[ lxviii. you can't carry her alone ]

october 26th, 2012

➸➸➸

THE NEXT TEN DAYS passed by slowly and uneventfully.

Within the Alexandria Safe Zone's tall, fortified walls, its residents moved about their daily routines, unfazed by the mass execution it had taken part in less than two weeks ago. But, beneath the bloodshed, there was a holding of breath. The absence of any new movement or threat—or mere mention at all—of the Saviors had heightened relative anxieties to an extent.

Well, maybe only Astrid's anxiety.

For her, this calmness within her home, within herself, held eeriness. Like the calm before the storm.

Astrid knew in her gut that the Saviors were still out there, biding their time and surely plotting their own move against the Alexandrians. Paula and Molly's comments to her in the slaughterhouse, regarding the ruthless nature of the Saviors and their enigmatic leader, Negan, had not been for generic conversation. No, the strangeness of their undoing still echoed constantly in her mind. What had been said was only said to scare her. And it had done its trick.

But she kept her fears of a promised deadly reality to herself because no one would believe otherwise.

Rick, and Michonne, and Maggie, and even her husband himself, now clung to peace as if they had not already declared war.

"All right."

Denise Cloyd's voice drew Astrid's attention back to the infirmary cot she lay upon. She raised her head to find her assistant—her own obstetrician of sorts—hovering over her, her youthful expression guarded as she carefully began to examine the wound on the Dixon woman's stomach.

Astrid winced as Denise peeled back the gauze, revealing the angry red line. On her opposite side, Daryl stood, his eyes fixed on the slice. She recognized his guilt and helplessness in an instant.

"Hey." She reached out with her left hand, her fingers threading carefully through his. "I'm okay."

But Daryl's worry was impossible to distract. Instead of responding, he chewed furiously on his bottom lip. It was a nervous habit of his, accompanied by the way he shifted his weight absentmindedly from foot to foot, as if unable to find solid ground.

"She's right, Daryl," Denise assured, her voice steady. "And there's no harm to the baby. In a few more weeks, her cut will be fully healed, and all that'll be left is a scar. Astrid is going to be fine."

"What about her hands?" Daryl prodded.

Astrid let out a small sigh at the mention of her hands, the epicenter of her pain. The jagged cuts on her palms were slowly knitting together, enough that she could hold her husband's hand in her left as she did now, but the fracture in her right knuckles still provided daily agony.

Currently, her right hand was wrapped tightly in a brace—in a cocoon of protection that felt more like a prison. She hated it, despised the way it limited her. She could still hardly bear any pressure, and her skin was now colored angry shades of purple. She also could not clench her hand into a fist; hell, she could not even pick up a fork to eat without wincing.

Denise gently grabbed her wrist and lifted it to examine the knuckles closely, her eyes searching for signs of progress. "How's the pain?" She inquired softly, peering over the rim of her glasses.

"Just chop it off," Astrid replied bitterly. "It would hurt less."

A chuckle escaped Denise's lips, though it was tinged with sympathy. Daryl's lips curled. "Leave it to you to jump straight to amputation," He said.

Astrid sank back into the narrow cot, her movements slow and painful as she adjusted herself. Shoulders slumped, she cast a glance towards the window, where the gray light of autumn was filtering through the curtains. "Whatever gets the job done, right?" She huffed.

"I don't think that's the solution," Denise remarked. "We'll give it another week, then we'll ditch the brace and start physio."

Rolling her eyes, Astrid protested, "I don't need therapy."

"Daryl seems to think otherwise," Denise countered, shooting him a pointed glance before returning her attention to Astrid. "He mentioned you struggled with a fork this morning."

"Threw a huge fit about it, too." Daryl grinned as he recalled the morning's events. "Don't think I've ever seen someone get so pissed at a fork before."

"What happened?" Denise asked.

"It's now stickin' out of the kitchen wall," Daryl explained with a chuckle. "That—and a plate of casserole." He leaned closer to Denise. "Between you and me, my wife is blamin it on mood swings, but I think she just enjoys makin' messes."

Face burning, Astrid hurled a pillow at her husband. Daryl caught it effortlessly, his shit-eating grin spreading wider. Denise had begun to laugh, too.

