graceland. carl grimes

IX

ix.

homeward bound
"but all the words come back to me
in shades of mediocrity"

♱

him

The walls of Alexandria rise before us, a bastion of hope carved from the absolute insanity of the last twenty-four hours.

As we approach, we are met with suspicion, the standard post-terrorism wariness forever present in the eyes of the hesitant guards as they contemplate opening the gate.

I know it is not me nor Daryl or even Connie that is the cause for this hold up.

I know it's the girl at my shoulder, pressed so tight into my side I can feel her ribs shudder with every breath. The fawn trying to curl into the shadow of the wolf that spared her.

From the heights of the catwalk, Michonne appears in silhouette against the dim sky. She surveys us, particularly Lydia, her expression mars itself with near hostility at the sight of her.

"Why is she here?"

Daryl's response is curt. "She's with us."

Michonne's scrutiny shifts from Lydia to Aaron, their conversation a muted exchange beyond the range of my hearing. I watch as Michonne's gaze narrows with reluctant resolve.

Finally, she turns to shout: "Open it!"

The sound of the hinges is a knell, metal groaning like it regrets every inch it yields. A sliver of light spills through, illuminating the path inward towards home.

Fog eddies inward across our boots, dragging the stink of pine rot, as though the outside world refuses to let go of us, but once fully inside Alexandria's walls, Michonne envelops me in a hug.

"Your hair." She says, pulling me back to hold me at arms length. She pushes my bangs from my forehead, surveying me fully. Never once has Michonne given my eye a second glance—but cutting my hair, now that grabs her attention. "I've never seen it so short... You look so much like him."

Him. My father. The man who's gone. I want to tell her I don't. That the only thing I have of his is the cornflower blue iris he passed down. But I know that's not entirely true. In the years since he's disappeared, I startle even myself when I catch my profile in the mirror and I see his jaw, the hard set of his gaze. Sometimes a word will leave my mouth and it's his voice saying it. Maybe I'm more like him than I thought.

"Why is she here?" Michonne questions again. This time quietly. Greeting over.

"Her people are fucked."

"Language."

"She can't go back to them... She needs somewhere to stay. Somewhere safe." I'm wheedling but it doesn't work.

"You know we don't take people in anymore." A look of pain crosses Michonne eyes, but she quickly hardens her face, pressing her lips together. "You know that."

Of course I know that. The X burned into my back from the day a four year old Judith was nearly killed is a reminder of why Alexandria does not take newcomers. This body of mine, so coated in scars, could be all the defense I need against keeping people out. Was part of the reason why I was alone in this world aside from my family for the last couple years. It was easier to keep my circle small—only the people I could trust, only the people worth putting my life on the line to protect.

But then somehow I've let Lydia seep through the cracks of whatever defenses I thought I had.

"She saved my life, Mich." And she had. Instead of cutting my throat, she cut the ties that bound me and pulled me from her mother's grasp.