Author notes: This fic was originally posted eight (gasp) years ago which is wild to me. Life has been busy but I have kept up with all the drama in TWDU and with the CARYL fandom. I decided, on a whim that I should revisit, maybe revise and refine this fic a little. So I will be updating chapter by chapter leading up to Christmas. There is a sequel to this story in the works. When I first wrote this little fic (that I also enjoy reading at least once a year during the holidays) I was deep in my somber Christmas feelings. Originally this fic was titled "In the Bleak Midwinter." It has been updated to reflect the new title which is "Let All Acquaintance Be Forgot." There is a corresponding Spotify playlist with the same title as the fic if you're so inclined to follow along with the vibe of each chapter musically.
With that, I will leave you to enjoy chapter one again. I do not own these characters or TWD.
Chapter 1: Sister Winter
A fine white dusting of snow had settled festively over the few blades of green grass edging the road. Carol Peletier stood on that edge, holding her scarf firmly against her chapped lips to cut the bite of the cold from stinging her face. She lingered, looking left and right out of sheer habit; a quiet giggle tumbled from her lips at her nonsense. A silly holdover from the "before" times.
She had found her way north and west months after her departure from the Kingdom. Carol had realized that she was too broken to stay in Virginia. Morgan and King Ezekial had offered her so much more, but right as the doctor declared her fit to work in the community, the itch to run returned, as had the ache in heart for Daryl. So, she decided it was best to remove herself from the equation by insisting she live alone in the house away from the settlement. It was Daryl's visit, however, that pushed her past the point of no return. She watched him disappear into the night, knowing, in her gut, this was their last time together. She couldn't bear to see him hurt or, worse, see him dead on her account. And so, she found herself quickly packing her few essentials and made her escape. She headed west.
At first, she had been weary but always on high alert to threats of any part of her past following her. Mountain roads in June gave way to rolling hills in August and September until finally, she met the flat farmland of the Midwest. The desolate planes saw fit to greet her in late October with the first few flakes of winter. Even with the trees laid bare, plenty of dangers remained hidden: people, feral animals, and the dead. An unfortunate run-in with some less-than-noble survivors in the woods of Tennessee had taught her that lesson. Since then, she'd relished the emptiness of the land, roads overgrown with dry brush and debris, but with the turn towards winter, nothing could remain hidden. The dead remained of little concern as the cold weather overtook them, freezing them in place against the harsh winter winds and snow. She remained self-assured that she was totally and utterly alone. If she were to stumble across any such corpse now, it lay frozen in time with only its milky, unfocused gaze, staring back at her. The dead were still a threat, but nothing was more antagonizing to her than the ghosts that followed her in the whispers of the freezing winds. The worst of her guilt and horror was felt at night. Her sleep was often fitful, full of nightmares about the ones she'd left behind or murdered. Faces decayed and mocking as they disintegrated before her eyes. Most mornings, she woke during the blue hour, shivering, covered in sweat, breathing heavily, and trying to convince herself she had made the right decision. Her bones ached with regret, dread, and disappointment that the world had not yet taken her to her grave; some God in this universe who saw fit to punish her by forcing her to live amongst everything dead. Through the darkness of those oppressive thoughts, she found some solace in her exile. It was both a punishment and a blessing. Something far better than being witness to the death of everyone she'd loved, especially "Him."
A bead of sweat ran down her spine, causing a shiver just as the last of the wind kicked up around her, wandering slowly down the side of the road. With each step, she took caution, avoiding debris and downed limbs and keeping an eye out for patches of ice. She turned her body away from the gust and took in the thick row of evergreens lining the road up ahead where crooked mailbox peaked out just so from the foliage. On a long exhale, she dropped the scarf protecting her face and wiped the sheen of sweat that had been building on her brow for the last hour of walking. The mailbox, a familiar sight in this area of homesteads and farms, was straight, the first sign of what may be an undisturbed structure in the area.
It had been two days since Carol had passed the sign touting 'Nebraska, The Good Life.' She'd just laughed at the irony of its peeling green paint, weathered by countless storms since the end. She'd never had reason to be this far west of the Mississippi. Growing up, her family had little money to lend to fancy vacations and cross-country travels, and then there was Ed, may he continue to rot in hell, who had hated family travel of any sort. Always set on keeping her and Sophia close, isolated with enough of an illusion for luxury, like when he'd surprised her with a ten-year-old Maytag washing machine. She raised her eyebrows at the thought of the old thing and laughed out loud. What a strange, hazy fantasy those early days of the end of days had been for her and the group. Imagining that somehow they'd camp at the quarry and go home when it was all 'over.' She giggled again and adjusted her scarf away from her neck to let out some heat. She'd traveled more in this stage of her life than she'd ever imagined she would. Occasionally, on this journey, when she was given a reprieve from her nightmares, in their place came lucid visions of Sophia and Daryl. Dreams of a future, a temptation to keep her moving forward. She pondered that with every step toward the mailbox, the dark weight of it all slowly lifted from her shoulders.