Astrid folded her arms tightly across her chest and glared at them. "I'm right here, you know!

But they paid her no mind, their laughter eventually subsiding all on its own. After, Daryl attempted to reach out to her, however, Astrid brushed him off with a swat. Meanwhile, Denise, struggling to stifle her giggles at the bickering unfolding before her, changed the subject. "Speaking of mood swings, how's Baby Dixon holding up?"

Baby Dixon. The nickname had become a cherished emblem for most of the Alexandria Safe Zone. Astrid's playful smile softened as she cradled the swell of her stomach. She was eighteen weeks into her pregnancy now. Nearly halfway there.

"Well, my weird cravings are still going strong. But I don't feel as tired anymore," Astrid reported. "But my chest still gets tight, and sometimes I feel like I can't breathe. When that happens, these dizzy spells come on, and I get sick."

Denise's brow furrowed with deep concern. "Like your first night back from the compound?" She queried. When Astrid confirmed, Denise's expression darkened. "How many more episodes have you had since then?"

"Three," Astrid answered.

"Four," Daryl corrected.

Astrid frowned, though she did not comment on her mistake as she watched her friend's unease mount. "What is it, Denise?"

"I'm sure it's nothing serious," Denise reassured. "Dizziness is a common occurrence during pregnancy due to changes in blood circulation, but . . ." She paused, her voice trailing off.

"But what?" Astrid pressed.

Denise hesitated, her eyes flitting between Astrid's anxious expression and Daryl's clenched jaw. She stood before them, a pillar of professional composure, but her measured tones still betrayed an undercurrent. "If these symptoms persist," she began, "there's a chance you could be at risk for preeclampsia."

Astrid's breath caught in her throat. "Is the baby in danger?"

Denise shook her head slowly. "We don't have definitive answers," She reminded. Before Astrid could voice her escalating fears, Denise raised a hand. "I don't want you to panic, Astrid. There are treatments available."

"Treatments for the old world."

"There are medications we can explore. But—again—we cannot confirm if this is even the issue. It's only a possibility. Another could simply be heartburn."

The knuckles in Astrid's left hand turned white as she clenched it into a fist. Beside her, Daryl's touch went to her lower back, and he began to rub soothing circles into her skin. "Why warn us if it might not even happen?" He growled.

"Because as your physician," Denise responded calmly, "it's my duty to inform you of any complications that may arise during the pregnancy. Friendship aside, I have to say what needs to be said when it needs to be said. It's a professional obligation. You have to understand that."

"We do," Astrid affirmed through gritted teeth. "We understand . . ." She drew a shallow breath, her chest constricting. "We'll come back if things worsen."

"Which they likely won't," Denise insisted. "But I'll always be here as a precautionary measure."

Astrid offered a strained nod, mustering a faint smile that she knew failed to reach her eyes. "Thank you, Denise," She murmured. Daryl nodded his own silent appreciation, his gaze still set upon his wife's abdomen.

As the tension in the room slowly ebbed, silence enveloped them. The atmosphere was far removed from the buoyant anticipation of moments ago. Thankfully, an interruption was granted by the sudden intrusion of Rosita Espinosa in the infirmary's main entrance. She held a machete in her hand.

"Denise!" She called out. "Today's session will be in the cul-de-sac. Are you—?" Her words faltered as she took in the scene before her—of Astrid poised on the edge of the narrow cot, with her doctor and her hunter settled anxiously on either side. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

Astrid's head shook slowly. "No." Her voice seemed to emanate from a distant place. "We were just wrapping up."

Rosita nodded in acknowledgment, her footsteps pattering softly on the worn floorboards as she advanced further into the room. "All right," She said briskly. "Well, Denise, just meet me outside, and we'll start the lesson."

Denise hesitated, her fingers fidgeting nervously at her side. "Actually," she began tentatively, "can we do something else?"

A furrow formed between Rosita's dark brows, suspicion flickering in her gaze. "Like what?" She questioned.

