Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a list of professions that might actually be somewhat useful in times of Apocalypse. Soldier, doctor, medic, engineer of some kind. Unfortunately for Fiadh Kelly, she was none of those things. There really wasn’t much call for stage stars and chorus lines when the world went to shit. But scrappy, damaged and slightly deranged Irish dancers? Maybe, she’d thought, for just as long as her luck didn’t run out.

Of course, it ran out.

But even back when things had been normal, they’d never really been normal. Fiadh had always had to fight for everything. Fight out of her upbringing, fight up in the world, fight to be really seen in a place with people who only ever saw her background. She knew she would always be fighting, no matter what, though the landscape and the arena had certainly changed. The end goal was always the same: survive.

This was the worst challenge she had faced in this new world so far. She had to survive it.

It had been approximately - by her best estimate - ten days since her group had been attacked and their camp run-through. A number of heavily armed men had descended upon them, gunning down some, scattering others. She had been among the lucky few to get out before catching a bullet, or worse. The truck she’d taken hadn’t technically been hers, though she supposed it was now. Frankie T, the guy who’d owned it, had been one of the first to go down in the surprise attack.

It was an older Ford model, with a flat-bed in the back, and it rattled desperately when she started it up but start up it did, following all manner of muttered offerings on her part to all manner of gods. Wanting to get as far away from the area as she could, and to leave all sight and sound of Atlanta behind, Fiadh moved south, beyond Newnan, and into what the map told her was Meriwether County. Roads and layouts in the States were foreign to Fiadh, but at least the places had fun names.

Travelling alone, in truth, was her preferred state of being. It wasn’t anywhere near as safe, and she got about 50% less sleep, but the only voices she’d been hearing were her own, the Undies’, and the growl of the truck’s engine. The lack of crying, screaming or asking was the pay off. At first, she thought it worth the cost. But as she studied the contents of Miss Sue’s Room for the twentieth time, one of her eyes almost completely swollen shut, Fiadh thought maybe she’d miscalculated.

That was nothing new. But the proof of the survivor pudding wasn’t in the eating of said survivor, it was in what they did afterward. Or something. She was full of all sorts of wise but mostly nonsensical tidbits of self-motivation.

The daycare centre had been picked clean of anything useful, that much was clear, that much she already knew. What remained with the last vestiges of children’s normalcy; pictures hanging on the wall, toys strewn across surfaces and floors, paste, paint, broken cribs and a wonky rocking chair.

Miss Sue’s Room was clearly for arts and crafts. Fiadh’s desperate gaze fell upon a nearby set of storage drawers, the kind on wheels. The top drawer had been pulled open, but the remaining two were closed. From her position on the floor she couldn’t make out much else. With some difficulty and a great deal of pain exploding in her side, she tried to arrange herself into an upright seated position. With both of her hands tied in front of her, and her ankles bound together, something as simple as sitting up was proving a struggle. It was her core strength that saved her. Without that, without her physical fitness and stamina, Fiadh had a sneaking suspicion that she’d have been long dead.

She took a moment to recover her breath, then she began scooching toward the drawers, her jeans making faint squeaking noises with each movement. Once she was close enough, she waited for the opportune moment.

They were arguing, you see, the men who had taken her. They were getting louder and louder as the conversation went on, their voices echoing off the walls of the kitchen and the corridors beyond. Even with the door to Miss Sue’s Room closed she could make out most of it. But she’d stopped paying attention to the words a while back, and she listened instead for sounds as they grew. Once someone got loud enough to mask the sound, she would knock over those drawers. Her mind flashed back to that moment - that stupid moment and that rookie mistake - that saw her served up on a silver platter to the opportunistic reprobates in the next room.

The afternoon was fading, and so was Fiadh. She’d been driving without a break for some time and had been promising herself repeatedly that she’d pull in and catch some zees (the sleepy kind, not the undead kind), as soon as she spotted somewhere suitable. There’d been a sign for a mall a few mile-markers back and once she caught sight of the grey-bricked buildings with no personality, she took the chance and pulled in.

The Undead traffic was non-existent, trapped as dozens of them were behind the gates that blocked in the loading platforms of some warehouses or depots toward the south of the complex. Someone had gone to great pains at some stage to clear the area. Fiadh avoided the fenced off loading bays, bringing Frankie T’s truck to park next to a children’s playground. She killed the engine and all the lights and waited, fingers wrapping around the grip of her gun. The minutes rolled by, ten, then twenty; and there was no sign of any stirring. When she was sure that she hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention to herself, or that perhaps there was no one around to pay attention at all, she turned the key in the ignition and with her foot on the clutch, pressed almost all the way down to the floor, pushed into first gear and inched quietly forward.

There was a slight decline toward what she guessed was a nearby river, and she let the truck roll gradually down. It wasn’t as hidden as she’d normally prefer, but tiredness was being a demanding bitch. It’ll do, she thought, just an hour. Then perhaps later she’d check out the stores and buildings and see if anything had been left. Yes, maybe something nice, useful… Fiadh was already half-asleep, hand slapping around down the driver’s side, looking for the lever to drop the old seat. She had forgotten to lock the door. Rookie mistake.

“Hey! It’s open!”

The handle popped, and with Fiadh still half-asleep against the door, she fell out of the truck. She couldn’t have been out for longer than an hour as the light was still the blinding white of late afternoon. She saw lights of a different kind as she whacked her head against the ground.

“A gift within a gift!”

“Oh, this one just keeps on givin’,” came a second voice, as its owner reached down to scoop up her handgun.

“It loaded, Mitch?”

“Yup.”

Fiadh tried to scramble to her feet, but the one called Mitch was already aiming her own gun at her. Quickly, she threw her hands up, her knees dug into the ground for purchase. She could feel the warm sensation of blood progressing slowly down the side of her face. Even without the sudden dizziness, she’d have known she’d hit her head pretty hard.

But she counted three of them. Three men, none of them familiar. None of them clean or without marks, bruises or scars of their own. The one called Mitch stood planted, feet hip-distance apart. He handled the gun with ease. Unlike the other two, he seemed focused.

“Hey… Alrigh’. Alrigh’. Just take the truck, yeah, pal?” Fiadh offered, hands still up, palms facing toward the gunman. Her green eyes flickered from the muzzle of the Sig Sauer, to the face of the man holding it. “It’s yours.”

“It’s all ours,” stated Mitch.

The second voice came from behind her. “She talks funny. She looks real nice, though. Don’t she, Wyatt?”

Wyatt’s head was inside the truck, his hands busy sorting through the things in her backpack, but he stopped for long enough to appraise her with his beady eyes. “Yeh. Real nice.” He licked his thin bottom lip. His hand moving to scratch at his crotch through his filthy jeans. “Let’s take her with us.”

Fiadh wanted to move. She wanted to scramble backwards, away from her gun, which she knew was very loaded, and away from these words that these men were bandying about with such disregard. That was part of what this world had become. The barriers of civility were all but destroyed.

Mitch seemed to read her mind. He stepped closer, gun still raised. “Stay still.” Then he addressed the other two, his eyes on the man behind her. “We don’t have time, Cliff. I’ve got to find Pete. We should take her shit, take the truck, and find him.”

“Hey, if Wyatt wants ‘er, then we should take ‘er. Yer not the boss here, Mitch.”

“Yeh, I want ‘er.”

Suddenly there was a sharp yank on her hair, and her head snapped back in response. “Up, Red,” Cliff grunted, hauling her by his fistful of her plaited strawberry blonde mane. Fiadh shouted, her hands scrambling upward to find his, to claw at the source of the new pain.

“Shut up!” Cliff snarled. “You’ll bring the sickos down on us!”

“This is stupid,” Mitch declared, his gun arm lowering its painted target on her, his gaze now scanning for any of the undead. “There’s that daycare near here, we can hole up and search from there.”

“Sounds good to- gah!”

Fiadh Kelly was pretty deadly on her feet. Before, her body had made art, and had brought physical life to music. Now it makes art of a different kind. There was still music, though. Of a sort.

She’d brought her heel down on Cliff’s foot - hard. When he shouted out, she used the moment of shock to push herself backwards, knocking him off balance. Of course, he brought her down with him, her back crashing into his chest, but at least he’d released her hair.

She had rolled off him and underneath the truck before Mitch had reacted. A hand reached toward her, looking for her ankle, foot, leg - anything. She kicked in response, grunting out some random curses and threats, before rolling again, toward the other side of the truck. Light met her, and clear sky, and she was on her feet within the nanosecond it took to take a breath.

“Hey, Sugar.” Wyatt’s gap-toothed smile was brown, and delighted, as he punched her in the gut. The wind knocked out of her, Fiadh bent over and stumbled a little backward. Cliff was there, waiting to grab her again. His arms encircled her, pressing into her chest. Fiadh kicked off the ground, strong legs flailing wildly in an attempt to knock him off balance again, but Wyatt was quick to take hold of her ankles.

“Get her in the back of the truck,” Mitch ordered, impatience and irritation in his voice. Fiadh did not stop struggling, her movements getting wilder and more desperate with each second, her voice raising to a scream. With a put-upon sigh, Mitch hit her in the head with her gun.

“Nighty night!” Sang Wyatt. It was the last thing she heard before the world went dark.

Chapter Text

“We’ve gotta get back to my brother, and my GOD DAMN TANK!”

Fiadh knocked the small chest over. For a moment, her body seemed to cringe in on itself and her jaw clenched, teeth pressing into the cloth they’d shoved into her mouth. She waited for them to notice. When they didn’t, she presumed they were merely shouting about someone named Tank, and she slid over closer.

She tugged on the lowest drawer, leaning forward to peer in at the contents that were spilling out. Paste, glue, a few colouring sets. Hurriedly, she opened the next one up. It contained paper; some of the scent still attached to them wafted up. With hands still bound, she pushed the pink notebooks and rainbow stickers aside. And then she saw it.

Scissors.

Granted, it was one of those blunt, child-safe scissors with a plastic handle, but it was all the bounty the drawers had contained. It was better than nothing. With enough force behind it, and if she got the right spot, she could push the unlikely weapon into someone far enough to cause damage. Or at least create delay.

“If that other group blows through, we’ll be out-manned. Out-gunned. I’m going back out,” Mitch said, his voice lower than it had been before when he’d been talking about his brother and this Tank person.

“I’ll go with you,” another offered - Cliff, she thought.

“You sure, Hopalong? We’ll be on foot and you seem to be limping after your tussle with the girl.”

Yes - Cliff was offering to go with Mitch. “I’m good.” He didn’t sound good, but then that was just Fiadh’s personal opinion that nobody asked for.

“An’ I’ll stay here. Watch over our new… acquisitions.” That was definitely the leery Wyatt. He sounded pleased.

“Hey, Toothless.” Mitch again, his voice falling into a well-used snarl. “Leave the girl be. We’ll take her back to camp, she might have other uses. She seemed to be able to handle herself.”

There was no response. Or at least, none Fiadh heard. They’d begun moving, heavy steps approaching the corridor. She was shoving the scissors between her two wrists until just the tip of the blades were peeking out. The ropes of her binds chaffed painfully against her skin, but she knew that would get a lot worse before it got better. Provided she was left alone for long enough, perhaps she could try to do something about those ropes with those shitty little craft scissors.

No such luck. It was barely five minutes after the other two had left, when Wyatt decided to call on her. With a silent curse, she pushed the scissors back into their hiding place.

“Hey, Sugar.”

Wyatt stood in the doorway, eclipsing the light coming from the corridor. He stayed there for a few moments, his small, narrowed eyes watching her. His smile was thin but it wound upward, and when he spoke, the gap in his toothy grin made him whistle. He began to walk inside, wisps of his thin hair kind of waving in the slight breeze the movement created. He was going bald on top, she noticed, and likely once tried to hide it with an unconvincing combover.

