In The End | Daryl Dixon

Chapter 70: Where Mercy Hurts

Letters arrived in Alexandria from both the Hilltop and the Kingdom—and none of them carried the news we'd been expecting.

Jesus had returned to the Hilltop with a few dozen Saviors in tow. They were being held under Maggie's watch, guarded closely. Somehow, Gregory had also slipped away from the Sanctuary and crawled his miserable ass back to the Hilltop, clinging to survival like the coward he was.

Carol's letter was worse.

The Kingdom had taken out most of the Saviors, but victory came at a brutal cost. Not everyone made it out. The only ones left standing were Carol, Jerry, and the King. The rest had died protecting him—loyal to the very end.

Shiva included.

The words sat heavy in my chest long after I finished reading.

Rick didn't hesitate. In two days' time, we would return to the Sanctuary and finish what we'd started. Before that, though, he planned to make one final attempt to recruit Jadis—one last gamble before the bloodshed continued.

As for me, I made my own decision.

I headed for the Hilltop.

I needed to check on Aaron. On Tyler. And more than anything, I needed answers—because I couldn't understand why Jesus would bring prisoners back in the first place. Not now. Not after everything we'd lost.

When I arrived, the first thing I saw stopped me cold.

The Saviors were lined up against the outer wall, wrists bound. Their faces were hollow—some defiant. I studied them in silence just as Jesus stepped into view, moving down the line with practiced calm, handing out food like this was any other day.

I raised a brow and walked straight toward him.

"What are you doing, Jesus?"

He turned at the sound of my voice, surprise flickering across his face before it softened. "Jordyn. Glad to see you."

I didn't return the sentiment.

"Why are you giving them food?" I asked bluntly, eyes never leaving the prisoners.

Jesus followed my gaze. "Because they're people," he said evenly. "And because starving them won't make us better than them."

I let out a sharp breath. "They murdered our people. Or have you forgotten why we're doing this in the first place?"

That gave him pause.

"We're not the Saviors," he said after a moment. "If we cross that line, we don't come back from it."

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You think tying them up and feeding them makes what they did okay? 

Jesus met my stare, unwavering. "I think it makes us human."

I broke eye contact, my gaze drifting back to the line of Saviors. My jaw tightened.

I shook my head once, a silent refusal, then turned and walked past Jesus, stepping through the gates and inside the walls of the Hilltop.

Behind me, I could feel his eyes on my back, could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us. 

Hilltop soil crunched beneath my boots, but my mind wasn't there—it was back in concrete halls that smelled like oil and rot, back in the weeks after Daryl escaped. 

They hadn't beaten me senseless. They hadn't needed to. Hunger did that work for them. Weeks of half-portions and empty stomachs, of scrubbing blood from floors that never stayed clean, of hauling walkers by their chains and hanging them on fences until my arms shook so badly I thought they'd give out.