Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 12 - Arrow on the Doorpost

"And I don't want another day to break"

Warm Shadow (Dactyl Remix)

by Fink

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Nelly

Daryl swings a heavy bag into the trunk of the car with a grunt before slamming it shut. The sound echoes through the prison yard, punctuating the uneasy silence that has settled over us.

He, Hershel, and Rick are gearing up to meet the Governor in a bid to negotiate. I've kept my opinion to myself, knowing it's not my place and no one's asked. But if they did, I'd tell them straight: it's not going to work.

There is no such thing as negotiation to people like the Governor.

I lean my shoulder against the cold, weathered wall of the prison, my brow furrowed in concern. The rough texture of the bricks feels abrasive against my back. My gaze follows Daryl as he approaches his motorcycle, meticulously checking the exhaust. His movements are methodical, each gesture precise as he ensures everything is in order.

Inside the prison, I can see Hershel, his head bowed in prayer with Maggie and Beth by his side.

Rick paces around the courtyard, his face etched with deep thought. He stops, bringing his binoculars to his eyes, scanning the horizon. His body language speaks volumes—he's absorbed in his thoughts, every muscle in his frame tense with worry.

I can't shake the nagging thoughts that plague me. What if they get ambushed on their way to the meeting spot? Or worse, what if they leave us here, and we're ambushed in their absence?

I think about him—about what he would do.

I remember his tactics, how he would set traps and manipulate situations. He'd likely set a trap for us at the prison, leading us all into the same place and leaving Rick to come back and find only our bodies. The memory stings sharply, a painful reminder of the betrayal and loss I've endured.

He did it to me.

The thought stiffens my posture, a surge of rage and determination igniting within me.

I'm not letting that happen again.

I push off from the wall and walk purposefully towards Rick, passing Daryl, who is still fiddling with his bike. The metallic clinking of his tools accompanies my steps.

I stop a foot away from Rick, crossing my arms and letting my footsteps be deliberately loud. His back is turned to me, his focus still on the binoculars.

"You sure you don't want me to come?" My voice is hoarse, the first words I've spoken all day. The question hangs heavy in the air.

Rick startles, clearly caught off guard. He turns to face me, his expression a mix of surprise and contemplation. He takes in my offer before shaking his head. "No, I need you here." There's a hint of worry in his voice, an unspoken reservation.

He still doesn't fully trust me.

Good. He shouldn't.

"I'm quick and quiet," I assert, my voice firm.

"You are," Rick acknowledges, his Southern accent elongating the vowels. He nods at the ground, his eyes drifting to something behind me.

I follow his gaze, turning my head to see Daryl observing us intently. When I look back at Rick, I catch the silent conversation between them. Daryl doesn't trust me either.