Sweat ran down her back as she watched him approach. She let out a short, sharp shout, but of course it was completely muffled by the gag, making the threat sound a lot less effective. But even if she wasn’t silenced, she figured that there was nothing she could say to sway Wyatt.

He chuckled. “Now, Sugar, you just relax. You be calm, there. I ain’t gon’ hurt you.” His twisted smile told her a different story. He stepped closer, one foot after another, his boots making the kind of soft thuds on the floorboards that made her cringe. He closed in and stopped, then crouched down in front of her so that he could look at her, eye to eye.

“Not gon’ hurt you, oh, no. Jus’ wanna taste ya.” He reached out and pressed two of his fingers into the side of her head. She grunted with the pain of the contact and pulled her head away, trying to escape it. He began moving his fingers in a circular motion, massaging the blood into her skin. Then he pulled his hand back, looked at the blood on his own fingers in wonder for a moment, and then his tongue flicked out of that thin mouth. “Mmm,” he muttered, tasting her just as he had promised.

“I’d like more, Sugar,” he said, watching her closely as she stilled completely.

Fiadh’s eyes were wide; almost wild. A deer caught in headlights, prey frozen before a predator.

He leaned in again, but his attention was no longer on her face. Fiadh’s muscles tensed as his hand pulled his knife from his belt, holding it just out of her reach. Her eyes moved, flashing between the blade and his free hand, automatically trying to calculate the distance between them. Her thighs tensed and she got ready to lash out.

“Now, now,” he said, then made a tsk sound. He stood and kicked her bound feet to the side. She responded by trying to slide away, her hands moving upward to protect herself. He was on her in an instant, hands grabbing at her shirt. With a sharp tug, he pulled it from her. The buttons popped and bounced across the arts and crafts floor.

Wyatt straightened again and she could hear the clang of a belt buckle. “I don’t think Cliff or Mitch will mind all too much, whaddaya think?” She angled her body away from him in response, her shoulders curling in toward her body, ostensibly in an attempt to block his view of her exposed skin.

Painful centimetre by centimetre, she used her palms to move the scissors. Driving it through his temple would be ideal, but when the opportunity presented itself, it went down a little differently.

So focused on her was he, that Wyatt missed the glint of blunt metal in her hands. He grabbed a hold of her again and ruthlessly tossed her back to the ground, her back hitting the floor with a thump, and her arms flung above her head with the force. His jeans were already down at his knees when he threw himself on top of her, covering almost every inch of her front with his weight.

Fiadh brought her bound hands down and drove the scissors into Wyatt’s neck.

It hit resistance at first, but after that initial moment of reaching into reserves of strength and will she knew always accompanied her, just lurking below the surface, she drove the simple crafting tool into that sweet spot and kept going.

She watched his entire face change, right before her, nose to nose as they very nearly were. Wyatt gasped once, then again, and the third was more of a gurgle. He reached up to claw at the scissors. She took the opportunity to do it again.

Fiadh removed the scissors, covering herself and the floor in blood immediately. But she didn’t stop, she drove it in again and she bucked against the floor, using her ass, elbows and the heels of her feet to create enough push to dislodge him. It was easier than she’d thought it would be. Wyatt was a little distracted.

What with the dying and all.

She pushed herself away. Wyatt had fallen to his side and was trying to reach his hunting knife, which he’d managed to lose in the scuffle. He gurgled something.

“What’s that, Sugar!?” She roared into the gag, her words indistinguishable to anyone but her. Sliding along on her bum, she reached the knife before he could. To be fair, he wasn’t able to do much more than flop around, his jeans around his knees.

With the hunting knife now in hand, she watched him die. Her chest heaved and tears filled her eyes as she stared. She did not know how long she just stared. She stared until she heard glass breaking.

Chapter Text

He and Maggie had gone further than originally planned. So far they’d come up empty, with everything picked clean, but neither of them even thought about going back. They couldn’t go back without food for that baby. It wasn’t an option.

Maggie had spied the sign for LITTLE TYKES DAYCARE once they’d driven away from the mall, tapping his shoulder and pointing wordlessly. Daryl had nodded, eyes narrowing for a moment at the colourful lettering. It was worth a shot.

He pulled up next to a chain fence, his eyes drawn toward the tracks before he’d even dismounted his motorcycle. Three fresh sets. Three and something else, something dragged.

“Company’s close. Stay tight.”

Maggie moved ahead, attention set on a window. Daryl covered her, inching away a little as he caught sight of more prints. Two sets, leading away. The smash of the glass drew him back toward the building and he followed Maggie inside, shards crunching underfoot.

Once inside, he paused for just a moment, taking in what was left. His attention was drawn toward the wall, eyes lingering on the little cut-outs of the hand-prints, with names scrawled in child-like writing on each. His stomach clenched. But he moved on, picking up a small cuddly toy that had been discarded in one of the cribs. Every kid needed something to cuddle, right?

Once Maggie had cleared the cupboards of anything useful, they stepped into the corridor and split up. Daryl tapped on his torch and began to move carefully, quietly one way, Maggie taking the opposite direction. He reached two doorways, directly across from each other. He peered inside the open room, quickly clearing it, before turning his attention to the closed door.

He turned back toward Maggie’s departing back and flicked his torch back and forth, getting her attention without speaking. When she turned he pointed toward the closed door. She held up a hand in acknowledgement and once she’d cleared the room at the end of her corridor, made her way back toward him.

He held up his crossbow, weight shifting forward on the balls of his feet. He nodded at her; ready. Maggie leaned forward, wrapped her hands around the doorknob, twisted it and pushed in one smooth motion.

The door flew open to reveal a woman, hog-tied on the floor, frantically trying to cut the ropes around her ankles with a hunting knife.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Maggie followed immediately behind him, gun raised. She faltered.

It didn’t take long for Daryl to get the picture. It was all right there, laid out for them. The dead man in the middle of the floor, the pink-handled scissors sticking out of his neck, blood pooled beneath him. Daryl’s mouth curved downward at the sight of the man’s unbuckled trousers.

His eyes found the girl’s. She’d managed to cut through the ropes at her ankles. She was scrambling to her feet, quicker than he could have expected of anyone in her state, and was moving backwards, knife now held up in defence of herself.

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. We’re okay.” Daryl immediately lowered his crossbow, Maggie following suit with her gun just a split-second later. “We ain’t here to hurt ya.”

His voice came out in a low grumble, but there was something about his choice of words that seemed to trigger the girl’s fight or flight response, because her grip only tightened on her knife and she had lowered herself into some sort of fighting-ready stance. Blood was coming from the side of her head, dripping onto her exposed shoulders.

“We’re just here for baby supplies,” Maggie added softly, easily achieving an earnestness that maybe he had failed to.

“How many more of ‘em.” Daryl chin jutted toward the dead body.

The dead body that was starting to move again.

The girl’s eyes flew toward it and in a swift, sure movement, she stepped to it. Daryl and Maggie in the meanwhile shuffled backwards and raised their weapons, unsure for a moment if the girl was coming for them… or it.

It. She dropped onto the dead body, straddling it, and brought the hunting knife down on its dome in a violent thrust. She stayed like that for a moment, chest rising and falling. Then, finally, she reached up and tugged the tie down over her chin, and pulled the gag out of her mouth. “Fuckin’ prick,” she spat.

Daryl and Maggie stared at her, and then sent a glance toward each other. The bloody, half-naked girl rose. “Two more,” she answered, then wavered a little on her feet. “They left to find someone else.”

He nodded confirmation to Maggie; it matched the tracks he’d seen outside. Maggie moved toward the girl, offering a tentative hand in hopes to steady her. “We can’t leave her, Daryl. She’s pretty beat up.”

Daryl nodded again. “You got a group?” He asked, lowering his crossbow to the ground so he could shrug out of his poncho.

“Had a group. Lost them just over a week ago. Found the mall nearby and got jumped by these lovely folks.” Her voice came out hoarse, a little strangled, but even still the foreign accent was unmistakable. With a few swipes of Maggie’s knife, she’d freed the girl’s wrists.

“We have a camp nearby. We need to get supplies from here, but we can take you back, have someone look at you.”

“Can’t take three on my bike,” Daryl pointed out as he moved closer, his movements small, his free hand up, just like he was approaching an untamed animal set to bolt. He held out the poncho.

She stared at him with one open, green eye. The other was almost swollen shut, but the one he could see was the colour of moss in spring. She didn’t trust him, he could see that. He didn’t blame her. “Go on,” he prompted, offering it again.

She took it. Then, with some difficulty, pulled it on over her head.

“We’ll find a car. Or we can find somewhere for -”

“I’ve got a truck,” the bloody girl said nonchalantly. Just like she was pointing out the sky was blue or somethin’.

She smoothed out the poncho, which was now completely covering her upper half. It wasn’t until he saw the edges hitting her knees that he noticed how small she actually was. She’d seemed huge in the room before as she’d stood over that rapist. Former rapist.

She bent down again and started patting the dead body. She kept going until she hit something in one of the inside jacket pockets. “My truck,” she muttered at it, before holding up the set of keys and looking back at Maggie first, then Daryl. “They took it. We can use it. Get your supplies. You lads have a baby? Grab a crib.”

“I need to get out of here before those other fuckers come back.” With that, she turned her head, leaned over, and puked.

Fiadh was holding on to consciousness with everything she had. After she’d very ineffectively tried to wipe her vomit from Poncho Man’s poncho, she realised that she was probably on borrowed time, if the vertigo was anything to go by. She wouldn’t recall much later about the following five to ten minutes before she’d passed out, but she did know that the two unusual strangers had a few hushed, monosyllabic exchanges between them. She knew the young woman had taken her keys, and one - perhaps even both of them - had been forced to peel her off the ground at least twice when her legs mysteriously and inconveniently just stopped working. Fiadh was definitely in shock.

“I’ll be right behind you,” the young woman promised the man - the latter whom, in Fiadh’s opinion, looked to be at least two decades older than his companion. But who was she to judge? This was the apocalypse, and at least nobody had to be tied up and gagged to make this baby they kept referring to. “Get back as quick as you can, the baby needs that food and quick.”

Poncho had hesitated, his gaze flickering between Fiadh and the other woman, who was now half-helping, half-carrying her to the nearby truck. Then he nodded, seemingly coming to some sort of decision. A short distance away, Fiadh heard the sound of a motorbike roar to life.

“Hey…” She began, leaning against the side of Frankie T’s truck while the woman with the understanding eyes threw the last bag into the bed. “You know how to drive a manual transmission?”

“A what?” Came the response, then she reappeared right in front of Fiadh’s face and tried to hustle her inside. It took some effort, Fiadh was moving like her skeleton had jumped out of her body and abandoned her to a life of boneless fluidity.

Fiadh’s eyes narrowed as her tired brain tried to search for the words; the right term. “Stick.” That’s what the Americans called it. “Can you drive stick?”

“I can drive a tractor.”

“Good enough.”

Once Fiadh was safely back inside the truck, she allowed her head to roll back. Dots of black began to prick the corners of her vision. Darkness rolled in gradually but with a certainty, one pin-prick at a time. “What’s your name?” She asked, just as the woman got the truck started the first try.

“Maggie.”

After a brief pause, Fiadh could hear the gear stick shift into first gear. “Maggie… s’nice.”

“And who are you?” Maggie asked in return as she pulled away from the daycare, short hair brushing her collar as she looked from the road, to her slurring passenger.

“An idiot,” she murmured, before everything went black.

Chapter Text

She awoke with a start.

