Author's Note: This is a difficult chapter to summarize. There's a lot happening between the two of them, and without giving anything away, Daryl is working through some extremely tough stuff from his childhood. That may sound like it's out of place for the story, but in the scheme of things, I feel it makes sense. Carol comes up with a clever scheme because it's what she does best under extreme pressure.

I don't own these characters or TWD.

The vibes for this chapter were inspired by the song "8(circle)" by Bon Iver. Some references to the Inferno in this chapter, including the title.

Chapter 20: The Eighth Circle

"Sophia!" he called from the bottom of the steps. Carol appeared at the top suddenly, smiling down at him as she descended the stairs. A full laundry basket in her arms. Daryl's heart swelled at the sight of her, and then he frowned as he watched her balance the heavy load of clothes. He met her halfway, reaching for the basket."Why ain't Sophia carryin' that for ya- SOPHIA!" he yelled up again.

"Coming," her sweet voice drifted from her upstairs room.

Carol flinched at the volume of his voice. "Sorry," he spoke softly, bringing his right hand up to cradle her cheek and smiled lovingly, "Lemme carry that for ya," as his left tried to take hold of the basket.

She pulled it from his reach and sighed, "It's fine-I got it." She gave him a peck on the cheek and pushed gently against his chest while passing him to the bottom of the stairs.

"Shouldn't be haulin' round that shit by ya'self," he growled, flailing his hands in defeat.

"Don't piss me off," she called in warning over her shoulder and waddled with the basket toward the laundry room.

"Too damn stubborn-" He muttered before calling after her, "Doc said-"

"I'm ready. Sorry," Sophia's apologetic words broke Daryl out of his scolding as she rounded the top of the landing, her coat open and her hat on. She bounded down the stairs toward him. "I was finishing up my reading for school, and then I couldn't find my warm socks, and then I remembered I needed my gloves and-"

"S'fine, worried bout ya mama. Why didn't you help her with the laundry?" he grumbled as she stopped beside him on the steps.

"Why didn't you help her with it?" she asked flippantly.

He sighed, "Smartass, know where ya get that from."

Sophia gave him a wry smile, "I get it from both of you."

"Ha," he ruffled the hat on her head and turned to descend the stairs.

"HEY!" she yelled, following him. She shoved the hat back over her head.

"Maybe you should hang back with yer mama today. Keep an eye on things here," he reasoned.

"But you promised me you'd let me practice with my bow," he heard the scowl clear as day in her voice as she followed him to the kitchen, "Mama, Daryl said-"

"I ain't said ya can't go," he huffed as the familiar sound of the top loading washer closed with a metal clunk.

"Why can't she go?" Carol asked, rounding the corner of the laundry room and standing with her arms crossed, leaning against the door frame.

He shook his head, grabbed his coat from the back of the kitchen chair, and started pulling it on. "I ain't said she couldn't come with today; I just thought-" Daryl, lost for words, stood there staring back and forth between a scowling and confused Carol and a near tears fourteen-year-old. "Soph?"

"It's fine; I'll stay if you want," her shoulders sagged, and she whipped off her satchel, letting it plop in a heap on the kitchen floor. "Forget it," she said, all exasperation and anger as she rolled her eyes in Daryl's direction. "I'll just go back to my room," she marched past him and stomped her way back up the stairs.

"Soph!" he called after her, but to no avail. Both he and Carol flinched at the sound of her bedroom door slamming.

"Why does she need to stay?" A feeling of guilt flooded his chest at Carol's question.

He stammered, "I just..." he glanced down at the full belly beneath her crossed arms and back up at her glowing face adorned with an irritated expression. "She don't. I was just..." his shoulders slumped forward in defeat under her annoyed glare.

Carol sighed, "I'm fine here alone for a few hours."

"Didn't say you wouldn't be."

"You've been hovering all week," she hissed, her hand going instantly to a spot on the underside of her bump.

He took two steps forward, his hand joining hers anxiously, "Yeah, well, your five days passed ya due date. Kinda feel like shit if ya was here all alone and ya went into labor." She fell into his embrace then, his arms slipping around her to knead at the tense group of muscles at her hips. She groaned softly, letting out small puffs of breath as she rested her head against his shoulder. "Feel good?" he asked, a smirk of pleasure blooming on his face as he felt her nod.

