[ lxix. it's going to go wrong out here ]

october 27th, 2012

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THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED the senseless murder of Denise Cloyd was one of torment, each hour dragging Astrid deeper into the abyss of her own mind. Sleep was impossible, as she lay ensnared within her sweat-soaked bed sheets. Every time that she dared to close her eyes, her friend's bloodied face awaited her. Even after two showers, she could still feel the dirt mucked beneath her fingernails as she laid her murdered friend six feet deep.

Beside her in the dark, Daryl fared no better. Through the hours of the night, he continuously was forced upright, his pupil-blown stare flying to the wall where his crossbow lay. Each restless movement of his tore Astrid from her fitful slumber, but she remained silent, watching him carefully, ensuring he did not hurt himself. Otherwise, what words could she offer to ease his pain? He blamed himself. He claimed she blamed him, too, even though she harbored no such accusation. The only true culprit in this tragedy was the Saviors.

Since their return home that evening, the mention of Dwight's name had forced a heavy silence between them. Even Bailey had sensed their tension, though her innocent inquiries met with evasive answers and uneasy glances from Daryl. Eventually, unable to bear Bailey's hurt expressions, Astrid sent her to the house next door to stay with Sasha and Abraham for the evening, to shield their young girl from their growing isolation.

And for the first time since their wedding night, their promise to each other had been broken. They had gone to bed angry. Though it had not been directed at one another, but rather at the cruel distance imposed by the world around them.

They had lain in their shared bed, untouching, facing away from each other. By dawn, Astrid felt a profound emptiness settling within her. Still feeling unwell, she longed for the comfort only her husband could offer, yet he remained away, unwilling to even look at her.

Now, as Astrid emerged from the shower the next morning, a familiar wave of vertigo gripped her, causing her to cling to the countertop for support. The steam from the hot water had dissipated, but the tightness in her chest had not left this time. Each gulp of air was a struggle, though she forced it down.

With Denise, her friend and doctor, now dead, Astrid had no one to turn to for reassurance regarding her health. She had no option but to soldier on alone. Wrapping a towel tightly around her slender form, she examined her reflection in the mirror. Naked frailty stared back at her. Her pregnancy had rendered her unnaturally thin, her once vibrant features now pallid and worn. Dark circles spread underneath her bloodshot eyes, and her split lips were dry and cracked.

Slowly, Astrid dressed herself. She reached for a soft, oversized sweater, and eyed her abdomen. Despite the noticeable swell of her stomach, the sight only served to deepen her despondency. To a stranger, she appeared vulnerable, an easy target.

The sudden thunderous roar of a motorcycle engine shattered the stilled lull of the bathroom.

Astrid startled. The last time she had seen Daryl, he was still in their bed. With a quick yank, she flung open the bathroom door and hurried back down the hallway. Upon reaching their bedroom, she found it deserted. The crossbow that had been on the wall was gone as well.

"Shit," Astrid cursed under her breath. She dipped her left hand into the drawer of her bedside table and secured her gun to her waistband. Descending the stairs, each step felt heavier than the last. The living room and kitchen greeted her with an unsettling emptiness.

Stepping out onto the porch, the scene before her sent a jolt of alarm through her veins. There, in the distance, she saw Daryl astride his motorcycle. He was heading towards the gates of Alexandria with a determined resolve that made her heart lurch with fear.

"Daryl!" She called out.

But he seemed oblivious to her cries, or perhaps, chose to ignore her, the rumble of the engine effectively drowning out her words. Astrid leaped off the porch, her feet pounding against the ground as she ran towards the gates after him. Each breath burned in her lungs, her muscles screaming in protest, but she pushed herself onward, knowing his intent: revenge for Denise's killers.

He was going to get himself killed.

As she drew closer, she could see Daryl pulling the gates open, his movements swift. Rosita stood nearby, watching him—but not stopping him.

"Daryl, wait!" Astrid tried again.

Her shout drew their attention. For a split moment, Daryl seemed to hesitate, his gaze flickering towards her with a hint of regret. But then, with a deadly set to his jaw, he swung his leg over the bike and revved the engine. He sped out of Alexandria, disappearing around a corner before Astrid could reach him.