“I would advise you not to move,” said the very calm, very Southern voice from next to Fiadh’s head.

It was sound advice, to be fair, because as soon as she’d tried to sit up she felt like she’d been slammed in the temple with a hammer.

Her heart continued to race, her chest rising and falling with the panic of quickly sucked in breaths, but she did allow the gentle yet insistent hand on her shoulder to guide her back down on the bed.

A bed? It had been a while.

“Where is this?”

Slowly, she turned her head to get a look at the origin of the voice. The fuzziness was beginning to clear, and the room wasn’t swimming quite as violently as before.

“You are at our camp. My name is Hershel. I’ve checked you over. You have a lot of bruising, but most concerning is the concussion. You’ll need to stay put for the next twelve hours, at least.”

Automatically, Fiadh’s hand rose to touch her head. Immediately, she winced. An expression of sympathy crossed Hershel’s face, drawing Fiadh’s attention away from herself for the first time. He was seated next to her bed, a pair of crutches resting against the bedside locker. He had a weathered, lived-in face, she thought, filled with stories. His white hair was tied back and his sleeves rolled up. Within hand’s reach on the locker were some of the medical supplies he had used on her. Gauze, ointment, tape and scissors.

Scissors… Her stare held on the small, steel blades. Much more effective than the ones that she had used earlier. The corners of her mouth twitched downward, her hands moving again, reaching for a hold of her clothes.

The poncho was gone, replaced by a tank top. Not hers.

“Maggie - my daughter - she helped.”

Fiadh sucked in a breath, trying to calm herself. She still had no idea where she was, or who these people were. So far, they had only helped. But things were so different now. Nothing was ever as it seemed.

“What’s your name?” Hershel asked, leaning forward a little, perhaps in an attempt to distract her from whatever panic was rising.

“Fiadh.”

“Fee-hya?” He repeated, sounding it out slowly.

“Nicely done,” she said in confirmation, some surprise finding its way into her voice. Most people took a few goes to wrap their heads around her name.

“It’s Irish?” He asked, his head moving to one side, bushy brow raised in question.

“Yes. Means deer.”

From somewhere beyond Hershel, someone snorted. Fiadh’s head rolled a little to the side, finally trying to get a better view. It was a testament to how out of it she was that she hadn’t noticed four other people, watching. There was a kid; a boy standing close by, wearing a comically oversized hat on his young head. His hand hovered over a gun at his belt, but his stance was relaxed. Maggie she recognised instantly, though the man next to her she did not. Then there was the Poncho Man. He was leaning against the wall, bare arms folded against his chest, eyes piercing as he stared. No poncho.

“As in, doe a deer. Not the other one.”

“It’s lovely,” Hershel reassured her.

“Everyone just calls me Fee. It’s easier.”

“Your parents named you deer?” The boy asked with a scoff, and the snort of amusement came again. It was coming from Poncho Man.

“What did yours call you?” She shot back, a little life returning to her voice.

“This is Carl,” Hershel introduced.

Damn, that was too normal to do anything with. “This is Glenn,” Hershel continued, referring to the man next to Maggie. “And you know Maggie and Daryl.” Maggie gave her a smile and a small wave.

“Hi.” Fiadh returned the wave, eyes flickering toward Poncho Man, who she now knew was called Daryl. She couldn’t help but wonder how many more there were. Or where that baby they’d mentioned was. Or why she was in a prison cell.

Wait. What?

“We’ve been waiting for you to come around. As soon as you started showing signs of waking, I called them in,” Hershel explained.

“Dr. Hershel?”

“It’s just Hershel.”

“Well, Just Hershel, sir, I appear to be in a prison cell.” Fiadh blinked then, eyes moving from the bars, to the grey, nondescript brick walls closing in, the thin mattress beneath her bruised body.

“This is a prison,” the one called Glenn answered, moving half a step forward. “We found it about a week ago, we’ve been staying here, regrouping.”

“We took your knife,” Carl added, his back straightening a little, “We can’t let you have weapons in here.”

Her fists clenched, the action unconscious as the idea of not being armed permeated her tired mind. It just didn’t compute. This world was trying to kill them all. Their enemies were everywhere, and sometimes the only thing that would ensure you kept breathing was a weapon in your hand. Being without one was a death sentence.

But then, sleeping next to an armed stranger could also be a death sentence.

Her eyes closed for a moment; a slow blink, and then her fists unclenched.

“I get it.”

“We can talk more in the morning,” Hershel said, declaring the weird little bedside meeting over. He gestured toward a bottle of water and a couple of pills on the table, before beginning to hoist himself up onto his crutches. “Ibuprofen. Get some rest, Fiadh.”

She didn’t know what to say, or what to think. Her instincts were screaming at her, heightened from the events of the day. They were telling her to leave, to run from this grey cage, away from these strangers. But she was also exhausted. Everything hurt and her eyelids felt so heavy. She knew she wouldn’t get far if she did run.

She also knew that people wouldn’t waste meds on her if they weren’t at least halfway decent.

“What’d you do before?”

Fiadh wrestled with her eyes and forced them open, recognising that this was an important question. Daryl was standing up straight, having moved his way to the end of the bed in her cell. Hershel had stopped in his exit, and swivelled on his one leg to turn back around, curious himself as to what the answer might be.

She looked just at Daryl. Silhouetted against the muted candle and lantern light of the walkway outside of the cell he struck a foreboding figure. High cheekbones cast shadows down the side of his face. Biceps and jaw tensed.

“I was a dancer.”

Some of the others wore identical expressions, automatically assuming she meant exotic. The ghost of a grin pulled at the corners of her lips and Fiadh let the moment drag on a little more before explaining.

“Modern, mostly. Irish, too of course, a little jazz. Ballet and gymnastics when I was younger. I was part of a Celtic revival show that was touring; we were due to open in Atlanta right after the world went to shit.”

Hershel nodded. Maggie looked amused, Glenn a little bewildered. All began to step out, with the older man giving a pointed look at Daryl. “Time to turn in.”

Daryl was still staring at Fiadh, his eyes a little narrowed. The movements of his jaw suggested that he was chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally he offered something of a grunt, and started to follow the rest outside.

“The dancin’ deer,” he muttered, pulling the sliding barred door over behind him.

Sound travelled in the prison. The baby’s cries echoed off the cold, harsh walls, filling the cracks and all the empty spaces in between the bricks. But it wasn’t the sound of the hungry new-born that had kept Fiadh from getting uninterrupted sleep in her bunk, rather it was the hushed conversations and brief exchanges that demanded her attention. Especially when those exchanges frequently contained mention of her.

It was long past morning by the time she’d awoken properly. It had taken a few seconds for her to remember exactly where she was and recall all of the strange events that had led up to her being there. For a while she just lay on the bed, luxuriating in the feeling of having one, before curiosity and self-preservation drove her upward.

Fiadh sat, slowly at first, palm pressed to her bandaged head. When the waves of dizziness stopped, she continued, pushing herself off the bed and onto her feet. Limb by limb, muscle by muscle, she tested her condition. She started from the bottom and worked her way up.

Feet: fine. Ankles: full movement, though she could feel a sharp sting of an abrasion from where the ropes had cut into her skin through her jeans. Knees: fine. Thighs: a little stiff, but nothing too bad. For a dancer, there was something affirming about stiffness in the legs.

She lifted up her arms then, testing the range of motion, and began to twist from side to side. She drew in a sharp breath, hissing when she felt the tell-tale thumping pain of bruising on her torso. Gingerly, she pulled the crop top upward on her left side, and caught sight of the outline of a bruise beneath her ribs. That, she was sure, had been the gut punch.

Chest, shoulders, neck: fine. Face… She frowned, then stopped immediately, wincing at the sharp jolt coming from her brow. There was a small, square mirror resting against the wall atop another small side table. She picked it up and gave herself a good looking over.

It was quite a shiner she was sporting. Much of the swelling had gone down, thanks, Fiadh was sure, to Hershel’s attention, but a bruise was darkening around the side of her eye, drawn out toward her cheekbone. She wasn’t at all sure when she had gotten that, though she suspected that being tossed unconscious into the bed of a truck and battered around for a mile or so might have had something to do with it.

She tugged a little then on the bandage wrapped around her head. Some redness was bleeding through, but apart from a slight thump of a headache, her head felt okay. Okay enough for her to move around, anyway. Her hair was another story though; a tragic mess of dried blood and knotting.

“Hey.”

Fiadh immediately lowered the mirror and turned to look at the entrance to her cell. A blonde girl stood there, a small water basin in one hand, some cloth in another. “Daddy said you might still be sleepin’, but I just wanted to leave this here. Just in case you needed it.”

She hadn’t heard her approach, though she had been somewhat distracted. “Thank you,” Fiadh said, dropping the mirror onto the bed so she could take the basin. “I really appreciate this.”

The blonde girl merely smiled, though her eyes looked almost… blank. She was clean, far too clean. In fact, they all looked a lot cleaner than any other humans she’d seen in a very long time.

“I’m Beth.”

“Fiadh. Nice to meet you, Beth.” Fiadh placed the basin on one of the small tables and then dropped the cloth into it, making a sloppy little splash sound. Not one to stand on ceremony (because what was the point, it was the end of the world), she just started the process of cleaning herself up.

“The others are sayin' that you lost your group.”

Fiadh glanced at Beth for a moment, then nodded. She picked up the now soaking cloth, wrung it out between clenched fists, and went to work on her face.

“The others are right,” Fiadh replied, her tone a tad wry. “We got attacked. I’m not sure how many got away, apart from me.” She paused for a moment, mouth pursing as she thought, wiping the cloth across her brow. She glanced down at the once white material which was quickly turning a shade of watery pink-red. “There must be more,” she muttered almost to herself.

“So you were all alone?” Beth sounded a little disbelieving, but maybe it was more surprise. Fiadh couldn’t be sure, she had just met the girl.

“Yup.”

Beth said nothing for a while, just stood in the doorway, watching Fiadh clean herself up. “I don’t think this world will be kind to anyone living in it alone.”

Fiadh stopped roughly wiping her cheek and stilled for a moment, eyes piercing the blonde with a pensive look. Perhaps it was Fiadh’s turn to be surprised.

“We’re stronger together,” the girl continued, as though repeating some sort of mantra.

Fiadh wrung out the cloth again, torn between two warring responses. On the one hand, Beth wasn’t wrong, but on the other, a group was only really as strong as its weakest member. And eventually, in her experience, every group unravelled in some way.

“Don’t you think?”

“‘Ay, Beth. Maggie’s lookin’ for your help with somethin’.” All eyes flew toward the source of the low, gravelly voice.

“‘Kay, thanks Daryl.” Beth began to back out of the cell, shoving her hands in her jeans pockets as she did. “Come on down when you’re ready, Fiadh, we’re gonna fix something to eat. Daddy’s gonna wanna check you over, too.”

“Thanks again, Beth,” Fiadh muttered, managing a small smile. Internally, she was a mess of confusion and conflicting emotions. That only worsened when Daryl, still without his poncho, held out her backpack.

She dropped the cloth back into the bowl, her cleaning efforts all forgotten when she caught sight of the torn, once-blue bag. She actually audibly gasped. “Where’d you find that!?” Fiadh fell on it, taking it from Daryl immediately.

“Was in the kitchen of that daycare. Grabbed it on our way out with the rest of the stuff.”

She barely heard, even though she’d asked the question herself. She was busy pulling at the zip, eager to check on the contents within. “It’s all still here…” She breathed, her shoulders relaxing.

“We ain’t thieves.”

“Hm?” Fiadh frowned, not quite grasping the meaning behind what he was saying for a moment. “Oh, no. Not you. I thought the others… those guys… that they’d have, I don’t know. Looted me or something.”

