Chapter Text
Daryl Dixon was thirteen, and of course, that meant he would always make the right decisions. Like running away from his shitty homelife to go live in the woods. He, like any smart person, packed a bag with week old bread and a “borrowed” pack of bologna for food, and two changes of clothes. He’d find water out there somewhere, and if he couldn’t, he’d do what Bear Grylls did on TV and drink his pee. He prayed he’d be able to find water.
So, with his trusty crossbow that he may or may not have stolen from Merle, out he went into the woods. He’d been there plenty of times, killing squirrels and the occasional bird, but he’d never fully committed to staying a night out there, much less the rest of his life. His steps crushed the underbrush, and he actively tried to hide his tracks in case Merle decided to get mad for his missing crossbow.
After walking for just short of an hour, Daryl decided that Merle couldn’t be so pissed off that he’d walk for an entire hour for either him or the crossbow and stopped bothering to cover his tracks. The floor was littered with half-rotten leaves, live compost fueling the grass that it suffocated.
His eyes scanned the trees, looking for the thinning of trees, listening for any sign of water, either the running of a stream or the sound of ducks. As he walked further, the sound of running water caught his attention and he beelined for that direction.
His eyes landed on the river. The change of winter to spring made the water flow with a vigor, and it was cool enough. It wouldn’t be the purest water, but as long as it didn’t make him sick, he didn’t care too much. He’d make something to collect rainwater when he was better adjusted.
He cupped his hands in the river, bringing it up to his lips and drinking it in. The taste was a bit earthy, but it was better than nothing. A little dirt wouldn’t hurt anyway, something to keep his immune system up and at ‘em.
Daryl dipped his hands back into the river and brought them up to his face. The cool water felt amazing on his flushed skin, but he reminded himself not to inhale. He’d been half paying attention in Mrs. Tudor’s science class when she said something about brain-eating bacteria in the water. His dad already complained about him having shit for brains, and the last thing he wanted was the little bit he had to be eaten away by a germ.
His eyes scanned the surrounding banks. He knew sticking by the water would be his best bet, as it would give him a good supply of water, and it would help him with navigation. Unfortunately, the wet mud of the bank would make his footsteps trackable by even an inexperienced five year old. Walking in the river itself wasn’t an option either as it wasn’t warm enough for him to be able to dry out his socks or boots before having to put them back on.
Merle showed him one of those gross pictures of trench foot in a book once. Those images stuck with him more than he’d like to admit.
He shook them from his head and stood back up. He figured that he’d do best with walking along the treeline, keeping sight of the river, but staying off the bank. Walking by the stream seemed to be the smartest option, and so he walked against the current, reasoning that it would flow downhill. Tactically speaking, he’d want the higher ground.
The sound of the water running with the symphony of birdsong and the woods breathing life comforted him. As he walked, his eyes gravitated towards the treetops, watching the birds and the squirrels go by.
Birds hopped from branch to branch, singing in duets as the squirrels chased each other up and down the branches. Winter was finally coming to its end and spring was giving life to a once quiet wood. A group of crows watched him, cawing and clicking. Some of them bobbed their heads up and down as if they were nodding.
Befriend them. He’d learned that recently. Crows were smart, and if you were friendly to them, they’d remember that. He watched them, stopping to pull off his bag. He looked into it, opening the bag of bread and pulling out the crusty end of the bread and picking it into smaller chunks, throwing them out onto the ground. He stood up and continued walking, not looking to see if the crows would eat it or not. If they wouldn’t, he knew that something else would be happy for the free meal.
He had expected rocks and pebbles, it was outside after all, but the last thing he’d expected in the Georgia wilderness was a boulder.
The boulder reached up to his hip, and he took a second to look at it. A bird sang loudly, the bright song lasting too long, the sound unnatural in his surroundings. He walked towards the sound to see a woman laying on the large branch of a tree, a small porcelain whistle shaped into a bird in her hand.
She was wearing a tan cloak with the hood pulled back, the front open to expose a green sleeved dress with a dark brown corset on. Her feet were bare, the bottoms of them covered in dirt.
Her eyes immediately turned to him, watching him with irises taking up the entirety of her eyes which were rimmed with black khol. Her eyes were a dark terracotta, the pupils small pinpoints that seemed to zero in on him, as if she could see everything in striking detail. Her nose twitched with every sharp inhale of air, her ears just a touch too long and seemingly turned forward to him. Her left ear twitched to the side to listen to a robin sing from a nearby tree.
“You’re lost aren’t you?” she said. Her voice was soft and welcoming, a soft smile gracing her lips. She reminded him of how teachers interacted with some of the other students, students who didn’t have Merle as a brother.
“No. I know exactly where I’m at,” he said. He puffed out his chest, gripping onto the crossbow tighter. Her eyes gave him a speculatory once over, eyeing the crossbow in his hand.