"Gotta get this kid outta me," she whined. He brought his hand up to the back of Carol's head, sinking further into their embrace. He closed his eyes to savor the feel of her in his arms. "You promised to show her how to use her new bow," her voice floated over him affectionately. "Should keep that promise. Means the world to her that you wanna teach her about all of it."

"Mmm." he hummed, feeling her hand wrap around him and rub up and down his back. He blindly kissed her cheek and then opened his eyes as he felt her shift around, her back to his chest.

"Think she's kind of worried," she tugged on his hands, pulling them forward and under her bump. He peppered her nape with gentle kisses, lifting her belly to relieve the pressure on her lower back. "Fuck," she sighed in relief.

He chuckled, "That's how we got here."

She swatted her hand against his side, a laugh rumbling through her chest, "Really funny guy. Your daughter is worried that once you have your boy, you won't care about doing anything with her. You need to take her."

He scoffed, "Ya know, I don't give a shit about that. Don't even know if it's a boy."

"Have you told her that?" she asked.

He hadn't. He kissed Carol's neck again, continuing to hold the bump's weight for her, "I'll talk to her today. As for you: Doc said to lay low- take it easy."

"Doc also said to do whatever I can to induce this." She stepped away from him, and his hands dropped to his sides. "A little laundry, walking around, doing chores won't hurt. I'll call ya on the walkie if I need you," she pecked him on the lips and patted his chest. Carol's head turned toward the stairs at the sound of a loud creaking. She smiled at Daryl, "Think she's been listening in."

Daryl leaned in and pecked her on the lips, "Little snoop."

"You're her hero. She'd quit school and spend every day with you if she could," Carol laughed softly.

Daryl felt his cheek flush with warmth at the sentiment, "You sure you'll be okay with us going out?" he questioned. She nodded.

He smiled and leaned in to give her a proper kiss goodbye, "Won't be long; be back by dinner." Carol stepped away from him at the sound of the wash cycle ending and disappeared into the laundry room.

"Soph," He called down the hallway, listening to the telltale sound of Sophia's rustling coat and the soft falls of her feet against the steps, "Grab ya bag, go wait in the truck."

She appeared in the doorway, eyes hopeful, "Did you grab my bow?"

He nodded. "Should be in the back; grab ya some snacks for your pack for ya forget."

It was after dark and well after dinner by the time they returned to the house. It was much later than he had promised, but Daryl knew Carol would forgive him. Sophia hadn't complained. Daryl and Sophia enjoyed their time together, joking around and having serious discussions about the upcoming changes in their family. Carol was right; Sophia was worried. But Daryl put that to bed with the girl, and she'd beamed at him in delight. He started their trip on a neighboring farm where he'd set up a deer stand. He helped her get used to the weight of the bow in her arms, showed her how to properly find her sight, and set up a few small targets for practice. About two hours into the afternoon, as they walked back to the truck, they'd gotten distracted by the track of some deer. Daryl had decided it was a good opportunity to combine her lessons on bow hunting with tracking.

So it was dark, and sometime after supper when Daryl and Sophia arrived back at the homestead. He frowned as he put the truck into park. The lights were off.

"Daryl?" Sophia questioned, fear evident in her voice.

His hackles raised. He reached for his gun under the seat, "You stay here," he said quietly as he hopped out of the truck.

Sophia sat stock still, her eyes wild with anxiety, "You think it's him?"

His heart was racing wildly at the mention of 'Him." It could very well be. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. "Just stay here," he spoke somberly, closing the driver-side door with a quiet click. He turned, gun ready, and made his way to the back side of the house. Ever so slowly, he turned the knob of the side door to the garage, bracing himself for it to creek open. Thankfully, it refrained from making such noise. He entered quietly, knowing the next hurdle would be the suction breaking once the door to the kitchen was open.

THUNK.

He flinched at the loud sound coming from behind the door to the kitchen. Ed had been in prison for years, but they'd recently found out he'd made parole. And even with the seventeen hours of drive distance between them and Georgia, the fear of him tracking them down lingered in Daryl's mind.