She looked at him, taking in the working jaw, the movement as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was the first time Fiadh had really gotten a proper look at Daryl, without the threat of dying or concussions looming over her. He had the build of a dancer, maybe, she thought. Trim and lean. Nothing wasted. Movements, though maybe a little erratic, were clean and sharp. His hair was at that in-between stage, caught somewhere in the middle of ‘growing it out’ and ‘in need of a trim’. The tips of his ears poked up through the dark brown ‘do; not rounded like most, more pointed. It gave him almost an elvish look.

Fiadh wet her bottom lip with her tongue, then swallowed. “Thanks.”

“S’nothin’. Just a bag.” Daryl shrugged, but he turned his gaze downward, away from hers.

“Not just for the bag. For what you did back there.”

“Wasn’t gonna just leave ya.”

Fiadh shook her head, the corners of her mouth winding a little upward at some secret amusement. Ignoring the bag, she took a step closer to him. “Most people would have.” She cocked her head to one side, wondering what was keeping him from meeting her gaze. Was it humility? Embarrassment? “Or done worse.”

That got his attention. “Nah.” He looked directly at her. “That ain’t us.”

Chapter Text

He’d gotten to the cell just in time to catch Beth’s badgering. And while he might have been curious to hear the newcomer’s answer himself, he also thought that how she felt about things was her own damn business. The others were curious about the tiny little Irish dancer, he knew, probably mostly because they all needed the distraction from the events of the last few days. It worked as a distraction for him, too, but that wasn’t what she was there for. So he interrupted, and delivered her bag.

Daryl hadn’t been expecting the look of happiness and then relief; the expressive green eyes crinkling at the corners with a pleased smile, the gasp of delight. Instantly, a wave of shyness came over him. It had been a while since he’d had to deal with any of those kinds of emotions. He kept his eyes down and played the whole thing off like it was no big deal.

It probably wasn’t. It had looked like she had the entire situation in hand when they’d gotten to that daycare. She hadn’t needed them.

“Or done worse.”

He looked back up at those words, shoulders stiffening. He eyed the bruise around her eye, the darkening spots around her cheekbone, covering some of the freckles that brushed across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. He had looked upon a few beaten, abused women in his time. His stomach twisted as he thought of Carol, and everything she had come through just to continue surviving. Now all he could do for her was place Mother’s Tears on an empty grave. “That ain’t us.”

That ain’t me.

And anyone who would do that, would deserve the same death that Fiadh Kelly had given that asshole in the daycare centre. And worse.

He could feel her eyes on him, even after he’d turned and left the cell. He had no idea if she believed him or not, but so far their guest hadn’t tried anything dangerous, or given them reason to suspect she would. Daryl had a distinct impression she was a lot smarter than that.

He moved past the crow’s nest and down the stairs, headed for the communal area at the end of the block. Beth had begun to dish out bowls of oatmeal, and the others were gathering around the table to eat. Daryl took the opportunity to have a word with Hershel, who was propping up his crutches next to him against the metal table.

“We need to tell Rick about her,” he started, his voice low, but some of the others still heard enough to look their way.

“He won’t take it well, Daryl,” came Hershel’s measured, diplomatic response. “He’s hurtin’. Fearful for his family. He won’t trust any outsider.”

“We can’t just kick her out. Ain’t safe. Ain’t right.”

“Perhaps not.” The older man paused, giving Daryl’s statement consideration. When a man who didn’t often speak opened his mouth to opine, Hershel figured it might sometimes be worth listening to. “I will speak to Rick.”

It looked as though Daryl might have more to say, but he hesitated. Instead, he grunted and gave a nod, accepting Hershel's plan. He took a bowl and made his way over to the steps, some distance away from the others. Soon the only sounds were Oscar settling nearby, and the clank and scrape of spoon against bowl.

That was until Rick himself made an appearance.

“Everybody okay?”

Fiadh froze at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. As one of the doors creaked open, she backed herself into the wall of her cell, hiding herself from outside view. In her short time in the prison she had picked up on some information regarding Rick. She knew he was their leader. That Carl the kid was his son, and that the baby was the kid’s sister.

“Yeah, we are.”

The soft sounds of companionable eating had stopped. Even though Fiadh couldn’t see the group, it felt as though they were all holding their breaths.

“What about you?”

Hershel’s voice was immediately recognisable. But it didn’t seem like Rick was about to answer that question. “I cleared out the boiler block,” he said, dodging it unapologetically.

“How many were there?” If she could tell Hershel’s voice without difficulty, Daryl’s was even easier. Fiadh’s head fell to one side a little as she listened, taking in the detail of the exchange. She’d had the impression that some of the grounds were still overrun, but it sounded a lot more extensive than she’d imagined.

“I don’t know. A dozen, two dozen.”

This man sounded jaded to her ears. Being down below, alone, and losing count of how many Undead you’d dispatched? It sounded like a death wish. “I have to get back. Just wanted to check on Carl.”

As soon as Glenn offered to look after removing the bodies, Rick switched back to business. There were more steps. “Everyone have a gun and a knife?”

While Daryl responded, Fiadh cringed inwardly. She did not have a gun or a knife. The knife she’d had on her; Wyatt’s weapon, had been taken from her because she wasn’t one of them. She had no idea how Rick was going to react when she was revealed, but at that moment she was considering that it might be the best idea not to find out.

Discussion turned to going on a run, but Fiadh’s attention was somewhat elsewhere. Her eyes on her backpack, she wondered if it was time to count her lucky stars and get out of Dodge. She didn’t think they’d stop her. Maybe she could trouble them a little further for a map, some provisions… She could try and find out if any of the rest of the old group had survived.

“Rick!”

The door creaked and then slammed.

Fiadh pursed her mouth, teeth worrying the corner of her lip. After a few moments of silence down below, she deliberated and came to a decision. But first, she was going to use the rest of that clean water. Waste not.

A short while later, Fiadh was stepping lightly down the stairs, watchful, green eyes flickering from one member of this strange group to the next. She had managed to get the blood out of her hair, and had scraped the damp locks back into a French braid. It was a style she’d preferred in the days when she’d had to practice and train for 6-8 hours a day, and it served just as useful a purpose now as it had back then. It almost made her feel normal… but for the bandage and the fact that she was in a prison, of course.

Being there was a smart choice for them. The further outside of the cell she’d ventured the more she realised it was a highly defensible position. And fortified. But it was also a prison. It was dank, dreary, and even with some of the natural daylight streaming in through the high windows, it still felt like the darkness was closing in around her.

Glenn looked up and grinned; he was a friendly sort. He and Maggie had what appeared to be a phonebook open between them. Daryl looked as though he was gearing up for something, though his movements stopped as soon as he heard her footsteps. Hershel repositioned himself on the bench and beckoned her over.

But another gentleman got to her first.

“Our sleepin’ beauty awakens!” A slim, blonde man, Fiadh guessed maybe somewhere around middle-ages and dressed in a prison jumpsuit, approached her with a spring in his step and a big smile. “Might I just say, but you are quite a welcomed sight on this otherwise dreary day,” he exclaimed, his words as generous as his Southern drawl. He was wiping some oil or grease from his hands with a rag, then he held out his hand to her.

She eyed it, and him, a faint line forming between her eyebrows. Fiadh paused for a moment, and then held out her own hand for him to grasp. And grasp it he did.

“Axel, ma’am, at your service.” He took her hand and brought it to his face, and in a flash, Fiadh knew he was about to kiss it. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Before those bristles above his top lip could get a chance to grace the skin of her knuckles, Fiadh had already whipped her hand from his grip.

“Alrigh’. Steady on there, Villain Stache.”

The snort of amusement came from Daryl, again. He’d been watching the exchange closely, but turned his attention back to his crossbow when the others had started tittering. Maggie’s dimples were on display, both Beth and Glenn were trying to avert their eyes to stave off any awkwardness, even Carl was grinning.

“I assure you, I’m the Good Guy!” Axel exclaimed, though a point in his favour; he was taking it all in his stride. He even reached up and twirled the end of his very impressive moustache, drawing an actual chuckle from the kid.

“Fiadh, come and sit by me,” Hershel said then, beckoning again. “Let me look you over.”

She obeyed and sat, then threw one leg over the other side of the bench so that she could face him. He reached out and gently began to unclip the bandage.

“As soon as you give me the okay, I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, eyes following Hershel’s movements. Everyone else stilled again.

“There’s no rush,” he reassured. “I will talk to Rick, let him know your situation.”

“It’s grand, honestly Hershel. I don’t need to be causing any trouble. For myself or for anyone else.”

“It’s no trouble.” His voice was soft, though firm. It brokered little argument and Fiadh got the distinct impression that few would try. “What Rick says goes, but he is going through something right now. He’s not himself.”

Knowing enough not to nod when someone was checking a head wound, she merely hummed in response. She knew what this world could do to someone. She knew even better what grief could do.

“It looks like it’s beginning to heal nicely, the stitches look good. But I’d still like to keep an eye on you for another twelve hours or so.” Hershel leaned back away from her, finished with his examination. “What a hardship for me.”

Fiadh’s eyes narrowed slightly at him, trying to gauge the deadpan tone. Then her face split into a large grin. He returned it with a small, knowing smile of his own, and Fiadh decided then and there that she very much liked him.

Close by, Maggie and Glenn were beginning to pack up, ready, Fiadh assumed, to go on that run they’d mentioned before. The others were moving, too. Axel announced he was returning to the boiler, while Carl and Daryl seemed to be engaged in a bit of a short, sharp exchange, the other jump-suited guy looking on awkwardly.

“Me an’ Oscar can go sweep the lower levels,” Daryl said.

Carl shuffled his feet, then planted them, his hands resting on his hips. “And I can help. You might need the back-up.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“I’ve been down there Daryl, you haven’t.”

Fiadh’s brow arched at the forcefulness in the boy’s tone. Daryl didn’t seem all that surprised though, and after a moment of intense study, he nodded. “Alright.”

“I can help,” Fiadh offered, the words out of her mouth before she could really think them through. It beat sitting around inside a prison though, waiting to be tossed out on her arse by this leader of theirs once he realised what was going on.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hershel declared as he readied himself to stand. “Not yet, anyhow. You just take it easy for now.” With the crutches beneath his arms, he righted himself. “Maggie, Glenn, you two head off. I’m going to find Rick. Daryl, if you could hold off on your excursion into the lower levels ‘til I get back, I’d appreciate it.”

Daryl’s blue gaze flashed toward Fiadh, quickly picking up on what Hershel wasn’t saying. He nodded.

Fiadh suppressed a sigh. Her very presence was putting a spanner in their plans, but aside from that, she couldn’t really blame them for being so cautious. But if she was to be stuck sitting around with a head wound, being babysat by an elvish prison warden, then she wanted to be able to do something, or offer something.

“Hey,” she began, waving at Maggie as she and Glenn began moving out. “The truck might be handy. Useful off-road, more space for supplies. Got at least half a tank.”

They exchanged a glance. During that moment of silent communication Fiadh had all doubts removed that they were together. A couple, partnership. After the briefest of beats, Maggie turned back to her and nodded. “That’d be great. Thanks, Fiadh.”

“No bother. Not like I’m using it.”

They said their goodbyes, with Maggie pausing briefly to give both Hershel and Beth a quick kiss. Hershel then disappeared away behind the barred door, his light hair getting enveloped by the darkness.

The prison returned to silence, until the new-born baby decided she’d had enough of that, opened her mouth and loosed all the air in her lungs.

