Chapter Text
Daryl is no stranger to the merciless labyrinth of grief. It’s a place he’s navigated all his life; trudged through its endless halls so many times that now it feels like he never leaves.
His frequent visits don’t mean that it's completely familiar: Daryl may recognize its sprawling shape, but it ends up different every time. Its unfairly shifting walls toss him back to the beginning whenever he makes a wrong turn.
Making it to the end doesn’t matter. He’s learned by now that grief never really goes away; that “time heals all wounds” is just a load of bullshit. The truth is that time only allows wounds to scar over, a different kind of skin and tissue to the rest of your body. Tougher, and discolored. A clear reminder of your pain that remains for the rest of your life.
The only way to truly heal from grief is to choose the way you look at the scars it leaves behind.
Early morning sunlight is just beginning to change the color of the sky to a lighter blue. There’s a springtime chill in the air, a light breeze creating a soft rustle of leaves above Daryl’s head. The sound mixes with the calls of the year’s hatchling brood of katydids, their synchronized chorus providing a backdrop of noise to the otherwise quiet woods.
He hasn’t slept. At least, not more than what sheer exhaustion has forced upon him. It’s always a few minutes of dozing off, a desperate attempt by his body to grasp at some kind of rest before he inevitably jerks awake in a gasping panic. Even if Daryl wanted to sleep, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to manage it—not with the way his mind is immediately plagued by the very subject of his despair.
Fire. Daryl always sees the fire. Hears its awful roar, and the snapping and cracking of ignited wood. Its bright flames have seared themselves onto the backs of his eyelids, the distinct smell of freshly blown explosives and burning flesh stuck inside of his nose.
He can’t close his eyes without reliving it. Hell, he can’t keep his eyes open without reliving it, a constant nightmare that chases him through his states of consciousness.
It leaves him empty, too, in more ways than one. Just like he hasn’t slept, Daryl hasn’t eaten. Yet he doesn’t feel hungry, and he doesn’t thirst for water. It could be that the squeezing pang of his stomach simply blends in with the rest of his terrible aching, another drop in his deep well of agony; regardless, he thinks whatever he’d try to eat would only come back up in the end.
It’s been days since Daryl and his people witnessed Rick sacrifice himself, sending a massive horde of walkers into the rushing rapids of the river below. There was one arm wrapped around his blood-soaked middle, the glint of his Colt Python in the harsh sunlight, walkers ambling toward him in all their ravenous hunger, and then… nothing.
Rick was consumed. Not by the dead, but by a bursting plume of smoke and the strong current beneath him.
A man doesn’t just walk away from that. He was already injured, limping across the bridge like a wounded animal; suffering a close-range explosion like that could have simply blown him apart. He could have been completely gone before he ever had the chance to hit the water.
It’s his fault, isn’t it? That Rick is gone. It’s his fault that Michonne no longer has the love of her life at her side, that Judith no longer has a father, and that their communities have lost the man who, since the very beginning and against all odds, has always led them toward a better life. If Daryl had been able to pull his head from the dark clouds that hover over it, if he’d taken Rick to Alexandria like he’d said he would instead of leading him astray in his anger and desire for justice, maybe he’d still be here instead of… well. Instead of wherever he is now.
His mind flashes back to some of their last moments together. Trapped in that pit and forced to address their pent-up frustrations, two titans at last colliding after months of buildup, Daryl had not held back. He’d let loose all of the thoughts he’d been keeping locked away from Rick in the hopes that it would somehow get through to him—make him see that he was wrong about Negan and the Saviors. Righteous and honorable in his effort to keep Carl’s dying wishes alive, but wrong all the same.
I’d die for you.
A fresh wave of guilt rises inside of him. It’s like trying to contain a tidal wave, but it’s nothing in comparison to the flood of emotions he’d endured the day Rick fell.
Daryl’s steps into the trees had been somewhat aimless after the detonation, his face all twisted up in his devastation as his bow hung limply from his hand. Hot tears dripped freely from his eyes. For once he’d seen no point in trying, no reason to stay and search through the embers—it was done. The bridge was gone, leaving their settlements more disconnected than ever. Rick was gone, and there’d be no saving him this time. Distantly, even over the noise of the fire, Daryl could hear Michonne’s wailing cries of defeat.
The deeper he’d walked into the woods, the more he had begun to break down. His breaths came quicker, heavier, leaving him lightheaded and prone to bumping gracelessly into trees. Several times he’d looked up toward the sky, bits of bright blue peeking down at him through the canopy, as if he’d find his answers floating there amongst the clouds; but of course, nothing came to him. No reasoning for the suffering. In fact, the wide expanse of sky only made him feel worse, like it was laughing in his face as it remained vibrant and unchanged while his entire world came crashing down around him.
None of it felt real. How could he just be gone?