Slowly but surely he turned the knob on the door; the suction of the seal hissed upon releasing as Daryl pushed it open. With no light on in the house, he could only make out amorphous shapes in different places. The kitchen table, still in the center of the kitchen, the fridge, the stove, the entry to the living room. Something lay on the floor just ahead, writhing and grunting. His heart felt close to bursting, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. Carol. His feet were leaden, anchoring him to this spot, not letting him enter further. A light turned on suddenly, his eyes squinting as he adjusted to the brightness, and his heart squeezed in despair.

There, on the floor, snorting and grunting in agony, was a doe. Its belly was cut open, blood and viscera smeared everywhere on the floor. A guttural scream tore from Daryl's lips, "CAROL!" He choked on a breath, yelling her name once more before falling to his knees into the pool of blood.

He jerked awake, a feeling similar to falling in a dream, but this time, he was upright, sitting in bed and breathing heavily. His body was in a cold sweat, his hands shaking, and his heart racing violently as the images from the end of the dream flashed in front of his eyes. He took in a deep breath, one hand settling over his heart in the hopes of settling his sudden anxiety.

A dead dear.

He flopped back onto his pillow as the images continued to haunt him. He felt Carol rustle awake beside him, her hands reaching over the blankets to grasp his hand. "Daryl?" she cooed.

He gripped her hand tightly in reply, and she winced. A dream turned nightmare. "It wasn't real," he breathed heavily, squeezing her hand more gently this time.

He felt the bed shift and heard her turn the bedside lamp on. A soft glow filled the corner of the room as she moved once more, suddenly floating above him in the bed. "Daryl?"

He huffed, noticing for the first time that a tear slid from the corner of his eye down the side of his face. His hand found its way to the side of her face as he looked into her eyes. He was rattled to no end from the vision of the stag, gutted and bleeding everywhere on the floor of the house. "I'm sorry."

"You had a nightmare," she bit her bottom lip. Daryl gave a slight nod in reply. "You need to talk about it?" she asked softly, her voice full of sleep. He shook his head no, even as the feelings of unease lingered. She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Should go back ta sleep." He said in a hushed tone. She kissed his lips, leaned back over to her bedside table, and turned the lamp off before settling in closely at his side. His arms wrapped around her as she settled into his chest, her breathing even as he began to catch up. He ran a hand down the side of her body, fully clothed. He glanced toward the right side of the door where they'd left their boots, ready at a moment's notice if they should need to flee.

He sighed and rubbed his face. The book, appropriately titled The Inner Child Workbook: What to Do With Your Past When It Just Won't Go Away, said disturbed sleep and nightmares could be a side effect of trying to heal trauma. Still, tonight had been one of the most vivid since his illness. Even those dreams hadn't taunted him so violently with what he couldn't have mixed with his greatest fear. He knew it wasn't a coincidence that he was working through one of the most challenging parts of the workbook. The workbook he'd found back in Atlanta had been left behind in some drawer back in Alexandria. He had never really had the chance to crack it open while they were there. And to be honest, he was too chicken shit to face it all after they'd lost so much. But he had been thinking about it since their coupling. When he'd found the first one at the shelter in Atlanta, he'd been highly motivated by the idea of showing her he could evolve. He had been equally embarrassed when she'd seen it in his bag. He wanted to be better. He wanted to change into a man she could respect. Beth dying and Carol closing herself off to him had upended his desire to work on himself. So, when he stumbled upon a similar but different workbook at the Milford library, he'd hidden it under the other books he'd gathered. Carol was right that day; Daryl was struggling with co-dependence and separation anxiety, and the workbook had been his sign to try again. For the last few weeks, Daryl had been sneaking off in the mornings, not just to check the snares but to sit at the picnic table and find out if he could heal himself a little.