Chapter Text

Fiadh was on her feet quickly, keen in that moment to get a look at the bawling baby. She’d never thought she’d see one again, in honesty, at least not one so young. Not one successfully born in this world. Beth, too, had begun moving, but when Fiadh approached she held off.

“May I?” Fiadh asked, gesturing toward the little squalling bundle in the basket.

“Sure!” Beth replied brightly. It was clear she’d been the one doing the lion’s share of the caring for the baby, and seemed comfortable with it, too. But the novelty did tend to wear off quick enough, even for a young teenage girl who enjoyed babysitting. “I was about to make a bottle, if you wanna…?”

“I’d be happy to.” Fiadh reached in and gently slid her hands beneath the baby, lifting with ease beneath bottom and head. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she cooed in a soft voice, fixing the baby into the crook of her arm. It was like muscle memory, it never left you.

Fiadh bounced a little on the balls of her feet, then began to sway back and forth, murmuring words to the baby that the others wouldn’t understand. When Beth handed her the bottle, out of habit Fiadh shook some drops from the nipple onto her skin to test. Then, realising what she’d done, she rolled her eyes. “Suppose there’s no need for that,” she muttered, the cool drops of formula on her bare arm a reminder of the lack of power.

“Not right now,” Beth confirmed as she sat down.

Fiadh’s expression was soft as she rolled the top of the bottle very gently over the baby’s mouth, until she opened up and began to suck readily. “That’s it, mo ghrian beag. Mo realtín álainn.”

“Did you have kids?” Beth spoke up again, before she realised that that question, in this world, was a loaded, painful one for a lot of people. “I mean… I meant… you just look real comfortable there with her, I assumed… I’m sorry…”

“No, no, it’s okay, Beth.” Fiadh took her eyes off the baby for a moment, looking to reassure. “No kids. Lots of siblings, though.”

Beth nodded slowly, then pulled a battered, leather-bound book toward herself, cracked it open, and began to write.

“Does she have a name?” Fiadh asked, her attention back on the baby in her arms.

“Daryl’s called her Lil Asskicker,” Carl said. He’d come up next to Fiadh and was looking down at his baby sister as she guzzled her bottle. He was almost to Fiadh’s shoulder, she realised, which meant the kid was a little older than she’d originally thought. It wouldn’t be long before he towered over her, like most other people.

“Little Arsekicker!?” She exclaimed, her tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Arse!” Carl repeated, his tone definitely amused.

“Arse,” came Daryl’s impression. He was still by the stairs, but he’d broken his silence just to repeat the word.

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” Fiadh asked, shaking her head. “Everyone just taking the piss out of how I say things?”

“Well, you do say things weird.”

Flawless logic from the child, she supposed.

Fiadh rolled her eyes in response, then took a seat back down on the bench with Little Arsekicker still safely tucked in her arms. “It suits you,” she told the baby softly then, having given it some thought. Whether it was aspirational or borne from the nature of the baby’s birth; it worked. At least for the moment.

“Good thing you found this place. These first few weeks’ll be tough. And loud.”

“When my dad found it it was overrun. We cleared it out together. Lost some people. Lost my mom.”

Carl said it quite matter-of-factly, but Fiadh heard the very hint of a break beneath the calm surface. She looked at his face, pale beneath the shadow of the oversized sheriff’s hat. She had no idea where he’d gotten the headwear from, but he hadn’t taken it off once since she’d gotten there.

The temptation to tell him she was sorry was strong, but she sensed his need to keep talking and so she stayed quiet. She opted instead to angle the baby a little closer to him, so he could continue looking at his sister’s face.

“There’s still more work to do. We have to make it safe. For us, but especially for her.” He looked so serious in that moment, and Fiadh was glad for this mission of his. Not just because it was a good mission, but mostly because he would need one. There was a lot that this boy would need to process, and a distraction like that would help.

“Got that right,” Daryl grunted.

One corner of Fiadh’s mouth curled upward a little, though whether it was because of the exchange or the little noises the baby was making was unclear. She paused in the feeding, passing the bottle to Carl as she hoisted Little Arsekicker up a little further on her shoulder and began gently rubbing circles on her back. Clearly a quick student, Carl took it upon himself to grab a cloth and lay it on Fiadh’s shoulder for her.

“Thanks,” she muttered with a smile. His response was a fairly serious expression and a nod.

“So you’re going to start clearing the stragglers today?” She asked, eyes moving between Carl and Daryl.

“The ones in the lower levels,” Carl said. “Most of the prison is still overrun. There could be hundreds of walkers down in the tombs.”

“Walkers? That’s what you call them?”

Carl looked at Fiadh, his expression suggesting he thought the question was ridiculous. “‘Course. What do you call them?”

“Undies.”

“Undies!?”

“Yeah, Undies. Like, short for Undead. Duh.”

Seriously, what was so strange about that? It made perfect sense to Fiadh.

“Undies!” Carl burst into giggles. And suddenly, he was a child again. Even though she was once again the butt of the joke, Fiadh found herself grinning along.

If there was one thing a person could always rely on when it came to kids, it’s that talking about poop, farts and apparently, underwear, would entertain them.

“You are so weird!” He declared, clearly delighted. Fiadh gave kind of a half-shrug in response, conceding the point with no argument.

The kid was right, she was weird. But Daryl hadn’t seen Carl laugh like that in months, maybe even longer, and in the space of less than 24 hours she’d drawn it out of him three times. She mightn't have meant to, but it counted.

He continued to watch as she managed the baby and the kid like she’d known them forever. This was so far from the person he and Maggie had encountered only the day before; the woman who had looked about ready to burn everyone and everything down. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on how this all looked so easy, so natural for her, but he had noticed that she didn’t speak to Carl like he was a kid. Like the way everyone else did. He filed that away for use later.

Eventually, their conversation had turned toward some superhero movie that had flying aliens in it or some shit, and Daryl tuned it out. Ever restless, he occupied himself by taking an inventory of the weapons. By the time Hershel returned, he was more than ready to get going. The old man didn’t say much of anything, so Daryl assumed that his chat with Rick hadn’t gone all that well. But there’d been no shouting, and Hershel didn’t tell Fiadh to leave, so Daryl said nothing. He merely waved to Carl and Oscar, and they got going.

Chapter Text

After winding the baby, Fiadh put her down for a nap. During her time chatting with Carl, she had spied the poncho from the day before, scrunched up atop a pile of dirty clothes and rags. At Beth’s direction, she found their roughly designated laundry area and got to work on the stained, ripe-smelling garment. She spent most of the afternoon washing, much to her personal amusement.

Suzy Homemaker she was not. Fiadh Kelly wasn’t happy in the kitchen, she’d burned a hole in the only dress she’d ever ironed, and she loathed the thankless domestic tasks that seemed to bring immense satisfaction to others. No, Fiadh wasn’t one for all of that. But she was concussed, sort of semi-trapped in a prison and she had nothing else to do. So she did other people’s laundry.

But one person’s in particular.

The rest of the afternoon had been pleasant and quiet enough. She ate some disgusting but nutritious oatmeal-type goop. She’d spoken a little more with Beth, learning that she had continued to keep a journal. Fiadh also found out that the teenager loved music and liked to sing, so the two shared some of their favourites. Hershel joined in that conversation once or twice, smiling with fondness at his youngest daughter’s very normal exchange. Fiadh supposed those were unusual these days. People didn’t really talk about folk ballads when they needed to be running for their lives, did they?

He did take Fiadh aside at one stage and told her that Rick would want to speak with her. Her response was mostly to nod; figuring that would be the case eventually. She was still planning on leaving as soon as she could, but she didn’t fancy having any problems with the group’s leader beforehand. It would be best for everyone if they parted on decent terms.

She was fixing the poncho with several pegs to a makeshift clothesline when she heard the now familiar sound of the barred door open. Rick stepped inside.

She hadn’t known exactly what to expect. He was of average height and despite everything, he actually looked clean… tidy. His wavy hair was slicked back, and where she’d been expecting a full-blown wild man beard, was just maybe a month’s growth on his jaw, peppered with salt-grey. His eyes looked sunken. He was clearly exhausted and he’d been crying, but his face was clear. Everyone fell silent, waiting for him to set the tone. He seemed to have that power over them.

He approached the baby, and when he held her for the first time, Fiadh felt every inch of the intruder that she was. She remained off to the side, watching at some distance. She tried to stay aloof, give that impression that she was removed, but the emotional scene that unfolded before her was very difficult not to succumb to.

This was a man who had been broken. A man who was trying to be remade. He would do it for his family. Tears filled his eyes as he greeted his daughter for the first time.

He stood like that for a while, just holding her. The others wore identical smiles; all tinged with relief, sadness, acceptance. Hers felt out of place. Perhaps hers reflected that odd little flame of hope that flickered alight, anew, inside of her.

And then he met her eye.

“I have two people to meet today,” he said. He began to walk toward her, his hand cupping the baby’s head as he held her against his chest. “Rick Grimes. I would offer to shake your hand but, well, as you can see they are full.”

She could see the echo of the man she had heard earlier. He was still remaking himself, but in that moment, he was no threat to her.

“Fiadh Kelly.”

Rick Grimes nodded. He was sizing her up, she could tell, but he was doing it in a very subtle way. He was taking everything in, while appearing as though he saw nothing at all. “Hershel told me what happened. I’m sorry.” His brows were raised, his head slightly lowered, engendering earnestness. But there was a ‘but’ coming; she could hear it.

“Not as sorry as the other guy was.”

Perhaps he wasn’t expecting the response, perhaps it was an ill-advised move for her to present herself as this potentially violent figure, standing in the middle of his group. But Rick Grimes’ reaction was more measured than she had given him credit for. It even looked as though he was holding back a smile.

“I have no doubt. But the thing is…”

There it is.

“We’ve been through a lot. We need to protect ourselves, protect our own. Now, I don’t know you. I am happy to help you, for my people to give you food or medical attention, but beyond that I can’t offer any more.” There was the earnestness again. This man was used to talking. He was used to people listening. “You understand.”

“I do.” And in truth, she did. She’d been out there. She knew that the biggest threat to this group was no longer the dead, but the living. “I’m really grateful for everything that yous have done for me.” She paused for a moment, glancing over at the others and she nodded. “Really grateful. But I’ve recently lost some people, too.” Her eyes were back on Rick then, and that tiny human in his arms. “I should look for them. As soon as Glenn and Maggie get back with my truck, I’ll head out.”

Rick hesitated, and for a moment Fiadh felt like he was wrestling with something else. But then he nodded his head, and rested his cheek against the baby’s soft, bald head. “We’ll send you off with some supplies, help you on your way.”

“That’s very kind,” Fiadh breathed. Suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands, she dug them into the pockets of her jeans and offered a thin-lipped smile.

“Well, I think it might be time for this little one - and for me - to get a little sunshine.” He stepped away, gently rocking the baby in his arms as he moved toward one of the exits. Hershel, Beth and Carl followed him, with Carl at his dad’s elbow muttering something about Fiadh that seemed to be falling on deaf ears.

Fiadh herself was left alone. She finished hanging the rest of the clothes and was just about to head to her cell and pack her meagre possessions into her backpack when Daryl crashed through the ajar door, carrying a small, short-haired woman in his arms.

“Get the door!” He yelled at her, and Fiadh burst into quick action. She sprinted to the entrance to the cells, opening up the second internal entrance. She side-stepped quickly, letting Daryl through.

“Is she bitten?” Fiadh asked once he stepped within, her eyes on the strange woman.

“Naw. Passed out from exhaustion. She’s been down there alone this whole time.”

He moved quickly to the third cell down. Once it was clear where he was going, Fiadh stepped ahead. Inside the cell, she knocked a few items off the bed and stripped the sheet back. With a grunt, Daryl deposited the woman. “Where are the others?” He asked, moving to his knees next to the bed.