Denise moved to the opposite side of the infirmary and snatched up a forgotten map from a nearby countertop. She returned to the group. "There's a supply run I've been considering—a medical supply run," She announced. "You see, after I got out of DC, I just drove. I remembered seeing this building right when I realized I had no idea where I was going. Edison's Apothecary and Boutique. It's just this little gift shop in a strip mall—but if it's really an apothecary, then they had drugs."

Daryl leaned in, his interest piqued by the prospect. "How do you know they still got 'em?"

"I don't. But it isn't that far," The young doctor claimed. "I just want to check." Her eyes flicked between Rosita and Daryl. "And I know that neither of you is busy right now." Then, she turned to Astrid, a silent apology shining in her eyes. "I'd ask you to come along, but . . ."

Astrid's hand drifted instinctively to her swollen belly. "I know," She murmured softly. "It's okay." She turned to Daryl. "You interested in checking it out?"

Her hunter nodded resolutely. "Yeah, we'll go," He declared firmly. He directed a pointed look to Rosita, seeking her agreement.

Denise cleared her throat. "Actually, I wanted to check," She clarified hesitantly. "I just wanted to help."

Daryl's expression darkened. "How much time have you spent out there?"

"None," Denise admitted quietly, her shoulders slumping with her innocent confession.

Daryl scoffed incredulously, shaking his head. "Then forget it," He dismissed.

"I can identify the meds," Denise asserted. "And I know how to use a machete now. I've seen roamers up close. I'm ready."

Astrid stood in silence as she watched her husband regress into his habits. He gnawed on his lips, all the while considering Denise's words. He glanced at Rosita. "You good with this?"

Her response was sharp. "No."

Denise rolled her eyes with a resolve that bordered on defiance. "I'll go alone if I have to."

"Then you'll die alone," Daryl retorted.

"I'm asking you to make sure I don't," Denise shot back, not missing a beat.

"What about her, huh?" Daryl's frustration sparked as he shot a pointed finger towards Astrid. "And Maggie? What happens to them if something happens to you out there? We're damn well short on doctors, and my wife ain't deliverin' our baby on her own."

Denise pursed her lips. "We're heading out for medicine—medicine that could help Astrid, Maggie, and every other person in this place," She said determinedly. "I could list it all out for you, but time's not something we can exactly afford right now. Look, you've said it yourself—we're safer in numbers. I'm going, Daryl, with or without you."

Before Daryl could interject, Rosita scoffed. She clutched her hips, her fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt in exasperation. "You're going, Daryl," She decided. "Because I am not babysitting her by myself."

And just like that, their scavenger group was set. Without further word, Rosita hurried off to gather her gear, while Denise vanished into the adjoining room to do one last recount of the infirmary's main supply. Left in the wake of their departures, Daryl still stood with Astrid. Slowly, she rose from the cot, her injured hand seeking his chest for support.

"You'll watch over her, won't you?" She asked him.

"'Course I will," He huffed.

Astrid's fingers lifted from his chest to brush his cheek, pushing back the hair that hung in his eyes. Irritation awaited her there. "Hey," She soothed. "It's all going to be fine."

"Too much is ridin' on this," Daryl protested. "We can't lose her."

"You won't lose her," Astrid countered. "You're too good a protector for that."

Daryl simply scoffed again, but there was less anger behind it already. Confidence returned to him as he leaned down, the leather fabric of his jacket brushing against her bare biceps, as he pressed his lips against Astrid's. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, pulling him closer.

Gratefulness flooded her as their lips met. For three agonizing days, she had been unable to kiss him, her lips too raw and torn. But now, his touch was a healer all its own, momentarily banishing the cold that seeped from the vast, white walls of the infirmary.

Reluctantly, when the need for air overpowered, Astrid broke the kiss. A smile graced her lips before pain abruptly erupted once more. She winced, a familiar clawing sensation filling her chest, before forcing her to shut her eyes.

It was happening again.

Daryl's concern was immediate, his touch gentle as he reached for her chin to tilt her head back. "You alright?"

Counting silently to ten, Astrid waited for the blurring behind her eyelids to subside. When she finally reopened her eyes, she met her husband's watchful stare and nodded weakly. "Yes," She managed.

"Did it jus' happen?"

