach for it again, unfold it once more, and reread the news it contains.

.

Alie,

Got some news. Long story— but we came across a group who call themselves the Scavengers. They've got the numbers, so we've struck a sort of deal. They're willing to throw in with us against the Saviors, but they want guns, more than we've had in a long time.

I've got a feeling about this, Alie, a good one. With their help, I think we've got a real shot at tipping the balance back our way. Right now, me and Michonne are out searching for guns, doing what we can to make good on our word. It's a tall order, but I have to hold onto hope we can do it. That every piece of weapon we find gets us one step closer to putting an end to this mess, to making things safer for everyone back home.

I will keep you updated, until then, hang in there.

Rick.

.

You exhale deeply, knowing you must trust Rick's lead, no matter how much your instinct to control every aspect flares — "It's good to see someone finally cracking those books open."

You startle, glancing up to find Jesus standing close, leaning casually against one of the porch's pillars. A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes at your surprise. "Those came with the house, you know," he notes, gesturing towards the assortment of books spread out before you. "Part of the Barrington House's history collection."

"Books are meant to be read, not left to gather dust," you retort, slipping Rick's letter discreetly back into your breast pocket.

"Are you a history buff?" he asks, stepping closer to examine the titles before selecting one. "The American Civil War: A Military History, by John Keegan," he reads aloud, turning to showcase the cover to you.

Apparently, The Barrington House is a history museum because of its significant historical ties to the American Civil War, with Virginia serving as the capital of the Confederate States, and figures like Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and J.E.B. Stuart calling this state home.

"I suppose," you shrug, meeting his bright eyes. "My father used to always say history repeats itself. It can show us what might happen, predict the future, give us clues and lessons."

"And you think we're repeating it?" Jesus asks, curious.

"In some ways, yes," you acknowledge, drawing parallels between historical events and your current situation. "We see recurring themes, like oppression versus freedom, the fight over resources—land, food, supplies, and even human labor—leading to resistance and alliances being formed, all the way down to guerrilla warfare tactics, similar to what we're preparing for now," you elaborate. "The answers could be in these pages if we just learn to look closer."

Jesus hums thoughtfully, opening the book in his hand with renewed interest. You wait for him to continue, but as he remains silent, you return to your reading, though Jesus continues to hover.

The moment drags on, and you're unable to concentrate. "Is there something you need?" you question, raising your eyebrows.

He hesitates, appearing troubled. "I'm not supposed to say… but there's something you should know," he begins, reluctance in his voice, finally revealing the true reason for his approach. "Rosita has your gun and has teamed up with Sasha. They're heading to take Negan out."

"What?" Your body springs into action, instinctively rising to stand.

"Yeah…" Jesus grimaces, watching you swiftly move around the table. "They asked me to draw them a map to get to the Sanctuary, and I couldn't say no."

But you're already in motion. "Maybe next time lead with that!" you yell over your shoulder, leaving him behind.

"Maggie!" you holler, the urgency in your voice cutting through the morning air as you dash toward the trailer where your gun is hidden, safe from prying hands—until now.

"Alie!" Daryl is the first to react, sprinting towards you, knife in hand. "What's goin' on?"

But you spot Maggie among the crops, as she peeks her head out, her expression turning from confusion to alarm. "Come on, hurry!" you scream, and she moves, quickly pulling off her gardening gloves, rushing toward you.

"It's Rosita and Sasha, and they got my gun," you announce, as if that alone explains the urgency of the situation. "She won't listen to reason, especially not from me," you explain to your husband and a puzzled Maggie, who keeps pace with you. Your stride slows as you reach the trailer entrance, your gaze meeting Daryl's. "Wait here, lock the door behind us," you instruct as he attempts to follow. The conflict in his eyes is palpable, his instinct to intervene, but Daryl doesn't fight you on it. You know the situation requires a delicate touch as you push Maggie into the trailer ahead of you, the door locking with a decisive click behind. She is the only one who can de-escalate and be the mediator, and Daryl's presence would only add fuel to Rosita's fire.

Inside, you're met with the sight of Rosita and Sasha, caught red-handed—Sasha, map in hand, seems momentarily frozen as you bust in, while Rosita's stance is all defiance, your rifle clutched in her determined grasp.