“Outside. Not far.”

Fiadh dipped back out, feet moving quickly and lightly as she hurried back to the communal area to pick up a few items. She returned mere moments later with a fresh cloth and a bottle of water, which she handed to Daryl. “Have her drink that, slowly. What’s her name?”

“Carol.”

Fiadh’s brows shot up with surprise. She had heard the others mention Carol, she even knew there was an empty grave outside for her; Hershel had mentioned visiting it earlier. It was some kind of miracle that she was still alive, and even more so that she’d been found. Another night and she likely wouldn’t have made it.

“Hey, Carol. I’m Fee. I’m a friendly.” Fiadh pushed those observations aside, well aware that voicing them wasn’t going to help anyone. With her knee on the side of the bed, she leaned over the barely conscious woman. Very gently, she reached out a hand and placed a thumb just above her eyelid. When revealed, the pupils dilated immediately.

“I’m fine…” The woman murmured.

“You feel dizzy at all, Carol?”

“No… Just tired.”

Fiadh eyed the dried lips, sunken eyes. Carol’s speech was a little slurred but otherwise she seemed responsive. “Dehydrated,” she said, her face turning toward Daryl, who was still by her side, clutching the bottle. “Daryl’s going to give you some water Carol, ‘kay? Get it into you, it’ll help, I promise.”

Obediently, he removed the cap and edged forward. He cupped the woman’s chin and began lifting the bottle rim to her lips. She managed a couple of sips before her head fell back down against the pillow.

Fiadh began to move. “I’ll go find the others,” she said, her voice a soft whisper. She slid off the bed and stood, but Daryl’s hand came up to touch her wrist.

“Stay. Just in case.”

Fiadh frowned, her eyes flickering from his fingers that had just brushed her arm, just above the rope burns, to Daryl. She was no doctor, no nurse, not a medic - she had rudimentary First Aid training. The only reason she knew Carol was dehydrated was because she’d been the same way once or twice herself over the course of the last year. She didn’t think the woman was in danger, but she couldn’t be sure. That would be the call of someone with a hell of a lot more knowledge than she.

But it was difficult to say no. Daryl looked at his hand and dropped it as quickly as he’d reached out, freeing her from the ghost of the touch. He was worried.

“Okay. I’ll just be over here.” She moved toward the entrance of the cell, again feeling like an intruder, even if she had been asked to stay. She was about to reassure him again that Carol would probably be just fine, when the woman herself started to come around a little more, her face and voice when she began to speak a little bit brighter.

Fiadh stayed right where she said she’d be until she heard the gunshots.

Chapter Text

“Was that…?” Fiadh asked aloud.

“Gunfire,” Daryl confirmed, straightening up.

“From inside the grounds?” Carol wondered aloud, adding to the conspicuously brief exchange between the three of them. She’d been sitting upright for the last ten minutes or so, taking intermittent sips from the bottle of water.

“I’ll go check it out,” Fiadh offered. She backed out of Carol’s cell and took off at a brisk walk toward the communal area.

The door burst open just as she rounded the table.

“Carl, get a blanket. Beth, water and a towel,” came Rick's orders.

The kid came down the stairs first, carrying a shopping basket. Which might have been bizarre enough on its own, but Rick followed, carrying a long, sheathed sword and a lady with dreads.

“Who the fuck is that?” Fiadh asked. Everyone ignored her.

“Here?” Carl asked, hustling quickly as he laid out a blanket, not bothering to wait for a response. Rick unceremoniously lowered the woman on top of it.

“She’s not coming in the cell blocks. Whoa, whoa, steady now.” His authoritative tone dropped into something quieter, more suited to a bedside manner to be used on an injured party.

Fiadh stepped forward, stopping next to Carl. Rick took the water from Beth and began to pour some over the woman’s chest, stirring her from the brink of unconsciousness.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Look at me. Look at me.” Rick was leaning over the woman, demanding her attention. “Who are you?”

“Jaysis,” Fiadh breathed the blasphemy when the woman didn’t answer, talking to nobody in particular as she watched. “For a group of people who don’t like strangers, yous sure are good at saving them.”

“Hey, it’s alright. Hey. No!” Rick reacted quickly as the woman turned and reached, going for her katana. He pressed his weight down on her shoulder and his leg swept outward, booting the sword just out of her reach. Fiadh moved immediately and bent down to scoop it up off the floor. Removing a weapon from the playing field altogether was definitely the right move. Especially if this woman knew how to wield it.

“We’re not gonna hurt you unless you try something stupid first, all right?” Rick said, still trying to appeal to her.

“Rick.”

Daryl’s voice echoed off the walls, and everyone, including the woman on the ground, turned toward it.

“Who the hell is this?”

Rick turned back toward the mystery woman. “You wanna tell us your name?” He repeated the request. Fiadh’s frown deepened and she couldn’t quite figure out if she was impressed by this woman’s iron will, or a little intimidated by it.

“Y’all come on in here,” Daryl said, already turning to leave.

Rick stood and Carl automatically stepped closer, hand hovering over the gun in his holster. “Everything alright?” Rick asked, looking away from their newest guest, intense stare moving over Fiadh, and then resting on Daryl.

“You’re gonna wanna see this.”

Without a word, Fiadh handed the sword over to Rick. He took it, and slipped back into Orders Mode. “Go ahead,” he told the others. “Carl, get the bag.”

Fiadh remained to the side, watching the woman as Carl moved to take her gear. Her eyes narrowed at the basket. As Carl passed her to head into the cells, she caught sight of a can of baby formula. A very familiar, very well-known brand. A narrowed, green stare moved back toward the woman.

“We’ll keep this safe and sound,” Rick said to her, holding up her sword. “The doors are all locked. You’ll be safe here. And we can treat that.” He gestured toward her injured leg. Her response was the kind of murderous look that Fiadh could only hope to replicate.

The woman’s eyes became wide then as they moved back and forth, her breathing a little laboured and for a moment, Fiadh’s stomach knotted a little with sympathy. This woman was a fighter. And she felt trapped; that much was written all over her expression.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she said through clenched teeth, finally speaking.

“Doesn’t matter.” Rick turned on his booted heel. “Can’t let you leave.”

Fiadh remained where she stood for a moment, arms crossed against her chest as she hesitated. She met the woman’s gaze.

“Fiadh. C’mon.”

Daryl stood at the door, huge bunch of keys in his hand, looking impatient. She pursed her lips in response, but didn’t push her luck. She hardly wanted to be locked in that room with the latest Stranger Danger.

Once she passed through, Daryl locked the door behind them. But she hung back again, leaning against the wall where she could watch the two very different scenes. One was the joy of a reunion and the sorrow of shared mourning for their lost family, the other was a woman alone, outside, looking in.

And then there was Fiadh: both, neither, and caught in-between.

The reunion was very sweet, but short. Soon afterward Rick had gathered Hershel and Daryl for a quick exchange, and after some hushed words, they all but stomped back to the locked gate. The new guest had retreated to the other side of the room, but Fiadh was still in the same spot. She was facing away from the cells, shoulder leaning up against the cool wall, watching the woman. She was frowning slightly.

“You know her? Recognise her?” Rick asked, probably finding Fiadh’s interest a little unusual.

Fiadh turned her head to face him, but stayed in her position against the wall. “Do I recognise a dreadlocked American warrior woman with a katana? No.”

Rick levelled the kind of look at her that she supposed was designed to make her regret her attitude. It didn’t work, but the message was clear. Fiadh crossed her arms against her chest. “It is a little weird though that she turned up with baby formula, to the exact place that happened to have a baby in need of formula, don’tcha think?”

“I do think.” Rick started to move again. “Come on.”

One of her brows arched at the unexpected invitation, but she followed. The gate was opened and Rick took point, with Daryl right behind him, crossbow raised, Hershel taking a little longer on his crutches. Fiadh waited for him to precede her, and then pulled the barred door over behind her. She took up her now familiar position on the periphery of the group, watching, waiting, her stance ready.

“We can tend to that wound for you, give you a little food and water, and then send you on your way.” The woman turned in her seat to look at Rick, though her dark stare settled on Daryl. Fiadh could see she was doing the mental calculations, working through the situation. She was waiting for the ‘but’.

“But you’re gonna have to tell us how you found us.” Rick shifted on the spot for a moment, before turning back to glance briefly at Fiadh. “And why you were carrying formula,” he added. He fell into his natural stance then, one hand over his gun, the other on his hip.

“The supplies were dropped by a young Asian guy with a pretty girl.”

Fiadh took a step forward. She was talking about Glenn and Maggie.

“What happened?”

The woman was looking Rick dead in the eye, unflinching. Her voice was low, pulling everyone in. Hershel stood; she now had his full attention, too. “Were they attacked?”

“They were taken.”

“Taken? By who?” Rick leaned in, his head dipping.

“By the same son of a bitch who shot me.” Fiadh could almost taste the venom that was dripping from the woman’s words as she spoke.

“Hey, these are our people.” Rick bent over, lowering himself to a level with the seated woman. His eyes sought hers. Not for the first time, Fiadh noticed him employing this tactic. She thought it might be effective, but then he jumped the gun. “You tell us what happened… now!” He demanded, his hand slapping against the wound on her leg.

Suddenly, the alertness level of the room ranked up a few notches. Daryl raised his crossbow and in a silent flash, Fiadh closed the distance between her and the others.

“Don’t you ever touch me again!” She was on her feet, finger pointed threateningly at Rick.

“Step back,” Fiadh ordered, her voice coming out like the crack of a whip.

“Better start talkin’,” Daryl advised, shuffling closer to the woman. He’d already taken aim - he was ready to shoot. “Or you’re gonna have a much bigger problem than a gunshot wound.”

She stared at Fiadh for a long, drawn out moment. Then to Daryl, she seethed, “Find ‘em yourself.”

Rick changed tactics like the wind changed direction. Fiadh almost had whiplash from it. “Shh, shh,” he hushed, then pushed the muzzle of Daryl’s crossbow. “Put it down.” Never taking his eyes off the woman, he walked in front of her, blocking her view of Daryl and Fiadh.

It was just the sound of her laboured breaths for a while, until Rick tried again. “You came here for a reason.”

And it must have been a good one, Fiadh thought, because risking your own neck on something like this was a gamble. In her experience, it was something undertaken when you thought you didn’t really have any other options.

“There’s a town. Woodbury. About 75 survivors, I think they were taken there.”

75 survivors? Fiadh blinked several times in surprise. That was a very, very large group. Large enough to carve out a piece of this county for themselves.

“A whole town?” Rick asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“It’s run by this guy who calls himself The Governor.” The contempt was very clear. “Pretty boy,” she continued, “Charming, Jim Jones type.

“He got muscle?” Daryl asked.

“Paramilitary wannabes.”

“You heard of ‘em?” Daryl spoke up again, though this time his question was for Fiadh.

“Not of this Governor person. But the people who attacked my group, they were well-armed, and there were a lot of them. They opened fire indiscriminately. Could be from the same place.”

The woman leaned a little to the side, seeking to get a better look at Fiadh. Perhaps she identified a potential ally, or perhaps she was doing something else entirely. Rick moved to block her view again.

“They have armed sentries on every wall,” she continued.

“You know a way in?” Rick asked, cocking his head.

“The place is secure from walkers, but we could slip our way through.”

Walkers. There it was again. Two different groups, using the same very unusual choice of term? Fiadh’s eyes narrowed, the frown returning.

“How’d you know how to get here?” Rick asked, irritation audible in his suspicion. Nobody else seemed to notice her choice of words, so Fiadh remained silent for the moment.