Panting for breath, she turned to Rosita. "What the hell?" She demanded. "Why didn't you stop him?"

Rosita met her hardened glare. "I couldn't," She insisted.

"Couldn't my ass," Astrid retorted. She turned away and marched towards the line of vehicles that lined the nearby exit. She approached the nearest one, a van, and flung open the door. The keys were still dangling from the ignition.

Tossing her gun onto the dashboard with a heavy thud, Astrid climbed into the driver's seat, her bruised hands throbbing as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, a steady thrum of power beneath her fingertips.

"Astrid, wait!"

She whipped her head around and glanced out the open window, locking eyes with Glenn and Michonne, with Maggie trailing behind. Glenn darted towards the driver's side of the van, his fingers curling around the door handle to halt her escape. "Get out of the car," He ordered. "You're staying here. I'll go after Daryl."

"No," Astrid protested. "I know where he's going. You don't."

"I do," Rosita cut in. She climbed carelessly into the back of the van, and her eyes met Astrid's through the rearview mirror. "I'll show them. You stay here."

"I'm not staying here," Astrid growled. "He's my husband, and I'm going to get him before he gets himself killed."

"Astrid—"

"Stop it, Glenn! Either get in the car and help me or stay the hell out of my way."

Astrid's sharp gaze pierced as Glenn and Michonne exchanged hesitant glances before begrudgingly accepting their places inside the van alongside her. Michonne settled in the back next to Rosita and Glenn occupied the passenger seat. Meanwhile, Maggie approached Astrid's open window.

"Please be careful," She said.

Astrid offered a silent nod, knowing she could not make any other assurances. "Will you look after Bailey?" She asked.

Maggie's brows furrowed. "What do I tell her if she asks?" She questioned.

"Tell her we're all right," Astrid responded softly. "That nothing's wrong."

"Do you really expect me to believe that?"

The unexpected voice of none other than Bailey Stratton herself interrupted the exchange. Astrid's attention shifted over Maggie's head, her heart clenching as she beheld Bailey standing on the open street, her tiny arms folded across her chest. Had she followed Astrid from the house? It seemed nothing escaped the young girl's notice.

Astrid nearly opened her door. "Bailey—"

But Bailey silenced her with a torn expression and stepped forward to press a palm against the open window. "Don't," She interjected. "I know. Go get him."

"We'll be home soon," Astrid promised. "Both of us."

The young girl offered a tight nod. "I know," She repeated.

Bailey reluctantly stepped away from the van then, allowing herself to be enveloped beneath Maggie's protective arm. Astrid's tearful stare held on them briefly, offering silent gratitude to Maggie before she refocused on the task at hand. Gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, she steeled herself for the pursuit ahead.

As Astrid pressed down on the gas pedal, the van hurtled forward with a roar. In the rearview mirror, the sight of Maggie and Bailey quietly closing Alexandria's gates sent a pang of regret coursing through the Dixon woman's veins. But she could not go back.

The drive to Denise's death site unfolded in a tense silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional scrape of gravel beneath the tires. With each passing mile, the landscape blurred into muted colors and indistinct shapes. Then, they reached the familiar train tracks.

Eventually, Glenn's voice broke the quiet as Astrid continued to drive. He was watching her closely. "He'll be okay, Astrid," He said.

Astrid only shook her head. "Why would he leave like that?" She exclaimed, stealing a glance at the two women in the backseat. "Without a word? What did I do?"

"Nothing. He's not thinking straight," Michonne commented. "Not since it happened."

"He has to kill Dwight," Rosita muttered, her attention fixed on the road ahead.

"He doesn't have to do anything." Fresh fury rippled through Astrid's veins. She swore again. "I'm going to kick his ass."

"Whose ass?" Glenn wondered. The Dixon woman noted his words were an attempt to lighten the mood. Only he would dare it. "Daryl's or Dwight's?"

But Astrid did not laugh. Did not see the faint smile playing at the corners of his lips meant only for her. "Both," She snapped.