Astrid shook her head. She did not want to deal with this now. She had been fine the last four times. She would survive this one, too. "No," She lied. She mustered a coy, pathetic smile. "I just . . . forgot to breathe when kissing you."

"Denise just said—"

"I'm fine, honey," Astrid interrupted. She pressed another kiss to his cheek and then pulled away before he could protest. "Be careful out there."

Daryl's steely eyes narrowed, unconvinced. "You be careful in here."

With a final squeeze, he reluctantly released her. Astrid trailed behind her hunter as he strode towards the infirmary's front door, and then reached around him to hold it open as he passed through.

Stepping out onto the porch, Astrid stayed by the wrap-around railing as Daryl started down its steps. Silently, with her eyes, she followed his path toward Alexandria's gates. When he paused, halfway down the street, and cast one last glance back, Astrid felt a pang of bittersweet longing tugging at her heartstrings. The sunlight cast dappled shadows across his features, illuminating the subtle crease of worry still etched into his brow. But he did not return to ensure her well-being. And for that, she was grateful. He had others to protect now.

Astrid would be fine for a few more hours. Besides, Denise deserved an escape from worrying about the Dixon woman, too.

With a faraway smile, Astrid watched as her husband—and then Rosita and the young doctor, too—disappeared down the street to confront the wide, wide world beyond their community's walls.

➸➸➸

HOURS LATER, ASTRID FOUND herself reclined in her bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows across her bedroom. She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that offered even a semblance of comfort, her body still reeling from the nausea that had recently hit her again.

Bailey Stratton lay beside her, her tiny fingers pulling on a string attached to the sleeve of Astrid's shirt. "Are you feeling any better?"

Astrid mustered a weak smile, her eyes fluttering open to meet the young girl's gaze. "A little," She admitted. "The queasiness has gone away, at least."

The corners of Bailey's mouth twitched. "I'd hope so," She quipped. "You just spent the last twenty minutes puking your guts out."

Astrid wrinkled her nose affectionately. "You sound just like Daryl."

"Good." Bailey's expression softened, a flicker of something deeper passing through her eyes. "He asked me to keep an eye on you."

"Of course, he did," Astrid sighed. "And what exactly do you plan to report back to him when he comes home?"

Bailey shrugged. "Whatever you want me to," She replied, her smirk both playful and conspiratorial. "Us girls have to stick together." She glanced briefly at Astrid's stomach. "Especially when he comes along."

"Are you accepting that it's a boy now, too?"

"I'm preparing to accept it," Bailey corrected with a laugh. "There's a big difference." Astrid arched an eyebrow, a silent invitation for the young girl to elaborate. And she did. "I remember feeling the same way when Finn was on the way," She admitted. "I didn't want a little brother. I wanted a sister. I thought . . . that's how I could guarantee myself a best friend for life."

"I was annoyed by Finn from the moment he was born," The young girl continued while Astrid listened intently. "It wasn't until he turned two that I actually began to warm up to him, I think. Mainly because, suddenly, he was everywhere, touching everything, getting into all sorts of trouble. That's when I realized he was just like me. Or . . . could be just like me. He became my little partner-in-crime. After that, we were inseparable. It took time, but it was worth the wait. He was worth the wait." Her hand went to touch Astrid's stomach. "I have a feeling this little guy will be more than worth it, too."

"And I have a feeling this little guy is going to love you," Astrid replied.

"Well, duh." Bailey's grin widened. "Who could resist me?"

Astrid rolled her eyes, though the gesture was warm, a silent acknowledgment of Bailey's undeniable charm. Everyone who met her could not help but adore her, even when she gave them a run for their money. She was a whirlwind of contradictions, after all—fierce yet gentle, brave yet cautious, kind yet demanding respect, funny yet unapologetically bold.

And as Astrid now looked at Bailey, pride swelled within her. Despite the absence of blood, this young girl was undeniably hers.

"Promise me you won't grow up too quickly," Astrid implored. "And I don't just mean with your growth spurts."

Bailey chuckled and then cast a glance at her socked feet. Astrid followed her stare, noting how they were already the same height as they lay on the bed together. At only twelve and still growing, each passing day brought her closer to blossoming into a true force to be reckoned with.