Maggie's gaze swiftly assesses the room - from the firearm to the map, then settling on the women. "Rosita, what are you doing?" she asks, then turns to Sasha, "Sasha?"

Sasha lets out a sigh, her resolve visibly wavering, "Maggie…look, I know what this means, I do." The map in her grip loosens as she speaks, "But It's time to end this. Rosita's going, with or without me, and it should be with me."

Rosita's gaze doesn't falter, her words directed solely at Maggie. "We're going to fix this. We're going to kill the son of a bitch."

You step forward, extending a cautious hand. "Rosita, I'm gonna need my gun back," you request calmly, aiming to de-escalate the tension. "You're not—"

"You don't get to tell me shit!" She cuts you off, her voice a mix of anger and challenge. "Want the gun? Try and take it," she taunts, her posture braced for confrontation.

"Rosita?!" Maggie exclaims, her tone reprimanding, only to soften in the same breath. "We all feel the loss... Every single one of us here understands your pain."

Rosita laughs, sharp and hollow, "Yeah right," she scoffs, her scornful glance thrown your way.

You avert your gaze, maintaining composure, not giving her the reaction she wants from you. "I'm not trying to hurt you when I say this," you begin, knowing you've already inflicted enough pain upon her. "But you've had your shot already. You've tried to kill Negan, and it got Olivia killed, Eugene taken."

"Get off your FUCKIN' high horse!" Rosita spits, stepping closer, the small table in the trailer now the only thing between you. "You're one to talk about getting people killed! You got EVERYONE killed! You shot someone who loved…" Her voice breaks, choking on her anger and pain, "you're a murderer."

You remain impassive, unwilling to feel remorse and shame for your actions. You won't. That part of you drowned that day, in that tub. "It was never my intention to get anyone hurt," you say, your voice void of emotion, a stark contrast to the chaos in her eyes. "But now you know how our choices can cost people's lives. How we can't make irrational decisions. Maybe you can kill him; Sasha is an excellent shot. But it's suicide, and it still won't be enough. They'll want revenge. They will come for us, and Alexandria is not ready to protect itself. This could cost us everything."

Maggie, as the mediator, nods beside you. "Rosita, please, we're so close," she implores, her gaze sweeping to include Sasha in her plea. "Things are coming together. You just have to believe a little bit longer."

Rosita's anger pivots, "Believe in what exactly? HER?!" she exclaims, pointing accusingly at you. "After everything, you still haven't learned your lesson? You can't trust the Dixons. Haven't you heard what Merle did? What she did? She got your husband killed, and she'll get your baby killed too... just like—"

"ROSITA!" Maggie's voice is a sharp reprimand that silences the room, Sasha's expression mirroring Maggie's shock and horrified look—a clear sign they've heard about your miscarriage.

Your body instinctively reacts, recoiling inwardly as if physically struck, a blaze of hot anger roiling through you. However, all you manage to do is turn away, giving your back to the room. Taking deep, measured breaths one after another, you fight to regain control over your emotions. You know she's merely trying to provoke you, to hurt you, because you're the cause of her pain.

When you turn back to face the group, your demeanor is a carefully constructed facade of calm, your emotions tightly reined in. "I've been inside the Sanctuary," you say, your voice steady. "I've seen how they operate, their cult like personality around Negan. Haven't you wondered why they all call themselves Negan? Why they kneel? He's no longer just a man to them; he's an idea, a system. Killing him won't end this. Another asshole, likely Simon, will just take up that bat, and we're back at square one."

"You can't know that—" Sasha tries to argue, but her protest is cut short by sharp clangs of a bell echoing beyond the trailer. In an instant, the room's atmosphere shifts from tense confrontation to alert, conversation abruptly sidelined. Maggie rushes to the window, peeling the curtains to peer out, just as Daryl bursts through the door.

"Saviors!" he announces.

You hastily join Maggie at the window, peering out to watch the hecticness of the community. Kal is atop the watchtower, hollering, "Saviors are coming!" as he vigorously rings the bell in his hand, the only indicator that this must be a surprise visit.

"We need to hide," Maggie says, but in that instant, Rosita sees her chance. She bolts, rifle still in hand, pushing past Daryl and out the door.

"Rosita!" you shout, panic edging your voice, but she's already out of sight, driven by her singular mission. "Damn it!"