Midway through a tough portion of the book, it was very harshly pointed out that the primal desire he was feeling to 'pro-create' with Carol was a response to the intense pain of growing up in a dysfunctional family. His brain, in trying to repair, was short-circuiting in the belief that if he had a child, he could fix the hurt inside of himself by creating his own 'functional' family. The workbook's frankness had thrown him for a loop at first. It was just a book, after all; it couldn't possibly tell him how to live his life and what decisions he and Carol make about their future. Daryl scoffed at the know-it-all phrasing that told him that if he chose to have a child out of this desire, he would follow the same dysfunctional patterns he'd grown up with. Insulted at the mere idea, Daryl closed the book for a few days and spent the time with thoughts of it all ping-ponging aggressively in his mind. It was why he'd been relatively touchy when she'd gotten her period. Something tugged in his chest when she'd told him. And that is when he realized he should pick up the workbook again.

That didn't mean his dreams stopped trying to persuade him that things could be different and that they could be happy in a family sense. He finally had the clarity to see it as just a fantasy, a situation built by his brain to assist in healing that family wound without putting them both on a path to ruin. Knowing that Carol was more averse to it made it even easier for him to let go of the idea. So, when she'd melted down in the shower over her period, he'd been ready to comfort her and say honestly and without a hint of doubt that he didn't need anything but her. Had his heart still felt a pang of longing? Yes, but his brain understood logically that it would never be fair or justified to bring a child into a world filled with so much death based on the twisted desires born out of his trauma. Nor was it fair to force Carol to walk on eggshells about it with him. Slowly but surely, he was unlearning and repairing the long years of damage done to his inner child. He was committed to course correcting so that they didn't need to be stuck in survival mode or caught in the push and pull of trauma response for the rest of their lives together.

There was only one part of the dream that left him unsettled, and that was the remaining image of the deer, belly open, snorting and grunting in agony on the kitchen floor. His heart clenched as the next thought drifted to the forefront of his mind. An omen of something to come. If his brain was powerful enough to conjure up the fantasy of a family, it was powerful enough to give him a prophetic warning. The deer was Carol. He swallowed thickly as a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Daryl wouldn't stand for anything to happen to Carol. He'd rather die. He sighed deeply, sending up a silent prayer to the mystery of the universe, silently promising to protect her at all costs. Daryl turned onto his side and adjusted her in his arms. Carol's hand slithered across his waist, her arm hanging heavy but loose against his back. She hummed in contentment as he placed a quiet kiss over her brow. Daryl closed his eyes, returning to a fitful sleep.

The following morning, Carol woke to an empty bed. She frowned, rolled out of her covers, and slowly eased back the curtain to peer outside. The sky was gray, and snow clouds had moved in overnight, giving everything a dull pallor in the light of day, with a few flurries visibly floating in the wind. She felt and heard the house shifting with the suction of the door between the garage and the kitchen. Shoving her feet into her boots with haste, she opened the bedroom door and bounded down the stairs in search of Daryl. As soon as she entered the kitchen, she found him. Items from the pantry were strewn across the table while he strategically packed them inside a container.

"Just getting started on packin' up some essentials," he explained without making eye contact with her. The space between them felt heavy and uncertain.

"Okay... I'll start the coffee then," she walked softly to the coffee maker, pulling the jar of grounds out, placing a filter in the top of the machine, "How many scoops do you usually put in?" she asked.

He grunted, "Four or five." She glanced over her shoulder to watch him retreat into the pantry. She scooped out the coffee, refilled the reservoir with water, and turned it on to percolate.

When he re-entered the kitchen, it was with an already full tub in his hands. "Gonna go ahead and pack the truck," he grumbled, opening the door to the garage once more, his boots clomping down the steps as the cold air wafted in.

A shiver ran up her spine. "Okay," her voice was steady, but her mind remained anxious as Daryl proved difficult to read.

He repeated the short trip between the truck and the kitchen two more times before stopping to say a word to her. She was keeping her hands busy by making some toast for the two of them. "Ya alright?" he asked, touching her arm. She flinched at his touch.

"I-" she met his gaze. "I'm making us some toast," she fawned. "Are... are you okay?"

She watched as his eyes clouded with intense worry, "Naw," he shook his head. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya."

"You didn't. I'm just- feeling a little on edge. Like something is wrong."