“They mentioned a prison, said which direction it was in, said that it was a straight shot.” She kind of half-shrugged, and in that moment it just looked like any normal conversation. Fiadh almost smiled at how quickly it all switched direction, again.

“This is Hershel,” Rick moved a little, and pointed toward the older man. “The father of the girl who was taken. He’ll take care of that.” He gestured toward her leg, then turned on his heel and nodded at Daryl, then Fiadh, and swept from the room. They followed like good soldiers.

Chapter Text

“How do you know we can trust her?”

It was Oscar asking, the last one of the group that Fiadh had identified. And a former inmate too, from what she could discern. It didn’t bother her overmuch in truth; she had an inclination that considering the protectiveness or paranoia of these people, they would not allow anyone who could mean them harm in their midst. Besides, he was built. That was useful. And he made a real point.

While Hershel stitched up their guest, Carl watching over him like a bodyguard, the others had gathered near the stairs in the cells. Fiadh was leaning against the railings, next to where Carol was sitting with the baby.

“This is Maggie and Glenn. Why are we even debatin’!?” Beth said with some force, stepping forward to make sure she was heard.

Daryl was the first to respond. “We ain’t. I’ll go after them.”

“Well this place sounds pretty secure,” Rick pointed out. “You can’t go alone.”

“I’ll go,” said Beth.

“Me, too,” said Axel, before turning a beseeching look toward Oscar.

The hesitation was brief before he added his name to the hat. “I’m in.”

“And me.” Fiadh stayed completely still, not moving when all eyes turned toward her. “I owe Maggie.” Rick looked like he was weighing her up all over again. He glanced at Daryl, an unspoken question on his face. Daryl just nodded.

“Alright. We got a rescue team.” Rick began to move. “We are on the road in 20.”

“You trust her?” Rick asked Daryl, his voice low as the pair of them packed the duffel bags, prepping them for easy transport to the car. Daryl looked up, catching sight of Fiadh walking down the stairs.

“I don’t trust anyone that ain’t us,” he responded simply, though it was followed by a shake of his head. “But she seems solid. She’s good with Carl.”

A ghost of a grin flickered across Rick’s lips as he piled another semi-automatic into a bag, and began looking around for the accompanying box of ammunition. “Yeah. I think he’s a bit smitten. Think she can handle herself?”

Daryl took a second, longer look at Fiadh. Her black boots were laced all the way up to the top, covering most of her shins. The leggings were form-fitting but he’d seen the hidden pockets already, giving them utility. The vest top was black, with thick straps. Poking out from beneath one of those straps was a looping mark of what looked to be a lengthy scar. A black cap was covering her hair, taking away the distraction of the colour. She looked geared up for battle. A tiny, well-dressed killer, stepping lightly down the stairs and tugging on a cross-body holster as she moved.

“When we found her she was hog-tied and gagged, dead body next to her. She’d killed ‘im with one of those kiddy scissors - y’know the plastic kind. Right in the neck. Takes strength. Takes guts. And even then, even tied up and tryin’ to escape, when we stepped in she looked like she was fixin’ to fight us, too. Yeah. I reckon she can handle herself.”

Rick studied the side of Daryl’s face for a moment, his expression betraying a little surprise. But his jaw clenched and he nodded, accepting the other man’s verdict. Together, without any further discussion, they began to gather their little arsenal and shift it to the car.

The others were milling about, some preparing to leave and others seeing to their roles within the prison. Axel, Hershel, Carol, Beth, Carl and the baby were all staying behind, which had been a decision that Daryl had silently agreed with. He might have preferred to go alone, or just with Rick, but he could probably work with a team this size. Any larger and things would have just gotten messy.

“I got the flash bangs, I got the tear gas. Never know what you’re gonna need,” he said as he and Oscar loaded up the trunk of the Hyundai. When he straightened up he noticed Fiadh approaching, and reached into one of the smaller bags to find the knife they’d confiscated from her.

“Your knife,” he said, flipping it over in his hand so that he was offering her the grip. She looked at it for a moment, an expression he couldn’t decipher crossing her face. With a frown, she eventually took it and slipped it straight into the holster at her side.

He didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business. Instead, he reached back in and pulled out something that packed a bit more punch. “You know how to shoot this?”

Fiadh was suddenly trying not to smile. She smiled at the weirdest shit, he thought. “Yeah,” she said, taking the Ruger from him. She released the magazine, eyeballed it for a moment, then with sure movements smoothly slid it back in and engaged the safety.

“Then it’s yours.” Daryl exchanged the semiautomatic weapon for ammo, putting the gun back inside the trunk. Fiadh pushed the spare magazine into one of the pouches on her body holster.

“Happy birthday to me,” she muttered.

Carl came up behind them, carrying a backpack and satchel. “Hey,” Daryl said, then reached out to take some of the stuff from the kid. “Hey, don’t you worry about your old man. I’m gonna keep my eye on him.” Carl nodded solemnly in response, and when Daryl stepped back to pull his sleeveless leather jacket on, the kid turned that too-serious stare on Fiadh.

“And you keep an eye on him,” he ordered her, nodding toward Daryl.

She didn’t seem to bother trying to hide her grin this time. “You got it, Carlito.”

Daryl made a ‘psh!’ sound of disbelief, but otherwise kept quiet. They finished packing the car and piled in, Hershel’s quiet plea to bring Maggie and Glenn back ringing in everyone’s ears.

By the time their insider told them to pull over, they’d been driving for just under a half hour. The evening sun was still shining, though it was getting lower and lower on the horizon. Once Rick had pulled in, they hauled ass out of the car and went straight to the trunk to arm up.

“They have patrols. We’re better off on foot.”

“How far?” Rick asked Michonne, eyes cast upward. “Night’s coming.”

“It’s a mile, maybe two.”

“I can run that, easy. Scout ahead?” Fiadh offered, positioning the strap of the Ruger comfortably across her chest so that the gun was against her back and accessible, but not hindering her movement.

“No,” Rick said, eyes squinting against the sun as he looked further down the road into the distance. He took a bag and his own rifle from the trunk. “We stay together. For now.”

The five of them slipped into the treeline, Daryl’s eyes on the walker on the road. A short distance away, but not short enough to bother with. He and Rick brought up the rear.

As the group walked the trail, Daryl automatically took notice of how little noise Fiadh made. It was usually something he would note, being a hunter and someone very comfortable in this kind of place. Oscar was the loudest. He was the biggest, so that shouldn’t be a surprise, but Daryl had long learned not to equate size with lack of skill. Rick, too, was pretty loud. That was mostly due to his choice of footwear - not really conducive to woodland living.

The samurai was a lot quieter, perhaps even quieter than Daryl himself was. She was wary. Her head moved a lot, probably too much, but the rest of her was smooth, measured.

But Fiadh, it was like she just walked on air.

She moved differently to anyone else he’d ever seen before. She was by far the smallest, and probably the lightest, despite the litheness of her form. Her centre of gravity was lower because of her height, and watching her as she picked her way through the path with graceful, fluid progress, he knew that she would be quick.

“I know what you did for me,” Rick said to him, breaking his study. “For my baby, while I was working things out. Thank you.”

Daryl spared a short sidelong glance at Rick. “It’s what we do.”

There was no need to say anything else.

Fiadh had other ideas though. She opened her mouth, started talking, and suddenly became the loudest one again.

“Hey. You call them walkers, too?” She asked, her head turning to look at the woman next to her. “You pick it up from someone else? I mean, it’s a pretty specific term.”

“As opposed to what?”

“Dead ones, the dead, sickos, biters, flesh goblins, oh, I dunno, zombies!? Though oddly, that one is nowhere near as common as I thought it would be.” Fiadh shrugged. The woman’s gaze slid toward her. From Daryl’s viewpoint, it looked like she was caught between wanting to grin and frown.

“But walkers, that doesn’t even make much sense,” Fiadh continued on, caught up in some sort of rant. “They don’t even really walk. It’s more of, like, an amble.”

“A shamble,” Michonne said then.

“A shuffle!” Came the suggestion from up front.

“Yes that’s it, Big O! Exactly. They don’t walk, they shuffle. So…?”

The other woman sighed. “I picked it up from a friend, I guess. It’s the term she used, so it must have rubbed off on me.”

“Who's your -”

To his left, Daryl heard a guttural groan.

“Rick,” he whispered, tone urgent.

“Down!”

“Get in formation. No gunfire.”

Fiadh’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of Wyatt’s knife and she pulled it out quickly. She was crouching, moving forward slowly with knees bent and shoulders down. She had no idea what formation Rick was talking about until he launched himself ahead and launched his blade into an Undead head.

At first she counted about half a dozen, but even more were coming out the trees, drawn toward the action. The sound of an arrow whizzed past her ear and she ducked reflexively.

“Oscar.”

At Rick’s instruction, Big O surged forward, swinging a powerful arm at one of the walkers. Fiadh could see the value in Rick’s formation plan then, but there were soon too many of them to manage one hit at a time.

Just as Oscar swung, one of the undead shuffled excitedly into her sphere of reach. It was at least six feet in height - too tall for her to reach with her knife. Her fingers flexed around the handle and she fell into a ready stance.

Quads and glutes coiled, she pulled her right knee up, the rest of her body easing quickly into chamber position, and she executed a hefty front kick, hitting the dead one’s solar plexus with the flat of her foot. It produced the desired effect, with the thing ambling backwards, bent in half, arms and head dangling.

Without her foot even hitting the ground, she adjusted immediately for an axe kick, her leg arcing upward and slamming down with a vertical top-down motion, reinforced heel crushing the skull.

She slipped back into formation.

“There’s too many of ‘em,” came Daryl’s grunt close by.

“This way.” Rick moved forward, snatching up his pack as he put himself out in front again. Everyone started moving, just as the undead began to appear from all sides. Fiadh reached out, fingers brushing Michonne’s back. “Come on,” she muttered, noting the other woman’s limp becoming even more pronounced as the group broke into a run.

“Through there!” Rick pointed with his machete. “Come on!”

The sprint was toward a small clearing in the words with a run-down cabin. Rick sped up some stairs and burst through the door. No time for knocking, Fiadh mused to herself as she brought up the rear, entering last.

“Get the door.”

As soon as Fiadh was over the threshold, Michonne slammed it over, effectively shutting themselves in. “Keep it down, keep it down,” Rick ordered, while everyone seemed to naturally break away from each other to search and clear the building.

“The smell, it’s loud,” Daryl muttered, the hand holding the knife rising up to cover his nose as he inched forward, eyes darting here and there, looking for the source.

Fiadh tugged a bandana from one of her pockets and held it against her mouth, though her other arm was still up, still in a defensive position at chest level. They all moved forward, Rick shining his torch further inside.

“What the hell is that?” Oscar asked, his question then punctuated by the sound of Fiadh’s palm slapping against her skin, trapping one of those buzzing flies against her neck.

“Gross…” She muttered, then wiped her hand against her thigh.

“It’s gotta be a fox, or what’s left of one,” Daryl suggested. But when Rick’s torch finally found the source, revealing a fluffy, little white dog, he changed his tune. “I guess Lassie went home.”

For a moment, Fiadh just stared, initially feeling a little sad about the dog - to be fair, who wouldn’t? - but Daryl’s deadpan delivery just tickled her funny bone, and she let out a short, sharp “HA!”

There’s nothing an Irish person appreciates more than some dark, morbid humour.

The others started to turn, probably to give her some side-eye, but the dead banging on the front door was the more immediate concern. Some light was filtering in through the cracks of the planks, and the walkers were casting shadows. They were reaching, clawing, pressing against the poorly barricaded door.