Astrid's gaze swept narrowly to her left, to the vast emptiness of the gray, dying countryside, and she drew in a breath, attempting to steady herself. She strained to empathize with her husband's perspective, to understand his obvious and rightful rage, but his recklessness baffled her. With so much on the line, how could he disregard caution now? How could he leave without a word to her? Without even a goodbye?

Her chest began to constrict once more.

"Astrid?" Michonne spoke softly. There was a deeper question in her voice. Are you all right? She seemed to be asking.

Astrid scoffed sharply. "I'm fine."

"Your hands are shaking," Michonne pointed out, her tone still gentle.

Astrid glanced down at her trembling hands gripping the wheel, confirming such observation. Though they did not threaten to veer the van off course, their quivering betrayed her inner thinkings, nonetheless. The realization that all eyes were now turning toward her hands sent a hiss of frustration through her teeth.

"I said I'm fine," She clipped. "If you don't believe me, I'll pull over, and you can get out. I didn't ask any of you to join me."

Michonne's stare held steady through the rearview mirror. "You know if you leave me on the side of the road, I'll drag your ass out with me."

At such an honest response, a pang of guilt shot through Astrid at her best friend's steadfast loyalty. Instantly, she regretted lashing out and looked away from the mirror. Michonne did not deserve her anger. The woman would move mountains to keep Astrid's family intact.

Moments later, Glenn spoke. "We're not letting you go alone," He murmured. "That's not how we work. We stick together."

Astrid swallowed hard, her throat dry. She tried to form words, but they caught in her throat, leaving only silence in their wake. Fortunately, the quietude soon gave way as she slowed the van, approaching the scene of Denise's murder. Unlike yesterday, walkers now swarmed the area, feasting on the bodies of fallen Saviors, left behind from the shootout. Astrid felt no remorse for their deaths. Let the walkers feast on those bastards. She could not have cared less.

As Astrid emerged from the driver's seat, her gaze wandered. The undead were far enough away that she did not need to deal with them. Instead, she scanned the nearer landscape, attempting to decipher the path her husband might have chosen in pursuit of Dwight. Beyond the gnarled train tracks, obscured by the veil of foliage, lay another network of man-made trails into the trees, but Daryl's motorcycle would not have withstood those thickets.

Yet they would not withstand a man on a warpath himself.

Would he truly abandon his motorcycle again, just when he had gotten it back? Her hesitations had only begun to develop when they were dispelled by the glint of sunlight dancing upon metal, emanating from her husband's unmistakable bike handlebars. So, he was on foot.

Stepping off the tracks, Astrid pushed through the dense undergrowth, uncovering the concealed remains of Daryl's motorcycle. Relief mingled with apprehension. He had been here, of that there was no longer any doubt, but the pressing question remained: where was he now?

Astrid pivoted on her heel, casting her focus towards Rosita, who stood silently, her eyes fixed upon the sole bloodstain that remained of Denise Cloyd. A mask veiled Rosita's features, betraying no hint of the pain that she surely still held onto.

Rosita was always like that—unyielding, suppressing her emotions to avoid the onlookers of others. But in doing so, she erected different notable barriers, leaving herself entirely isolated. Despite Astrid's repeated attempts to forge a friendship, the woman remained distant.

Perhaps, they would never be friends. Still, Astrid needed her now.

"Rosita," She called, wrenching the other woman from the blood. "Which way did Dwight run?"

A bitter edge tainted Rosita's response as she turned to face Astrid. "Now you need my help?"

Astrid met her glare evenly. "Just answer the question."

Rosita's eyes flickered towards the dense thicket of trees, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, before settling back on Astrid. "We should let him do this," She muttered beneath her breath.

"What was that?" Astrid demanded. "You would leave Daryl out there alone? Haven't you been listening? He doesn't know what he's doing."

"He knows exactly what he's doing, Astrid," Rosita snapped back. "You just don't want to see it."

The words sliced through the Dixon woman's chest, and she recoiled instinctively. The truth in Rosita's words was like a bitter pill she could not swallow, a truth she was not ready to face.

Never before had she witnessed such a violent, careless transformation in Daryl, not even from his brother Merle's murder. Not once had Daryl ever gone on a suicide mission for the Governor. People died every day. It was a harsh reality they all dealt with. They could not beat it. So why did Daryl now behave as though the rules of their existence, their world, had changed? Where was this vengeance coming from?