"I promise, Astrid," Bailey finally said.

Astrid smiled as she leaned her head back against Bailey's. Their gazes drifted lazily toward the window, the glass pane a portal to a world they could only vaguely glimpse. The absence of sound from the remainder of the house was strange, considering the lively banter and laughter that typically filled the space.

Recollections of such mayhem danced in Astrid's mind—of a midnight foray to the kitchen to stifle her cravings, only to find Glenn, Tara, Carl, Eugene, Heath, and Aaron sprawled across the living room's many couches, bathed in the glow of an old comedy film. Naturally, she had joined them.

Now, Astrid allowed her eyelids to droop. She might have rested only a few minutes before a sudden rap at the door broke her slumber. Her eyes snapped open as her bedroom door swung wide, revealing Rick's grim countenance.

Astrid was startled to see him. They had not spoken much since the night of the compound. She sat up. "What's wrong?"

Rick's stare swept over her and Bailey. "Come with me, Astrid."

Once he left, Astrid disentangled herself from the bed, her fingers briefly squeezing Bailey's. "I'll be back soon," She promised. The young girl nodded silently, all signs of her playfulness gone in an instant, as Astrid slipped out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, Rick was waiting by the front door. Without a word, he led her outside into the cooling fall air. "What's going on?" She pressed, her voice tinged with apprehension as they made their way down the deserted road.

Rick did not answer again. Whether he would not or could not, his silence was entirely deafening—and destructive. His stoic demeanor was only serving to amplify Astrid's growing sense of dread. With each step they took, the knots in her stomach tightened, her mind racing with the possibilities of what awaited them.

As they rounded a street corner, her eyes landed on the familiar vehicle parked in front of the infirmary. Its driver's side and backseat doors were swung open wide. From here, Astrid could see fresh blood on the pavement.

Instantly, she broke into a sprint.

"Astrid, wait!" Rick called, but she paid him no heed.

The infirmary's porch steps blurred beneath her feet as she flung open the front door and burst inside. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and sweat. Heart thrumming in her chest, her eyes were immediately drawn to a familiar upright form.

Daryl's head whipped around at Astrid's sudden entrance, tension pulling taut across his features until recognition flooded his eyes, his shoulders sagging in relief. She raced towards him, the distance between them closing quickly as she collided with his frame. Her breath caught in her throat as she pressed against him, her fingers curling into his shoulders.

"You're okay?" Astrid gasped, her voice barely a whisper as she cupped the back of his neck with her hand. "Rick didn't say—I didn't know—"

"I'm alright," Daryl murmured in return, his voice gravelly.

Drawing back, Astrid's gaze swept across the rest of the room. Her eyes landed on Eugene Porter's prone form lying upon one of the infirmary cots. His pallor was stark against the crisp white sheets, and a swath of blood-soaked gauze was wound tightly around his wide waist. Rosita hovered over him, her movements quick and precise as she tended to his injuries.

"What happened?" Astrid demanded.

Rosita glanced up, and Astrid's eyes went briefly to the blood stains on the fabric of her own clothing. "We were attacked," She muttered, her glare landing over Astrid's shoulder. "Because your husband couldn't finish off that puto when he had the chance."

Astrid's attention snapped back to Daryl as he stiffened. "What is she talking about?"

Her hunter's boots scuffed against the dusty floor as he shifted his weight, his lips pursed in a bitter line. "It was him, babe," He spat out. "The guy I crossed in the woods months ago. Who took my bike and my crossbow."

Astrid's eyes startled, realizing the very weapon was now strapped across his back. He had gotten it back.

"Dwight and his Saviors, they attacked us," He concluded.

The revelation did not hurt as much as she suspected it should have. Rather, all it did was confirm her suspicions — that the threat they thought they had annihilated was still out there, waiting to strike.

And now they had.

But there was no time for self-indulgent gloating. Astrid's focus shifted to Eugene again. "Did he go you?" She questioned.

"No," Rosita sharply answered. "Abraham and Eugene were already out there, up to God knows what."