She looked up to the sky as the sun beamed from its high position in the afternoon, clearing away the remaining clouds of morning. She recognized this as a common weather pattern out here on the plains. Morning clouds, flurries or ice, or even heavy snowfall often gave way to clear skies by afternoon where, even in the cold, the heat seemed to build under her many layers. Like clockwork, she dispatched her gloves and shoved them into her coat pockets to relieve the pent-up heat pooling in her palms. She adjusted her pack and unzipped her coat to alleviate feelings of being over-warm.
She inhaled deeply and watched her breath become a whispering ghost in the breeze. A slight shiver ran down her spine again, not from the cold but from a flash of memory. "What do you want?" she remembers asking him by that fire. "I want a man of honor." He had just stared back at her, unsure, longing, and immature to the idea that she had faith he could change. Neither Carol nor Daryl had counted on the level at which that change in both of them could affect their friendship. At first, it had made sense that there would be indifference from him. She didn't dare believe she was much of a prize to look at next to his braun. She was a doubty figure with short graying hair. Just a pesky emotional widow. She had nothing in the way of Lori of Andrea's looks, but occasionally and curiously she caught him staring. She noticed his casual glances and nods. The subtle flush of his cheeks when she'd ribbed him with a flirtatious joke here and there at the prison as she blossomed into a woman she finally recognized and admired. She was more, and he'd helped her see that.
During those precious yet difficult days, her heart had been fooled into thinking he was ready when he wasn't. And then, just as it looked like he might be ready in those tenuous hours during their trip to Atlanta? It turned out her head, unlike her heart, couldn't bear to burden him with her suffering. An impasse, followed by heartbreak and confusion. Feelings had become muddled, much left unspoken between them, but she tried to meet him in the moment, offer him some comfort, and give him permission to grieve it all. Alexandria had thrown a substantial kink in everything, forcing them to go their separate ways.
Now, after abandoning it all, she feared there was no chance she could ever tell him. If she had let him in when he asked and let her in when she had asked, this all might have ended differently for the two of them. She wasn't dumb enough to imagine a happy ever after at the end of the world, but maybe a quiet life where they'd hunt and survive together, companions in comfort. Friend's if he was unable to give her anything else. Sometimes, if she squinted into the distance hard enough in the early hours between dreaming and waking, she could still see glimpses of that future with him. Hindsight was twenty-twenty.
During Carol's first days alone on the road, she'd ached irrationally for him. Setting herself up for emotionally warring between the hope that he would follow her and wanting to die if he didn't. But, like all the times before, the longer she walked, the harder she fought, allowing something in her to burn away. She had rebuilt herself, accepted her new reality, acknowledging that even though he hadn't followed, her gut still told her he was proud of how hard she was trying. She smirked at the image in her mind of him, long, scraggly locks because his hair hadn't been cut, fingerless gloves clutched around the strap of his bow, smiling, wearing that ratty vest that needed darning on the wings as he walked toward their family back in Alexandria. It brought her heart a glimmer of peace. On these days, when she'd accepted that he hadn't followed her, she wished only that he was happy. She'd hoped leaving could bring him peace.
Early on, Carol had hoped he would come after her, find her in some abandoned shack or house, and bring her back. She daydreamed that maybe he would confess his undying love with a few awkward words, an affectionate touch, or even a hug. Carol shook her head at the naivety. Wistful daydreaming, no different than when she had thought Sophia to be alive so long ago. She had pondered these things daily and had scolded herself for such things. Inwardly scolding herself while continuing along the road's edge toward the mailbox. She'd seen signs a few miles back of farmhouses, some field access roads, and a toppled mailbox here and there. Few structures remained unscathed from the dead herds roaming without preamble through the empty fields.
This particular mailbox is the first she's seen, crooked but still standing upright. She rubbed her hands together vigorously to ward off more chill and marched onward, determined this would be her place to rest for the night. When she reached the mailbox, she opened it in curiosity and rolled her eyes when it turned up nothing but ice. "Figures," she mumbled to herself. She turned and looked up the long driveway, hugged slightly, hidden by the thick underbrush and surrounding evergreens. She stood in the middle of the drive and took a moment to take in the sight of it. The snow-laden path was undisturbed. For the first time in three weeks, she may have the chance to devour a can of beans, sleep under a warm blanket, and, if fortunate, a wood stove to warm herself with.