These questions clawed at Astrid's mind, each one a jagged tearing of her own ignorance. Did she truly understand Daryl as intimately as she once believed? She had seen to his triumphs and his joy, his laughter and his tears and his anger. But this, this inexplicable detachment, was foreign even to her. Even during her captivity by the Saviors, he had not embarked on such a self-destructive mission to rescue her. So, what set Denise and Dwight apart from all their previous encounters?

That gaping chasm between them reappeared. But now, no longer did it seem as if it threatened to swallow them whole. Now, it seemed as if Astrid alone had stumbled before its edge—while Daryl had simply chosen to turn and walk away from it.

The mere thought turned her stomach. They had to come back from this.

"Please, Rosita," Astrid finally said. "Help me bring him back. I can't lose him. Not like this." Though her throat tightened, she pressed again, "Which way did Dwight run?"

Rosita regarded Astrid closely. For an agonizing moment, the latter feared rejection again. Then, with a simple gesture, the former offered a direction. "That way."

Astrid quickly turned on her heel, Michonne already forging ahead to mark the path. With Glenn by her side, Astrid's fingers tightened around the grip of her firearm, her eyes scanning the forest floor for any sign of tracks. But she lacked her husband's keen instinct and patience, his uncanny ability to read the signs nature left behind. All she saw were leaves, branches, and the occasional scurrying insect.

Astrid's pulse raced as they trudged deeper into the darkening woods, the sun's descent marking their dwindling time. But to consider abandoning him to the mercy of the forest or worse, to the clutches of the Saviors, was inconceivable. Sleep would be impossible if she returned to Alexandria without him, her mind haunted by the tormenting question of his fate—lost or dead.

Crossing over a fallen tree trunk, the snap of a twig beneath Astrid's foot shattered the silence. But it was the sudden gasp that jerked her senses to high alert. She snapped her head upright, yet before she could react, an arrow whistled through the air, narrowly missing her by mere inches before embedding itself into a nearby tree. Astrid's heart leaped within her chest as she spun to confront the unseen shooter.

There, emerging from the trees like a specter of death, stood her husband. His crossbow was raised, his steely gaze never leaving Astrid's.

Anger eclipsed any relief she felt at finding him. Snatching the arrow from its wooden prison, Astrid stormed toward him. "You almost shot me!" She seethed.

"Hardly," Daryl muttered as he ripped the arrow from her grasp. He would never harm his wife intentionally. Startle her, yes. Steal the upper hand because he was angry, certainly. But to physically hurt her? Never. "You shouldn't have come, Astrid."

Her reddened, twisted hands found Daryl's chest and she shoved him with a force that sent him stumbling backward amongst the leaves.

"You shouldn't have left!"

"I had to!" He fumed. "I have to kill him!"

"You don't have to do it like this," She snapped.

Daryl reclosed the distance between them. "When I split off from Sasha and Abraham," he began, "Dwight was out there in the woods, in that burned-out forest, with those girls. He put a gun to my head and tied me up!" Disgust laced his words. "I even tried to help him." He glanced back toward the trees, but she refused to let him leave so easily again.

Astrid planted her feet firmly on the ground. "You have to stop blaming yourself!"

"It ain't that easy," He snarled. "Now, I'm goin' to go do what I should've done before."

"For her? For Denise?" Astrid's words were cruel, a barb aimed straight at her husband's heart, and she knew it. But they were necessary, a frantic attempt to shake him from his blind anger. Daryl tensed, his jaw clenching as he glared at her. "Daryl, I know you cared about her—just as much as I did. But she's gone. Denise is gone. You're not doing this for her. You're doing it for you."

"I don't give a shit."

Astrid flinched.

"Daryl, you're not thinking straight," Glenn hastily interjected, his voice edged as he stepped forward to defend Astrid. "We need to go back and figure this out from home. Our home. Everyone back there needs us right now." He paused, his tone softening, as if afraid to finish. "It's going to go wrong out here."

"Our home, Daryl," Astrid reiterated, charged somehow, by both fury and sorrow now. "Think about your family. About Bailey. About our baby. About me. You're walking into a death trap, and you're acting like you don't give a damn about any of us."