Daryl had wondered as he stumbled along if he was dreaming, all of his irritation regarding Rick’s recent decisions manifesting itself as a horrific nightmare. But reality soon crashed into him again, ripping him out of the dissociated state he’d begun to slip into by giving him another unforgiving dose of clarity.
Brother. Brother. Take my hand.
His eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight enough that it would surprise him later on that he hadn’t cracked any teeth and, all at once, a torrential sob had brought Daryl to his knees. Every gasp for breath he took only provoked another gut-wrenching cry to wreak havoc on him.
What happened after that is something of a blur in his memory. He doesn’t know how long he’d sat there, crumpled up in the dirt as he bawled what felt like every ounce of water and strength from his body. All he knows is that, when he’d finally sat himself upright, night had overtaken the landscape. Somehow it felt final. Like once the sun had set, there was no going back.
He’s been in the woods since then, letting the days pass him by as he continues to wither.
He can’t go home. Wouldn’t, even if he wanted to. While there does exist a yearning inside of him to grieve this loss alongside the people who mean the most to him in the world, it’s snuffed out by an overwhelming sense of blame. He doesn’t deserve to be with them. How could he set foot inside of Alexandria’s walls now, knowing the price of his actions?
Will he ever learn his lesson? Will he ever figure out how to do what he believes is right without getting the people he cares about killed?
Daryl does what he always does when things get to be too much: he retreats to nature, to what he knows best—to the things that remain constant and never fail him. The rise and set of the sun and moon and the arcs of the stars across the sky are predictable. The way the forest breathes, an ecosystem that thrives off of itself through endless cycles, makes sense to him even when nothing else in his life does.
And what happened at the bridge—it doesn’t make sense. Even after days have passed, there’s not one bit of Daryl that can let go of that nagging feeling. It has him living that moment over and over again in his head, poring over every detail he can remember for something. Anything to give himself a reason that Rick could have survived the blast.
He doesn’t come up with any answers. A man doesn’t just walk away from that.
… But if any man were going to, it would be Rick Grimes.
Maybe it’s the relentless heartache, wishful thinking in the wake of such sorrow, that has him pushing himself to his feet now, wobbly as he may be. Maybe it’s pure desperation, or the need to make up for what he thinks he’s done wrong. Daryl decides that it doesn’t matter: what matters, above all else, is finding Rick.
It’s all he can do to keep himself together, feet carrying him toward where the water rages. Daryl knows it well: downriver from where the bridge once stood is a stretch where the flow is much more calm. Any debris from the explosion, including bodies, will have floated along there (unless they somehow became snagged down deep on the riverbed, which is something he doesn’t want to think about).
It’s the best place to start looking. If Daryl doesn’t find him there, then he’ll continue down the river and comb every inch of it from here to the ocean and back. He’ll search through the thicket on each side until he’s turned over every rock, rattled every bush, and traced every grain of dirt and sand on the shoreline.
He’s not an idiot. Daryl knows just as well as anyone else that what he’s setting out to look for is a body. Not a living, breathing man. Either way, he can’t stand not knowing.
The sun yawns toward early afternoon as he breaks through the tree-line. Even now, the bodies of the dead bob down the current in droves, reminding him of just how massive the horde was. If Rick hadn’t done what he’d done, could their people have stopped it? Could they have cleared everyone out and diverted the dead before they bulldozed right into the Hilltop?
Daryl’s thoughts return to the fire. He remembers standing there staring at where Rick had just been in complete disbelief, watching as walkers shambled through the flames and then straight off the edge into the water.
They’d looked at one another, right before. Their eyes met, and Daryl swears Rick had nodded at him.
Was it a goodbye?
Be safe.
You, too.
A breath gets caught in his throat. His eyes sting like they want to drip fresh tears, but he’s too dehydrated for any to fall.
Heavy boots step toward the river’s edge. Daryl’s hands fidget at his sides. Keen eyes scan over the water, flickering between bodies and searching the shore across the way. No white shirt. No graying beard.
“Rick!”
His voice is raspy. Harsh. He looks around for any new movement.
“... Rick!”
Louder this time. It makes his throat hurt.
Pathetically, a walker staggers out of the brush nearby, called to him by his shouting. Its decaying hands reach out for him. Daryl pulls one of his knives from his belt and moves toward it. With every step forward, his chest becomes tighter and tighter. His face screws up in renewed anguish and he grabs the walker, throwing it with an irate grunt to the ground.
Daryl doesn’t stop stabbing and pounding its ugly head until it’s nothing but a mess of gore in the dirt.
He collapses beside the limp corpse, splattered with dark blood and heaving new miserable sobs. Exhaustion clings to his muscles. The thunderous flow of the river easily swallows his cries.
Daryl wishes that it would swallow him, too.