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He was going to die. Hershel had accepted that, even as he sat in the little motor home talking to the dark, damaged, angry man they called the Governor, trying his best to talk him out of the vengeance he had no right to in the first place. There was no escaping this. His words fell on deaf ears. All Hershel really wanted was to save the prison. To stop the attack on his daughters, his son, his people. So he talked.

"I don't want to hurt you," the Governor said. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I need the prison, that's all. There are people I need to keep alive."

Hershel grieved at the words. If only they could all have worked together from the start, then everyone from the prison and Woodbury might still be alive. Did no one understand that what remained of the old world was just that, human life, and that every one was precious? And yet they fought each other to keep what they had, afraid that it would be taken from them.

"No one needs to die," the Governor finished.

"I'm going to kill you," Michonne told him. "I'm going to take my—"

"Stop it." There was no point in antagonizing the man. "Your people, our people—we can find a way to live together."

He tried. He wanted to convince this man in front of him, to calm him, to prove that things could be different, but there was too much bad blood. With Rick, with Michonne, in the Governor's heart.

One last time, he attempted to appeal to the man's humanity. "If you understand what it's like to have a daughter, then how can you threaten to kill someone else's?"

The Governor's single eye bored into him. "Because they aren't mine."

And Hershel knew he had lost. His life, for certain, and probably Maggie's and Beth's and Glenn's and Judith's and Carl's and … The litany went on in his mind, face after beloved face. He closed his eyes, realizing how tired he really was.

The Governor brought him back to the prison, outside the fence, where he could see his girls standing there, looking at him, see their fear. He wanted to give them strength.

Hershel was pushed to his knees, Michonne beside him. His mind raced, trying to find a way out, a way to stop the attack he knew was coming, to save his children, but he was so tired. Once upon a time, as a young man, he might have tried something, but now … he could almost hear his remaining minutes ticking away.

He knelt there as Rick approached, as the Governor told him everyone in the prison had to be out by sundown or Hershel and Michonne would be killed. He spoke like a reasonable man, like he had some right to what he was demanding.

Part of Hershel wanted to turn and fight, to argue these people into understanding that they all would live longer if they worked together. But the people from Woodbury, they had bought into that, and then so many of them had died of the flu. And before that, they had been led and drawn astray by this very same man.

Hershel was weary. Weary of men who wanted nothing but destruction, weary of fighting in a world where there seemed no end to it.

Rick was weary, too. Hershel could see it in him. He nodded faintly, wanting Rick to understand that it was all right. They could flee, leave the Governor to this place that would never be the same again anyway, and find safety somewhere else.

He only wished he believed it.

"We can all live together," Rick protested, the words coming hard. "There's enough room for all of us."

"More than enough. But I don't think my family would sleep well knowing that you were under the same roof." The Governor's voice was even, pleasant. Anyone would think he was at a garden party, not standing on top of a tank threatening to end the lives of innocent people.

"We'd live in different cell blocks. We'd never have to see each other … till we're all ready."

Hershel made the effort. He turned his head toward the Governor and added his voice to Rick's. "It could work. You know it could."

"It could've," the Governor agreed. "But it can't. Not after Woodbury. Not after Andrea."

"Look, I'm not saying it's going to be easy. Fact, it's going to be a hell of a lot harder than standing here shooting at each other. But I don't think we have a choice."

"We don't. You do."

Rick made the call, his words definite. "We're not leaving. You try and force us, we'll fight back." He tried to argue that shooting each other would only bring walkers to the prison, walkers who would overwhelm the fences and destroy any security they might have gained. "Now. We can all live in the prison or none of us can."

It was a good gamble. If the Governor had been a reasonable man. Which he wasn't. "We'll fix the damn fences," he muttered.

Hershel felt the blade—Michonne's blade—at his neck, and he knew. This was the end.

Rick tried. He pointed at the others, the people with the Governor who were standing there watching this, his voice desperate as he tried to remind them of their humanity.

Doomed as the attempt was, the Rick he had met long ago wouldn't have tried it. He wouldn't have had the strength of his convictions in his voice. Hershel was proud of him, even as he felt the blade leave his neck, as he awaited the strike.

Across the field, Hershel looked at his daughters, weeping at the fence, forced to watch this happen. They were strong, brave women. He wished there was time to say good-bye, to tell them … everything. He loved them. He hoped they knew how much. He hoped in the life that was left to them, they had time to become mothers, to understand what it was like to raise and love children. He hoped Beth found a man like Glenn, who would love her and respect her and stand by her side.

But mostly, he hoped they lived to see tomorrow.