[ xlix. the one walking away ]

july 3rd, 2011

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DARYL DIXON'S BLOOD SIMMERED like molten steel as he bulldozed through the thinning thicket of trees, clutching his crossbow in one hand while his unruly older brother trailed in his wake. The hunter did not give a damn about his current bearings, all he knew was he had to put some serious distance between himself, and Merle—and that godforsaken prison. Thoughts of that place clawed at him, but he could not afford to let it chew away at him. It was a torment that would eat him alive.

But Astrid—missing her was a fire burning Daryl from the inside out. He hurt like he had never hurt before. Each memory of her sent his mind into a reckless tailspin, a one-way ticket to insanity. He had to stop himself thinking of her, or else she would be the death of him.

But what about her? Was he the reason for her misery, too? How the hell was she holding up?

Did his leaving break her spirit? Or was it a twisted kind of relief? Back when he had left the prison with Rick and the others, she could not even muster a look in his direction. At the time, Daryl could not look her way either, but now her ghost was etched into every crevice of his brain. Her intense green eyes haunted the very forest he walked in, and her scent lingered on his clothes, and sometimes, it was as if he could hear her laughter carried faintly on the wind, mocking him.

Astrid Lancaster was a damn force to be reckoned with.

"The shit were you doin' pointing that thing at me?" Merle barked, slicing through the hunter's thoughts like broken glass. Daryl snapped his head up, shook it like a man possessed, and slapped the side of his skull, as if that would knock the memories loose.

Just ten minutes ago, the two brothers had stumbled upon a group of survivors getting overrun by a pack of walkers. Merle, the heartless bastard, wanted to cut and run, but Daryl could not stomach the thought of leaving those poor people behind. Astrid would not have done it, so neither would he. After they had finally lent a hand, Merle had tried to rob the defenseless bunch blind. It was a low-blow, dirty move, and Daryl had to bring out the crossbow to hold him in check. Now Merle was fit to burst in his irritation and anger, and the little brother was about to catch the full brunt of his wrath.

"They were scared, man," Daryl growled back through gritted teeth.

"They were rude is what they were," Merle grumbled with a dark edge. "Rude, and they owed us a token of gratitude."

Daryl could hear Merle's footsteps closing in behind him, and with each step, his own stride grew heavier, each footfall resonating with mounting anger. "They didn't owe us nothin'," He chuffed.

"Oh, you helpin' people out of the goodness of your heart? Even though you might die doin' it?" Merle snarled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that somethin' your pal, Sheriff Rick, taught you?"

"Man, there was a baby!" Daryl shouted.

"Oh, so otherwise you would've just left 'em to the biters, huh?" Merle taunted. It was a cruel jab that only stoked the hunter's rage.

He had begun to peel back the layers of this confrontation. Merle was treating those survivors just as Daryl had once treated him back in Atlanta when he had abandoned his own brother on a rooftop, leaving him to fend off a certain death. They had once been tight, but now, the man facing him felt like a stranger.

In frustration, Daryl hurled an arrow to the ground. "Man, I went back for you!" He insisted, wheeling around to confront his older brother head-on. "You weren't there! I didn't cut your damn hand off, either. You did that! Way before they locked you up on that roof. You were askin' for it!"

A hollow, humorless laugh escaped Merle's lips, his glare gleaming with a deadly amusement. "You know what's funny to me? You and Sheriff Rick are like this now," He sneered, holding up two grimy fingers close together. "Well, I bet you a penny and a fiddle of gold you never told him that we were plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."

"It didn't happen."

"Yeah, it didn't—'cause I wasn't there to help your sorry ass."

Daryl's nostrils flared as he locked eyes with his brother, their faces inches apart. "Like back when we were kids, huh?" He spat, his words laden with a lifetime of buried resentment. "Who left who then?"

"What?" Merle demanded. "That's why I lost my hand?"

"You lost your hand 'cause you're a simpleminded piece of shit!"