He nodded, "Went out to recheck the snares this mornin' and found fresh tire tracks at the end of the driveway." She watched him worry on his lip as he stared everywhere around the kitchen but at her. "Just gotta real bad feelin' bout all of it," he admitted, hand perched on his hip as he waited for her to share her thoughts.

Dread. A feeling Carol had been able to banish after he'd been ill. But this time, it settled into her gut differently. "I feel it, too," she confirmed.

"Wanna get us out of here, move over to the cottage, hide out there until it seems safe to move on."

A heavy grief ripped through her, eyes brimming with anxious tears as she spread the peanut butter across a piece of toast, "I hate this."

"I'm sorry, Carol," he spoke softly.

She turned away from the counter and made eye contact with him again, "It's not your fault. It's just the world we live in now." She set the knife down and wiped her eyes, "I'll go grab our bags." And with that, she walked past him down the hall and up the stairs.

They had left the coffee and toast to waste as she hoisted their two bags into the cabin of the truck. She stood next to the DC converter and the reverse osmosis pump, a sullen look on her face as she watched him exit the house for the final time. The suction of the kitchen door locked it into place as he nodded at her. She turned to the converter, hitting a few buttons and powering down the house. Next, the reverse osmosis: flipping the necessary valves off. A strange, silent funeral for a place they'd started to believe they could build their future.

As they both slid into the truck's front seat, he reached for Carol's hand, squeezing it in assurance, "We wait it out a week, and if we're lucky, they'll move on."

"I really want to believe that," she smiled with uncertainty.

The cottage turned out to be an even bigger disappointment. Both entry points had been destroyed, and the barn had been burned to the ground. Daryl glowered at what was left of the small oasis and angrily gripped the steering wheel. "FUCK," he smacked the dash.

Carol sat next to him, a despondent look on her face and an air of despair in her voice as she spoke, "How did this happen?"

He chewed aggressively on his lip, "It all feels wrong."

"You think this is them?"

Daryl's stomach twisted violently, and he grimaced, "I made a promise that I would do whatever I could to keep you safe." He put the truck into reverse and backed them out of the long driveway. "I'm keepin' that damn promise if I have to fight every damn one of these motherfucker's followin' us."

She placed her hand over his on the steering wheel, this moment similar to the one they'd had falling over the bridge back in Atlanta, but different now that they knew what they were to one another. "I'm not leaving you," she spoke eerily, calm, determination, and fierce love in her eyes.

"I ain't 'bout to leave you either. We're going back to that damn house, and we're both gonna fight for it. Even if it's to the death," he growled as they peeled off down the gravel road.

On their way back to the house, Carol devised a new plan, much to Daryl's pleading that they are not separate. But Carol convinced him this would be their best chance, "Remember Terminus? The wolves?"

He scoffed bitterly, "Ain't the same. Plus- swore we weren't gonna separate again."

Her hand snuck out to settle atop his thigh, "It's not technically separating if we're meeting back up. If I drive back up myself, they see I'm just some old lady." He rolled his eyes at her self-deprecating comment. She stared out the windshield, "I can put on the waterworks, say my husband just got eaten by walkers, and I came back because I had nowhere else to go," she turned to batt her eyes at him, "because I'm just a poor defenseless woman who's only alive because her heroic, selfless husband protected her all these years."

He scowled, "The way your mind works sometimes."

She wriggled her eyebrows at him, "It's gotten me out of a lot of scrapes."

"A few ya almost didn't make it out of," his eyes softened, his hand traveling the distance between them to cradle her cheek. "I love you," their eyes locked as he spoke firmly.

Her hand came up to cover his. She turned her head and kissed the center of his palm, a wry smile on her face. She nodded and threw the strap of her pack over her shoulder, "You can walk from here?"

"Only a mile should be able to come at the property from the backside." He opened the driver-side door and walked to the front of the truck, where she handed him his pack.

She glanced out over the horizon in thought. "Sophia," she breathed out suddenly. "If it's safe, you'll hear me say her name."

He nodded, his thumb flicking away a solitary tear from her cheek. She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "Don't know why I'm cryin' all of a sudden," she laughed nervously.

"Nerves," he shivered, pulling her into a fierce embrace as the cold of the wind wrapped around them.