The moment turns into a chaotic rush as you all burst out of the trailer door, Sasha hot on her heels, the Savior convoy vehicles humming in the backdrop just beyond the safety of the walls.

Without hesitation, you follow, only for Daryl's hand to grab your arm sharply, stalling you. "Alie!"

"Daryl," your focus is split between the fleeing figures and the man before you. "You need to get Maggie to safety; I can handle this." You insist, trying to pull your arms free.

"No, jus' let it go. They know how to handle themselves," Daryl pleads, desperation evident in his eyes as his fingers tighten. "They'll be alright."

"Daryl…"

"I gotta keep you safe!"

"He's right, I'll go after them," Maggie interjects, urgency in her tone. "You stay back, they can't catch you out here," she adds, her eyes darting anxiously towards the slowly opening gate.

"No, it gotta be me," you argue, struggling against Daryl's grip. "I have to do this, Daryl, please. Just get Maggie somewhere safe! I've got this." You might as well rip his heart out because as the cars start to pull into the community, he has no choice but to release you, leaving no time for further argument.

That's all you need to duck down and dart off, following the path Sasha and Rosita took. However, you can't help but glance back at your husband, catching him reluctantly stuck, torn between chasing after you and protecting Maggie. But you're aware Daryl has been avoiding Maggie as much as he can, looking anywhere but her face whenever she's near, a silent battle with his own demons. You suspect he has as much to face as you do in this moment.

As you round behind the trailers, you catch the last glimpse of Sasha disappearing into a concealed tunnel, a makeshift escape route ingeniously disguised within the perimeter to look like a pile of firewood stocked inside a wooden box. Adrenaline fuels your descent, lifting yourself down the tunnel, stumbling after her, the heavy lid closing behind you, enveloping you in darkness. You crawl through the narrow passage to the other side.

"Rosita, please stop!" Your voice is desperate as you emerge into the open, Sasha's steadying hand helping you to your feet.

Rosita lets out a frustrated noise. "Go back or stay down here; I don't give a shit. But I'm going," she states, her voice sharp.

"I'M SORRY!" Your voice cracks, as your own defenses crumble, finally giving in to your true motive for fighting to stop her. There's no chess move you can play, no tactic you can use to sway her now; only honesty, vulnerability, and facing the pain head-on can possibly reach her. "I'm so sorry, truly, for what happened, for what I took from you. You have every right to hate me, despise me, but I can't let you do this."

Her posture, rigid and defensive, barely changes as she turns away, but you continue, tears beginning to blur your vision. "Please, just... don't go," you whisper. You know you'll never earn Jamie's forgiveness, redeem yourself to his memory if you let something happen to her, if you don't at least try. "Ja…um…" you struggle to say his name out loud, heavy on your tongue. "He would want you to live, to be safe, Rosita. He... he would've wanted you to find peace, happiness, to somehow survive this."

"You don't get to just say 'I'm sorry'," she spits back, gaze still averted. "It changes nothing."

"I know it doesn't... I do," you respond, your mind flooded by memories of his affection for her—Jamie loved her, even if he never got the chance to say it. The way his eyes would follow her, the smile that lit up his face just to receive a look from her, even if it's a scowl sometimes. His giddy excitement when talking about her, like she hung the moon... that's what you took from her.

"I know." You step closer, tears freely now flowing down your cheeks. "I'm not asking you to trust me—you can't—not after everything. I'm asking you to trust Abraham, Glenn, Denise... Jamie. They all believed in me, and I know I have no right to, but I'm begging you in honor of their memory, to give me time to make things right. Please." Your gaze flickers to Sasha, silently including her in your plea, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she watches the interaction.

Rosita's grip on the rifle tightens, her tough exterior beginning to fracture under the weight of her emotions. "I can't just wait. I can't," she whispers, tears rolling down her cheeks, her voice a fragile thread, trapped by grief and desperation. "I'm suffocating."

She finally looks at you, only to shake her head, a silent battle waged behind her eyes. "How?" she asks, skepticism and sorrow mingling in her demands. "How do you plan on making this right? Do you know where we can find that many guns today? This week? This year? Your king is not coming. Rick is not finding guns, not enough to make the deal work with the scavengers. We're on our own."

