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[ season three, episode nine ]
The roaring of a crowd filled Daryl's ears. Someone was dragging him, knees scraping across a sandy surface. His view was heavily constricted by a burlap bag, and his warm breath fanned out into the scratchy material, practically suffocating him.
Was he being led to his death? Possibly. It felt like it.
The first thing Daryl noticed was that he felt scared. He hadn't been gripped by fear in a long time ─ hadn't opened himself up to it. He didn't allow it to fester. He severed it at the root so it couldn't grow anymore. He told himself not to believe in it. Fear did not exist.
But for the first time since the Outbreak, Daryl Dixon allowed himself to feel the vulnerability of his current predicament. It frightened him.
And when the burlap bag was ripped from his head by a pair of rough hands, that vulnerability truly sunk in.
People. At first, they were all he saw, all he could focus on for the time being. Their faces swam around him, Woodbury residents perched in stands surrounding a sandy gladiator-type arena. Their eyes were all bulging in disbelief as if Daryl were a two-headed cow being presented to repudiated auctioneers. He felt like it. He felt like the odd one out. He felt watched. He felt wrong. He felt hot and sweaty and tired, but above all, he felt scared.
Some of the people in the crowd pointed, but most simply stared. There were little kids amongst the roaring wave of people, too ─ they were all booing louder than the adults.
That was the type of place Woodbury was.
A breeding ground for twisted sycophants.
"These are two of the terrorists who invaded our home," bellowed a voice, so close and unexpected that Daryl actually flinched. "killed our people!"
Aforementioned voice belonged to a tall, lithe man. He stood in the centre of the arena, the enormous overhead fire-lights illuminating a sadistic grin and a slightly bloodied bandage stretched over one eye. He had a gleam of malevolence in the other eye, which made Daryl very uneasy.
This had to the the Governor.
Breathing heavily, Daryl peered around the sandy ring once more. A bead of sweat dribbled into his eye. The crowd had quietened now to listen to the Governor, and most of the people standing within it were dressed in night-clothes, like they'd just been ripped out of bed. Which they probably had.