Astrid's mind raced, struggling to piece together the puzzle before her. She did not want to imagine the chaos nor the luck, she supposed, of them all crossing paths at the same time. Surely, that was why there were only injuries on their end from the Saviors' ambush and no casualties.

As she inspected Eugene's wound, her fingers navigated the medical handiwork. "Did you stitch this?" She asked Rosita.

She nodded. "I patched him up and gave him some meds."

"Good." Astrid draped the blankets back over Eugene's body and then promptly stepped away from the cot. She surveyed the remaining infirmary space, taking in the haggard faces of those from the scavenging run. Yet one was still missing. "Where's Denise?"

An icy chill seemed to permeate the air, sending the room into a hush, as every muscle in the room stiffened at the mere mention of the young doctor's name. Instinctively, Astrid turned to her husband, knowing he would deliver the brutal truth without hesitation.

Daryl's gaze bore into hers. "She's dead."

Astrid recoiled. But somewhere, deep down, a part of her had already braced for the devastating confirmation even as a flicker of hope lingered. Denise Cloyd—her first Alexandrian friend—was gone, and her death now hit Astrid with a force that robbed her of tears, leaving only the thundering cadence of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.

She looked at the hardwood floor. "How?" She forced out.

Her husband had gone silent. Turning to Rosita next, Astrid found her answer in the haunted tremor of the woman's voice. "Shot through the head with an arrow," She revealed. "She was in the middle of a sentence . . . and then she was gone."

Daryl abruptly sharply pivoted towards Rick, who had been watching from the threshold. "I'm goin' to go get her," He announced. "We left her body behind to save Eugene, but I won't leave it out there."

"Daryl, that's not—" Rick attempted.

"This is on me. I'm not askin' for permission. I'll be back before dark."

"I'm going with you," Astrid decided.

"No, you're not," Her husband retorted, his tone strict. The lines carved on his blood-splattered face deepened with anger as he shook his head. "You're stayin' here."

He stormed out of the infirmary's entrance, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. Yet, Astrid refused to let him slip away so easily. Pushing past the others, she charged down the porch steps and caught sight of Daryl already slipping into the driver's seat of the car parked haphazardly on the curb. She lunged for the passenger door handle just as he reached to lock it. She wrenched it open with a forceful motion.

"I'm going with you," She repeated fiercely.

"It's too dangerous!"

"She was my friend too, Daryl!" Astrid cried out. "You don't get to push me away and shoulder all the guilt. You can't carry her back alone. I won't allow you to do that to yourself again."

Daryl remained silent, his grip on the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turned bone-white, the tendons in his hands standing out starkly against his tanned skin. When he offered no further resistance, she slid into the passenger's seat beside him. With no more words to be exchanged, Daryl ignited the engine, the roar of the car drowning out their roaring blood as they tore off down the road. No one dared to protest as they drove through Alexandria's main gate and began to race towards the site of Denise's death.

Knots twisted in Astrid's stomach, and she awaited the inevitable wave of tears, but shock held them at bay for now, a cold numbness settling over her instead.

Casting a sidelong glance at Daryl, Astrid felt that distant, unseen chasm between them again. She had harbored a faint hope that time might erode its distance, mend it completely, but instead, it seemed to have only been lying in wait. To stretch further, its edges jagged and precarious, now threatening to crumble them both.

Daryl's glare remained fixed on the road ahead, a steel facade masking what raged dangerously within. His jaw clenched so tightly now that the sinews stood out in sharp relief, and the silence that emanated from him was near suffocating. Astrid had long since learned that a brooding, silent Daryl was far more unsettling than one who wore his emotions on his sleeve. For when he was silent, she knew what was to come when that rumbling storm finally broke.

Astrid's hands drifted absently to her swelling stomach, to their unborn son, whose presence seemed to only amplify the tension between them. She tried to push aside the nagging sensation in her mind—the fear of willingly taking him beyond the safety of their walls, where the potential threat of ambush by the Saviors still lingered. Astrid shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the present, to push aside the uncertainty. For now, as she stared out the passenger's side window, there was no obvious threat. For now, there was only the calm of their surroundings, the grim familiarity of a world ravaged by decay and despair.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Daryl veered off the main road, his chosen path leading them onto the desolate tracks of a forgotten railway. Astrid's muscles tensed at the sight, the mere mention of train tracks dredging up nightmares that still haunted her nights. Once, those tracks had nearly spelled her death. Now, they had snuffed out Denise's life in a heartbeat.