She sighs, and there is a quiet surrender in her tears that contrasts sharply with the fierce resolve that had propelled her this far. "The Saviors have the numbers, they have the guns, and now they have our bullet maker," she says, resignation in her voice. "We're not going to win, and I can't live with that. This is the only option."

But in that moment of her vulnerability, you see it—a flicker of plea for hope. She wants to believe. Desperately. That's all you need to propel you forward. "We will win, I promise you. One way or another, we will," you assert, each word laced with conviction. You know you can't just tell her to wait. You need to give her something to hold on to, hope to cling to. "I didn't want to say until I have it all figured out, but I have a plan," you confess, finally revealing the idea that's been swirling in your head, a strategy born from the pages of history.

"They might have our bullet maker, but I know how to make a bomb. Big enough to take out the Sanctuary building off the fuckin' map." Your revelation hangs in the air, a desperate gamble, a sliver of hope as the girls exchanges a look, tears and all. You seize this moment to reach out, extending slowly toward the gun in her grip. "But we need to find a way where we come out on top. Where we have a fighting chance against the outposts when they retaliate." Your fingers finally close around the gun. "We'll do it together," you promise, "the three of us. We will end it—burn them all to the ground. Just not today."

The tension stretches out, each second heavy with the gravity of impending decisions. "Rosita…come on," Sasha urges softly, her gaze locked with Rosita's, a silent appeal for trust, for unity.

Rosita's grip on the rifle remains firm, but as you gently coax the weapon from her, she doesn't resist. However, her shoulders tremble as she finally allows the emotion to catch up to her. She slowly sinks to the ground, her hands muffling the sound of her tears, a desperate attempt to remain unnoticed by the Saviors causing ruckus just beyond the fence. Sasha joins her, sitting close but not intruding on her space, offering silent support.

Wiping your tears, you too, find a spot on the cold ground positioned across from them, hidden between the bushes.

And for a while, it's just that. With Rosita's tears slowly subsiding, with you taking cautious glances through the narrow gaps in the fence, watching for any sign of Savior activity.

Suddenly, a commotion from the trailers jolts you, and your heart skips a beat, Daryl's name stuck on your lips like a frantic prayer. You scramble to your feet, tense and panicked, your hand tightening on the gun, as you press your face against the fence for a better view, bracing for what you might find.

However, Instead of Daryl, it's Dr. Carson you see, being roughly escorted out of his medical bay. Your brow pinches deeper when you catch Gregory and Simon emerging from behind the medical trailer. Gregory is talking fast, making dramatic hand gestures to a nonchalant Simon, like he's trying to convince him of something.

You recognize the precarious position Gregory is in, caught between his lust to maintain his power and the rising influence of Maggie and the resistance. You also know the lengths to which Gregory's cowardice might push him to secure his status. Yet, despite the scene before you, a part of you clings to the hope that your previous threat, pitting you against him when it comes to Negan, might still hold some influence over him as you observe their interaction.

Relief washes over you as Simon concludes the exchange with a too-familiar, eerily jovial smile. He claps Gregory on the back dismissively before heading to his vehicles. It appears Dr. Carson is the only reason they came because just as quickly as they've arrived, the roar of the trucks fills Hilltop as they ease out of the community.

That's your cue to crawl back up the hole you exited through, this time with the rifle in hand, Rosita and Sasha in tow. You don't have to search for your husband; he's already making his way out of the underground cellar, Maggie close behind.

Without hesitation, you rush to him, pulling him into a tight hug. "I'm okay. We're okay," you murmur in the crook of his neck as his arms wrap around you. This was a close call; the situation could have ended disastrously if the Saviors had discovered either of you.

As you step back from the embrace, your gaze lands on Gregory, who stands a short distance away on the dirt path. His anxiety is barely concealed, his eyes locked on the now silent gate, fidgeting with a sense of defeat. There's a pause, and he turns your way as if he feels the collective Alexandrian's gaze.

He immediately attempts to compose himself, straightening his suit, seeking to maintain some shred of authority. As he turns to retreat, presumably his office, you offer him a nod, an acknowledgment laced with unspoken warnings and tentative truces.

Lucky for Hilltop, they're not completely without a doctor, at least for the time being, as long as you're there.