"Don't you dare say that," Daryl growled, his finger jabbing towards her.

"But it's the truth, isn't it?" Astrid argued. "You left this morning without so much as a word about where you were going. You didn't even say goodbye!" She drew in a shaky breath. "Did you even plan on coming back?"

"I made Denise a promise, Astrid," Daryl insisted. There was a desperate choke beneath his breath.

"You made me a promise first. You promised we'd face this together. This life," Astrid reminded him.

Daryl stared her down, and in that intense gaze, Astrid realized how close they had become amid their argument. Both of them were breathing heavily, chests flaring, though still not yet touching. Never touching, not when they were like this. Not when Daryl was determined to play the hero. Not when Astrid was equally determined to save him from himself, knowing all too well that without someone to anchor the hero, they risked becoming the villain.

Michonne stepped up on Astrid's other side. "We'll square it. I will," She assured Daryl. "Just come back with us. Your family needs you. Dwight doesn't get to be more important than that."

"My family isn't safe as long as he's alive," Daryl protested. "I can't live with that." He glanced away from Michonne and back to his wife. "I won't lose you again."

"You will lose me if you walk away like this," Astrid said. "You will die out there. Dwight and his Saviors are bigger than you. You can't take them on alone. We can figure this out together, as a family. But you need to come home. We need you, Daryl. I need you."

Daryl remained fixed on her, lost in the verdant depths of her eyes. Slowly, inexorably, he approached her. Astrid's heart hammered in her chest, drowning out even the rustle of leaves underfoot. Daryl's right hand reached for her, rough fingers tracing the delicate curve of her jaw before coming to rest on her cheek. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, she could see the agony in his tear-filled eyes.

It killed her that he could not help him. Astrid knew her husband yearned to stay, to stand by her side as he always had, yet his conscience held him back.

"Please, honey," Astrid begged. "Stay."

"I can't," He whispered.

Daryl briefly leaned in. His lips brushed against her temple, and then he withdrew, leaving Astrid reeling. He turned away and started toward the trees. She made no move to stop him. His choice was made.

But Astrid was now being forced to make one, too. A choice between her husband and the violence of the past that loomed ahead, or her children and the promise of a future that awaited behind.

In a heartbeat, she made her decision.

She chose her children.

"I'm not coming after you," She said after him.

"No," Daryl returned, his back still turned. "You aren't."

Astrid expected this. And still, her heart shattered for a final time upon the ensuing question that slipped past her lips. "Will I see you again?"

Now, Daryl hesitated. His shoulders went completely rigid as he turned back to face her. But the man who stood before her now was a shadow of the one she had loved and faced the world's end with. This was a man driven by rage, by vengeance, by the thirst for blood—a man who did not choose her, who was no longer her partner.

Shifting his crossbow to his other hand, Daryl did not look away as he hollowly admitted, "I don't know."

That was all that this stranger would give her.

And then, like a wisp of smoke carried away by the wind, he vanished into the trees, leaving her to watch him go. A solitary tear traced a path down Astrid's cheek as tremors began to wrack her body. Her chest constricted, a familiar searing pain wrapping tight around her sternum. As the world spun around her, a dizzying blur, Astrid felt herself sway. But before she could crumble completely, two pairs of hands reached out, catching her. Michonne and Glenn.

Rosita glided around the trio, her movements so silent that Astrid had almost forgotten she was even present. Yet, her next little kindness would become carved into Astrid forever. "I'll make sure you see him again," She declared hotly before she marched into the trees after the hunter.

Astrid quietly watched her go as well and remained rooted in place. Glenn's hand found her wrist, unable to hold her bruised and torn palm, and his grip tightened. There were no words exchanged between them, but there did not need to be.

With Michonne's arm still wrapped protectively around her waist, Astrid eventually drew an unsteady breath. The scent of cedar and earth filled her as she took a tentative step backward.

Then another. And another.

Until Astrid Dixon was effectively walking away from the forest, leaving behind a piece of her heart—and the only home she had ever truly known.

~~~~~~~~~~

i'm hurting.  how are you doing?