He began to retreat again, his steps taking him back toward the woods. However, Merle refused to let him escape so easily. In a sudden surge of aggression, Merle lunged at Daryl, knocking him to the ground. The hunter struggled fiercely against his older brother's steel grip, their bodies locked and muscles straining, until a sound cut through the tension, freezing them both in place. Fabric tearing apart. Daryl watched in disbelief as his flannelled shirt shredded into tatters within his own grasp, scattered remnants of a past he could never fully escape.

Catching the sight of exposed skin, Merle abruptly released his hold on his little brother. His voice suddenly stumbled as he stammered softly, "I—I didn't know he was—"

Daryl ran a calloused hand over the long, jagged scars that marred his back. It was a secret he had guarded for so long. Sudden and brutal memories of his mother's death and his father's unrelenting cruelty clawed at his throat, constricting his every breath, and he could not understand why.

"Yeah . . . He did," Daryl finally muttered, hastily yanking his bag over his shoulders to shield his bareness as best he could. "And I know he did the same to you. That's why you left first."

Merle's eyes reflected unspoken pain as he absorbed Daryl's insistence. "I had to, man. I would have killed him otherwise."

The hunter rose slowly to his feet, casting a lingering glance at his older brother, a silent acknowledgment of the torment they had both endured in their childhood. He had no doubt that Merle had been driven to escape their father's abuse, just as Daryl himself had been forced to flee once he, too, was able. If he ever crossed paths with their father again, a bullet between the eyes was all he would get.

With a final look at Merle, Daryl abruptly turned and continued his march deeper into the wilderness. He was going in the opposite direction now. "Where are you goin'?" The elder Dixon called.

"Back where I belong," The hunter growled, his voice cracking as his vision blurred with unwanted tears. "I'm going home."

"Yeah? Where's that?" Merle snapped, skepticism dripping like venom.

"Wherever my group is," Daryl defiantly answered.

Merle chuckled incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief, as Daryl resumed his stride away from him. "Is that what your bitch taught you? What'd you say her name was? Astrid?"

The younger Dixon stormed to a halt all over again, fury burning like an unquenchable fire. He spun around and stormed over to Merle, his grip on his brother's shirt vice-like. He thrust his face mere inches from Merle's, snarling. "Don't you ever call her that again!" He roared, shaking him violently. "I'll kill you, and don't you dare doubt for a damn second that I won't! You deserve it!"

Merle laughed dryly again, as he remained trapped in Daryl's grasp. "Baby brother's got some balls," He commented, clicking his tongue provocatively. "What? You actually give a damn about this one? This ain't like all those other times, is it? Just another hit and run?"

"No!" Daryl thundered, shoving Merle with a force that sent him stumbling over fallen logs. "I care about that girl, okay? This is all your fault! If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have left her in the first place! I shouldn't have left at all! What I should've done was leave you behind—'cause I'll always care more for Astrid than I'll ever care for you! I don't need you in my life, but I need her."

Merle swallowed hard, as if finally realizing he had crossed a line that he should not have. "Well, I can't go with you," He insisted sharply. "I tried to kill that black bitch . . . Damn near killed the Chinese kid."

"He's Korean!"

"Whatever!" Merle groaned in annoyance. "Doesn't matter, man. I just can't go with you."

Daryl's response carried a mocking undertone. "Doesn't matter, man," He grumbled, uncompromising. "I may be the one walkin' away . . . But you're the one that's leavin' . . . Again."

With that parting exchange, Daryl spun away and stalked deeper into the trees. The brittle snap of twigs announced Merle's following pursuit, but the younger, better man had already severed the tether that once bound them. He no longer cared for his brother's life. Whatever mess lay ahead for Merle Dixon was one he would bear alone.

Far behind him, Daryl caught the distant rumble of muttered words, but they held no significance for him now. All that remained in the hunter's world was reuniting with his girl. All that mattered was Astrid, and he was determined to find his way back to her.

I'm coming back, Astrid, Daryl's promise echoed into the wilderness. He hoped, wherever she was, that she could hear him.

He was coming back.

~~~~~~~~~~