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[ season three, episode ten ]
Maybe Marley lied when she told Theo he didn't have to worry about Rick.
Ever since their valiant return from Woodbury, the group leader hadn't been stable. Even before Marley left to get baby Judith formula and wound up a hostage at the hands of the sadistic Governor, Rick had been unsteady. She was worried about him ━ everyone was.
He was nowhere to be seen; Maggie said he was scoping the perimeter. Nobody had gone to check. In Rick's place, Glenn had taken on the temporary responsibility of the authoritative mouthpiece. He was laying out a map of the prison on the ground with chalk, beginning to devise a plan for defence if the Governor decided to launch an attack.
Without his father around, Carl had no choice but to accept the change in circumstances. He crouched beside Glenn and gazed at the map, his brow cinched in confusion.
Marley leaned against the bars of her cell, chewing on a hangnail. The skin around her thumbs was mangled and cracked and bloody, yet she still sunk her teeth into it regardless, almost relishing in the sting of pain it caused. Something to take her mind off everything else, she supposed ━ with Sage's wound and Rick's descent into insanity and Theo's obvious reluctance with the dead. Things were stacking up. She was starting to wobble.
"He won't come here," a voice said, one Marley was all too familiar with.
She looked to the side. Beth was standing there, arms folded and her shoulder-blades pressed to the iron cell bars. Her oceanic eyes scorched into Marley's cerulean ones, trying to imply the same hopeful narrative through mere eye contact. It didn't work. When did that ever work?
Marley's shoulders slumped, "I wish I could agree. But he's a psychopath, Beth. All he wants to do is cause harm."
"We have fighters," Beth stated, looking at her shoes, "Even if he does come, we can fight. I'll fight. This is our home, he can't take it from us."
"He'll definitely try."
Beth blinked rapidly, as if trying to ward off tears.
She didn't cry as much anymore ━ not like she did at the farm anyways. Things had a way of getting her down then, but tragedy was so common now that the downfall didn't really impact her so intensely, or anyone else for that matter. It was part of their daily routine; the steady decline in their lives. Crying was time wasted. Fluid wasted. They had to be strong; if not for themselves, then for each other.