“Sure, because a kid who knows his way wouldn’t magically step over into this space. And I must ask, can you even draw the string back on that thing?”
Daryl slowly lowered the weapon, putting his boot through the foothold. He grabbed an arrow off the side, holding it up to show her. She sat up, her cloak half hanging off the back and half stuck onto the branch. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, half of it in a golden pin held by a mini golden sword while the other half flowed down her back.
She watched him put the arrow in his mouth, pulling the string with all his might, groaning as the string slowly made its way towards the nock. Just before he could pull it back fully, it snapped forward out of his fingers, dry firing. He spat the arrow out, clutching his fingers, the crossbow abandoned on the ground.
“Oh God! Fuck! God fucking dammit!”
She laughed as she watched him stomp around angrily, doubling over and clutching the branch under her as he looked up at her. Sure, his fingers hurt, but his pride took a big hit too. After all, this woman was weird, but she was a woman nonetheless and he made a fool of himself in front of her.
The strange woman hopped down, landing gracefully as if she’d done this time and again, and he was sure she had. Her steps were silent against the fallen leaves as she walked towards him. She held out a hand, her nails grown out into dull points, dirt and bark caked under them.
From this close, it was harder to tell if the black rimming her eyes was khôl or flesh. They were wet with natural moisture, but they weren’t smudged or leaking. Her eyes seemed almost red, a soft ring of yellow surrounded her pupils. It was like looking up into the eyes of the stray dog that hung around the trailer park, except these held understanding and complex thought, not fear and hunger.
“Your hand. Though I’m sure with your staring it’s not hurting that bad,” she said.
“Staring? Me, oh, no. No I wasn’t staring.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at him, her ears flattening back against the sides of her head.
“So like, did you get one of them surgeries? You know, the ones where they change you and shit,” he said. He’d seen those kinds of people on tv. The women who filled their lips till they were on the verge of bursting and sticking their faces with needles so they couldn’t move their faces. They looked like breathing versions of those sex dolls meant to look like real women he’d seen in a magazine Merle showed him.
“Child, has it occurred to you that maybe you’re not exactly in your woods anymore?” His eyes scanned the surrounding woods, lingering on the strange twisting tree, the gnarled branches containing claw marks, like a creature tried to climb it over and over again. He’d seen those same marks on the trees bobcats ate their prey in. “Look at my eyes and tell me, do you see a creature of your own world?”
He knew what those eyes looked like, and they weren’t human. They were the eyes of an animal. Of a predator.
“You gon’ kill me?” He leaned down, picking up his crossbow.
“No, but you won’t be killing anything with that thing, so I think it best you go back home.”
“I ain’t going back,” he said. Whoever— whatever— she was, she couldn’t send him back, not without a fight. She was a predator, and everything in him was screaming at him to run, but he ignored it. He was a predator too.
“Fine, I’ll make you a deal.” She stepped closer to him, smiling with teeth that reminded him too much of that stray dog. “There’s a rabbit just behind you. If you can kill it and bring it back to me, I’ll do my best to not question your survival skills. Don’t, and you will be going back home, whether you like it or not.”
“How am I gonna kill it? I can’t pull the damn string,” he said, holding up his clearly unloaded crossbow that he already failed to load. The woman rolled her eyes, her ears drooping down slightly. She raised her hands to her hair, pulling the golden pin apart, letting the rest of her hair fall to frame her face.
The golden pin consisted of a sun with the cardinal directions, and a small dagger with the different moon phases carved into it intricately. It had to have been carved under a magnifying glass, until it grew in her hand into a full sized dagger. She handed it to him.
“Give it a name,” she said. He grabbed the dagger, looking it over.
“What? Why I gotta give it a name?”
“If you ever bring a knife with you, name it. Unnamed blades have a habit of turning against you upon use. You’ll find what was once sharp to be dull, or find yourself with an unnecessary cut.”
“Uhm, okay then,” he said. He looked down at the blade in his hands, watching the gold glinting in the sunlight. “Oscar? That a good name for it?”
“It’s a name, and it’s enough.”
He shook his head, turning to find the rabbit she’d said would be there. The small brown creature’s jaw moved as it finished chewing on grass, its head perking up as it looked straight at him. It ran into the woods and he gave chase. Daryl would show her. He’d kill that rabbit and bring it back to her.
The leaves crunched under his boots, the rabbit running in zigzags as it ran for its life. He pushed through the burning in his lungs, gripping the golden dagger so hard that he felt the rough texture imprinting onto his hand. Twigs tore at him, vines trying to hold him back, the woods itself trying to hinder him until he stumbled out into a clearing.
He panted, his hands falling to his knees. It felt as if his throat was closing, his lungs trying to fill up with so much air that he was choking on it. His eyes darted around for the rabbit unable to be seen until he finally looked ahead and saw the last thing he ever wanted to see.
That shitthole of a trailer he called home.