She let go of him, stepping toward the truck's driver-side door. "It's not even the hardest thing we've had to do," she crossed her arms, looking away from him.

His hand trailed casually down her arm, fingers weaving with hers in silent assurance. "S'just different now means more between us. That's all."

"We could get lucky, you know?"

His heart clenched, and the image of the deer ripped open on the kitchen floor popped into his mind, "Could." He gave her hand three squeezes. She nodded at his silent I love you. He reluctantly pulled his hand from her grasp and drew his bow from the truck bed. "Ya, wait a beat; it'll take me a bit from here to hit the treeline," he explained, gripping the strap over his shoulder.

"I'll give you a head start," she looked down at her watch. "Twenty minutes, and then I'll start driving." He turned away from her, walking out into the field, refusing to look back lest it hurt too much. He'd see her at the house. They'd live. They'd thrive. He would see to it himself if he had to.

Carol sat in the driver's seat, hands shaking against the steering wheel as she waited for the long minutes tick by. She stared at the second hand on her watch, took a deep breath, and started the engine. "Please be safe," Carol said under her breath. She shifted the gear into drive, her foot pausing on the break before she began the fifteen-minute drive. The snow had come in the twenty minutes since Carol and Darol had split. Gentle fat flakes were falling from the low-hanging clouds, melting as they hit the ground. She turned on the wiper blades to clear the obstruction accumulating on the windshield and moved her foot to the gas pedal. The truck rolled toward whatever awaited her back at the homestead.

As she drew closer to the home, the snow had begun to stick, making the tire tracks from earlier visible across the gravel road. She took a deep breath and pulled her foot off the gas, allowing the truck to roll gently to a slow trod as she approached the driveway. From the outside of the tree line, the house looked undisturbed; right away, she could see two sets of tire tracks. Her heart sped up, her body flooding with pure adrenaline and anxiety. She parked the truck on the side of the road. Daryl would be waiting within the treeline on the back side, the part of the property where, upon their first visit, they'd flirted and cut down a Christmas tree together. The knots in her stomach eased momentarily at the soft memories of the life they'd been building. So much has changed since then. No more unspoken feelings were lying between them, but there were still harbored secrets. She granted him the secrets he wanted to keep in the same way he gave her license to work through hers. Specific things, before all of this unraveled, which she might have worked up the courage to reveal once she had figured out how to make the life he wanted possible. It was part of the reason she'd started crying earlier on the road. It wasn't just nerves, as he'd tried to assure her. Her body was relinquishing a premeditated grief. A looming fear over the end of this journey with him. Both of them standing at the gates of Dante's hell, gazing upon the words, 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.' So her only recourse to maintain a shred of hope was to refuse his goodbye and ignore his 'I love you's.' Her heart couldn't accept the reality that the last time she might see him alive was with his back to her as he disappeared into the falling snow. "Pull it together," she steeled herself, hopping out of the truck with her knife hidden but ready at her hip. As she approached, the shotgun swung casually over her shoulder to put on an air of defenselessness.

He huffed out heavy panting breaths as he breached the treeline of the homestead. The shelter belt gave him enough cover to approach just outside the first two rows of evergreens, standing guard at the edge of the backside of the house. He crouched down, steadying himself on one knee, positioning his bow through a gap in the branches. He watched with bated breath as a man in a sheriff's hat and a brown coat with a faux fur collar walked around the property, trying to look in the windows, stopping to rap against one or two until settling himself at the back door with a bold knock.

"Anyone inside?" the man hollered, hands casually resting on his holstered hips. Daryl squinted and looked through the sight of the bow. He sat up, bringing his bow to his side for a moment. Though his face was obscured, the man seemed relatively young and had remarkably clean attire. The hat reminded him of Rick for a moment. Those early days on the run when Rick wore his sheriff's uniform. He might have been someone from the church in Milford. The last remaining law enforcement like Rick? Maybe the leader? It was bold of him if that turned out to be true. Most leaders sent their henchmen before putting themselves in the line of fire or danger.

Daryl watched as the man hung his head and walked back to the front of the house. That's when he heard the gunshot.