With nothing to lose, she made her way up the drive. As she neared the end of it, a small, humble, pale blue house with navy blue shutters stood before her. On closer inspection, she found it built into the side of a hill, not just a house but a small cozy cottage, hidden back far enough from the road she could imagine staying a night or two or maybe forever if luck prevailed. To the south, hidden behind the main structure, was a barn much like the one on Hershel's property, and positioned just off the west side of the cottage, there looked to be a water pump. Carol sped up her pace to reach the pump and prayed it was far enough underground that the water wasn't frozen or dried up or drained by some other guest in the past.
On a deep breath, bracing herself for disappointment, Carol pulled the handle. It was stuck. Securing both hands around the handle a second time, she pushed downward, leveraging her body weight. Suddenly, the piston rod gave way. When she brought the handle back up, she frowned. Nothing. She repeated the motion, pumping again and again until, finally, she heard the telltale gurgle of water being suctioned up the pipe. She yelped with joy as the water released from the spout with each additional pump. Steeling her excitement, she quickly got to work, scrounging the property for supplies and hoping to God the dead hadn't heard her squeal of delight.
The barn was sparse but held a few treasures of scrap metal she figured she could put to use, along with a few buckets to be set aside of water and a latrine. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked up to the old rafters and spotted a ladder and loft. Her curiosity got the best of her, and she decided she could spare a few minutes to climb up and look. The ladder's first rung splintered, "you'd think I'd gained weight," she laughed and continued up each rung carefully. Arriving at the top, she peered over the ledge, taking in the sight of storage containers labeled plainly: summer, winter, garden... and one labeled Christmas. Now, there was a holiday she hadn't had much time to think about for a long time since the turn. It was too impractical now. Carol felt an odd sensation in her chest, a pang of regret, a longing for what was and what could've been had she stayed at the Kingdom and worked out something with Daryl rather than sending him away. But it was better this way. Lowering herself back to the ground, Carol brushed off her jacket and pants and headed toward the house, buckets and scrap material in tow.
Upon inspection, the door and windows were all intact. And at that moment, it reminded Carol of when she and Tyrese found the grove. The small refuge seemed virtually untouched. She made quick work of breaking the glass on the door, wincing at the sound of it clattering loudly to the floor inside. Every action from this point forward could lead to her death if she wasn't careful. She paused, waiting for the telltale sounds of the dead or the living. When she heard nothing, she took it as her sign to enter.
She stopped for a moment in the entryway and rolled back her shoulders. It was rare to experience feelings of hope these days, rare to feel peace or safety. She felt at least two of those with the promise that, eventually, peace would follow after she'd settled in. Turning her head to the right, she took note of the different doorways leading to other areas of the house. The air hung around her, musty from disuse. She stepped further inside and closed the door behind her. She leaned, peering into the hallway, making a mental note that at least four more rooms needed to be checked. On a deep exhale, she settled herself against the wall and slid down to the carpet. Five minutes later, she had cleared every room, nook, and cranny, and with relief, wept quietly at just how lucky she had gotten with this find. Her spoils inside the cottage were ten cans of mixed fruit, kidney beans, and assorted veggies. Plenty of dry wood was stocked in the shed outside, so she took a moment to throw another log into the cast iron stove and waited for the heat to radiate into the corners of the room. The kettle that she filled at the pump was now squealing from atop the stove. Pleased, she set it aside to cool before drinking greedily. She imagined that he would be proud of her for making it this far.
Hours later, she had cuddled up into the couch with five different blankets piled around her. Months of on-the-road stress had been creeping up on her in the shape of exhaustion. Her body made her aware any time it expressed a yawn. Laying on her side and bundled in blankets, she stared at the glow of the fire across the room and then turned her gaze longingly to the empty chair by the bay window. She smiled softly at Sophia, all soft strawberry blond hair and quiet blue eyes, curled up with a book in the chair. Across the room in the kitchen, she heard the sound of another chair creaking under the weight of t. Daryl sat hunched over the table, whittling away at what would become a homemade bolt. Sophia glanced up at her, "You can sleep now, mama. It's safe." She squeezed her eyes shut as a tear escaped and slid down her cheek.
A good dream, painful nonetheless.
She swiped a hand across her face, glancing one last time at the empty kitchen and window chair, sagging into the ache of their absence. She turned her eyes to the window and drifted to sleep on the sounds of the wind carrying the snow across the plains.