Astrid longed for the days when the sight of train tracks would not have induced nausea nor panic attacks, when the mundane routines of their life within the prison walls held an undeniable allure. She missed the creaky mattress that she shared with Daryl. She missed the lack of privacy, and the early morning wakeups. She even missed cleaning the fences of walkers. Astrid ached for the simplicity of those days, for the family they had forged there—a family that had weathered countless storms . . . until they found themselves shattered by one that they never saw coming.

Faces now gone still rested in the shadows of Astrid's memory. Hershel's wise counsel, Beth's sweet melodies, Tyreese's gentle strength, Bob's kind spirit—names forever in the annals of her heart, reminders of a time when they believed they could conquer anything thrown their way. And then, in an instant, their world crumbled, leaving behind nothing but ghosts.

Sometimes, Astrid wished she could return to the prison, if only to glimpse what remained of her former home, to feel the echoes of their past through its dark, empty corridors. But the pain of revisiting those memories was still too great.

Maybe someday.

Suddenly, the vehicle came to a halt on the tracks, metal against metal screeching overhead. Astrid's heart leaped into her throat at the sight ahead. Through the windshield, she could just make out the figure lying between the rails, the silhouette cast against the backdrop of fading daylight. Daryl slipped wordlessly from the driver's seat, retrieved a blanket from the trunk, and began to make his way towards Denise's body. Astrid followed quietly behind him.

The silence between them was broken only by the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Daryl reached the scene first, but Astrid was right on his heels, and the sight that met her eyes was enough to shatter her composure. There, twisted on the tracks, lay Denise's dead body, a crimson pool spreading beneath her head like a morbid halo.

Astrid's knees buckled beneath her as she sank to the ground. Her jaw went slack with horror at the sight of the gaping void where her right eye had once been. Shot right out. Slowly, carefully, she extracted the blood-stained arrow from Denise's broken skull.

Even as Astrid held the instrument of death in her grasp, her tears would not fall. Why could she not cry? Why could she not scream out for the life stolen so mercilessly from her? Her apprentice. Her friend.

As she knelt there, her hand absentmindedly brushing back Denise's blood-streaked hair, she only stirred when Daryl draped a blanket over the young woman, shielding her from view.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Astrid still clutched the arrow that had robbed Denise of her life. Her stare held unsteadily upon the lethal projectile, a crease forming between her brows before, in a sudden surge of rage, she snapped it in two and hurled it into the distance.

Turning back to her husband, she found him glaring down at Denise's covered form. "I should've killed him," He muttered through clenched teeth. "I had the chance, months ago, and I let him go. Now, she's the one payin' for it."

"You couldn't have known—" Astrid began.

"Don't." He cut her off. "This is on me! You know it. Rosita knows it. She might as well have spat in my face."

"I don't blame you, Daryl," She insisted. She reached out to touch his arm, but when he flinched away, she dropped her hand instantly. "How could you ever think that?"

"Because anythin' else would be a damn lie."

"Denise knew the risks. She accepted them, just like we all do when we go beyond the walls. This isn't your fault."

Daryl's only response to his wife was a scornful scoff, dismissing her words cruelly and completely. He moved toward Denise, and he seized her cold, unmoving shoulders, his fingers trembling. It was evident that he had reached the limit of his patience with Astrid's attempts at consolation. And in his current state, she knew better than to push. She could not breach the fortress of his grief. She simply had to let him feel this.

And so, Astrid silently joined her husband and grasped Denise's ankles. For the first time in ten days, she did not feel any pain from her own broken and battered hands as she lifted her dead friend from the blood-soaked gravel.

She felt nothing at all—nothing at all—as together, she and Daryl began the slow walk back to their vehicle, the body of Denise Cloyd suspended between them as they went.

~~~~~~~~~~