Rick whistled softly, getting Daryl’s attention. The torch was shining on a spot in the corner of the room as they stepped toward it, eventually revealing a bed. The bedspread looked old, moth-eaten, but there was something beneath it. Slowly, beads of sweat dripping off his brow, Rick leaned forward, his hand hovering just over the covers. Then, in one quick motion, he ripped the spread away, revealing a very awake, very alive man beneath, wearing a beanie hat and carrying a deadly weapon.

Everyone jumped simultaneously, weapons raised.

“Who the hell are you!?” He demanded, standing with speed and revealing the rifle in his arms.

Rick held his hands out in a placating fashion, but Fiadh could clearly see the panic on this man’s stricken face, even in the semi-darkness of the dank cabin.

“We don’t mean any harm,” Rick said, employing that earnest expression of his.

“Get out of my house!” This bloke was having none of it. The fear was palpable, and Fiadh nervously shifted her weight from her heels to the balls of her feet, ready to scarper.

“Okay, okay!” Rick crouched down, making as if to drop his own weapons. “We will, but we can’t right now.”

“NOW!”

“Shut him up!” Michonne hissed. The thumps on the door continued directly behind her. Her fingers were already wrapped around her sword.

“Get out right now!”

“There are walkers outside!” Rick again, trying to appeal to this man’s rational mind.

“The dead!” Fiadh qualified, her tone urgent.

The crazed stare shifted and for a moment she thought maybe they’d gotten through. “I’ll call the cops!” He said then, however, dashing all of her hopes for that aforementioned rational mind.

“I am a cop.”

She couldn’t help it, Fiadh’s brows rose as she risked a quick glance at Rick. He could be lying, of course, but somehow, something just clicked. Of course he was a cop, she realised, and had the situation been somewhat safer, she might have groaned at herself for missing it. “Now, I need you to lower the gun.” Rick was still meeting Beanie Man’s gaze, moving lower as he said the word, miming the action and encouraging the man to follow suit with movement and speech.

Yes, definitely a cop.

“Don’t do anything rash.”

The man looked as though he was about ready to burst into tears. He was hysterical.

“Everything’s fine,” Rick continued to reassure, leaving his knife on the ground as he stood up straight again, arms still raised, hands reaching out; empty. “Let’s just take this nice and slow, okay?”

Fiadh knew the man was lost as he turned a tortured, pained stare toward her. “He’s solid gone…” She muttered.

“Look at me. Hey, hey.”

Beanie Man did as he was asked, eyes flashing, and cocked the rifle. “Show me your badge!” The room was filled with clenched jaws and puckered arseholes the moment the muzzle was pointed mere inches away from Rick’s face.

“Alright. It’s in my pocket.” He pointed downward. Every movement commanded the crazy man’s attention. Despite everything, Fiadh couldn’t help but be impressed. “It’s in my pocket. I’m just gonna reach down, nice and slow.” The hand movement distracted, misdirected, and Rick took his chance.

He slapped the muzzle away, right as the shot went off. Everybody ducked, but the redirected round missed Daryl by a matter of inches, blowing spattered holes in the wall behind him.

Fiadh grimaced but she didn’t have time to complain. Rick grabbed a hold of Beanie Man, who struggled and threatened while he was handled into a choke-hold. She picked up the discarded rifle and raised her arms, aiming it at the struggling pair. They were moving too much, though, and in less time it took to draw another breath, the crazy Beanie Man had gotten free.

He made a run for it. “Help! They found me! Help me!”

“Don’t open that door!”

“Shit,” Fiadh muttered, sucked in a breath and then aimed at the back of the mad man’s departing head as he made a run for the exit.

But Michonne was quicker. Her sword sang as she unsheathed it. She lunged, the blade piercing through the unfortunate bloke from behind, bringing his great escape to a well-timed end. He crumpled to the ground and the warrior woman flicked her wrist, shaking the excess blood from her katana.

Fiadh was a bit in awe. Maybe she was even a little in love. She lowered the rifle to the ground while everyone stared. “Time to go,” she suggested when one of the door’s glass panels began to crack and shatter. “You get hit?” She asked Daryl then as he shouldered passed.

“Nah.”

The dead continued their assault with what sounded like renewed gusto, drawn by the noise or perhaps Beanie Man’s blood, which was pooling beneath him on the floor. Daryl took a moment to survey outside, before turning back to them. “Remember the Alamo?”

Fiadh’s eyes flickered down toward the dead body. She wasn’t American, didn’t know too much about its history, but her education had been in music. She knew the story of the Alamo thanks mostly to Johnny Cash.

“Daryl, help me with the door.” Rick surged forward and everyone moved, ready to get into place.

Everyone apart from Oscar, who was looking a little disturbed, “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Waste not,” Fiadh said. She turned and began to move toward the back door.

“He’s dead, check the back.” Rick spared half a glance behind him at them, before returning his attention to shifting Beanie Man’s dead body.

“On it!” Fiadh responded, pulling the wooden door open ever so slightly; enough for her to peek through. Oscar came up behind her, hand resting on her shoulder for a moment as they both peered outside.

Between them, Rick and Daryl had righted Beanie Man, and Michonne was preparing to open the front door.

“It’s clear!” Oscar said, he and Fiadh turning just in time to witness the great sacrifice.

Rick counted off, Michonne opened the door, and together they fed the walkers. With the herd falling on poor Beanie Man to feast, Daryl locked the door and the group took off out the back.

The remainder of the trip was quiet. Gone was the chatter from before, replaced with a focus that fell upon them like the night as the light in the sky died. The sounds of the living, though muted somewhat behind the raised walls of Woodbury, could be heard at some distance. The five of them crouched behind the cover of some overturned cars and watched.

Chapter Text

Fiadh was very surprised, and maybe a little disturbed, to discover that getting into Woodbury was pretty easy. Without Michonne’s knowledge of the place it would likely have been more difficult, but they managed to slide in with minimal notice. There was a lesson in there somewhere, Fiadh thought, though she was most struck by just how vulnerable everyone was; walls or no.

Already high tensions sky-rocketed when they heard the sound of gunshots. Leaving behind a tied and gagged resident, they took off, following the sound.

Everyone hunched low to the ground, following Rick in single-file down one of the town’s alleys, until they came to what looked like a temporary building of some sorts, behind the neat row of bricked houses and facades. Huge sheets of metal and wood had been nailed together, creating a narrow corridor and a number of what Fiadh thought looked to be storage rooms.

Rick held up a hand, halting them.

“We sure they’re here?” Oscar whispered, eyes wide in the low light.

“Best guess,” Daryl muttered, his eyes on Rick ahead, crossbow raised and ready.

It’s what Fiadh would put her money on, too. Of course, it could have been a breach, could be that these people had already started gunning each other down from the inside, but with Glenn and Maggie being within these walls the potential for them to cause trouble was too high to ignore.

Rick held up a finger to his mouth, then started moving again. They’d arrived at a more open area, and there were two open doors to their left. Voices were coming from within. Rick crouched down against the wall, gesturing for the others to do the same.

“On your feet. Move!”

“Shit,” Rick cursed, he and Daryl reaching into one of the bags and pulling out a couple of flash bangs. Everyone started moving, the sounds of their steps hidden beneath the half-dozen or so footfalls coming out of the next room.

Rick tossed the smoke bomb and the rest retreated for a moment, finding cover. Once in the corridor beyond, he held up his hands, fingers splayed and counted down from five. They re-emerged, weapons raised, and advanced toward the Woodbury group. They were greeted by coughing and choking, but very little resistance. And there, amidst the smoke, were Glenn and Maggie.

They were snatched and ushered away, with no time to say anything. Bullets pinged behind them, hitting the metal sheeting and narrowly missing their fleeing backs.

People were running in the streets, panicked; darting here and there. The confusion served as a good distraction, and the group managed to get inside a building on the main street. It wasn’t until they were under cover that Fiadh was able to appreciate just how damaged Glenn had been. His face was a mess of blood and swelling, even his bare torso looked like it had taken a beating. Her eyes lingered on Maggie for a moment, who looked relatively unscathed. Though that she was wearing Glenn’s shirt, and Glenn was wearing nothing, did not escape her notice.

The others were having quick-fire, urgent conversations with each other. Fiadh crouched down next to the window, which was covered by a bed sheet. She tugged it slightly, having a peek outside.

“Where’s that woman?” Maggie asked, prompting the realisation en masse that Michonne had, once again, ditched them. It was decided quickly that she should be left to her own devices. Fiadh kept her opinions on that one to herself.

Rick appeared beside her.

“The Governor might have paramilitary types,” Fiadh whispered to him, using the terminology Michonne had previously, “But these people running around, scared and crying aren’t them. We need to move before the commotion dies down.”

He peered outside himself, then nodded once. Twice. “Alright,” he replied, pulling back.

“Daryl,” Glenn said, the pain clear in his voice, “This was Merle.” Maggie was trying to get a hoodie over Glenn’s shoulders, but he seemed unable to stay still. “It was. He did this.”

“Who is Merle?” Fiadh asked Oscar, her tone hushed. Big O’s response was merely to shrug.

“He threw a walker at me. He was gonna execute us.”

Fiadh turned away from her lookout spot at the window for a moment, tuning in on the unfolding drama. Daryl in particular seemed restless, moving his weight from one leg to the other, shifting from side to side as he processed.

“So my brother’s this Governor?”

Fiadh’s brows shot up almost to her hairline. Oh, this is fucked.

Maggie chimed in. “No, he’s somebody else. Your brother’s his lieutenant or something.”

A string of curse words flew threw Fiadh’s head as she turned away from the others again. Glenn was in a bad way, and hearing him apologising for not being able to hold out in the face of what sounded like torture, caused her chest to tighten with emotion. And unless they were estranged, Daryl’s brother being caught up in the mix of this was going to complicate things massively.

A very heated, almost desperate exchange began between Rick and Daryl, with the bowman trying to convince the former cop that he needed to see his brother and sort this out. Fiadh moved toward Glenn and Maggie, offering a shoulder to help hoist Glenn upright, but that emotional tug, constricting her chest, only tightened when she heard the despair in Daryl’s voice.

“He’s my brother! I ain’t- “

“Look at what he did! Look, we gotta get out of here now,” Rick hissed.

“Maybe I can talk to him! Maybe I can work something out!” The appeal in Daryl’s voice just felt like another poking jab to her solar plexus.

What wouldn’t she do for her brother? Well, that was a complicated question, as she had a few, and liked some more than others. But if she really asked herself, really gave it some thought, she knew that despite her background, the answer would be: not much. There wouldn’t be much she wouldn’t do.

At the same time, this brother of his had also kidnapped Glenn and Maggie, tortured them, and had been ready to execute the pair. Fiadh didn’t think there would be a reasonable explanation for that.

Rock, meet hard place.

Both men had hard heads; she’d seen that. Whose was harder?

“No, no, no. You’re not thinking straight.” Rick told him, leaning in close, carrying on as though they were the only two who could hear. “Look, no matter what they say, they’re hurt. Glenn can barely walk. How are we gonna make it out if we get overrun by walkers or this Governor catches up to us? I need you.”

Fiadh adjusted Glenn’s arm around her shoulder as she pre-emptively gave the debate point to Rick. He really was very convincing. And she just so happened to be the perfect size to be used as a human crutch.

“Are you with me?”

A calm seemed to descend over Daryl. “Yeah.”

Had he given in too quickly, Fiadh wondered, or was this just the key to unlocking his cooperation? With a frown, she turned her attention to the window. Glenn grunted a little next to her, protesting the movement as he stood upright on his own.

“Alright. Here’s how it goes,” Rick said, the small group gathering at the door. “Daryl first. Toss a couple of those flash bangs, one toward the junction, the other toward the wall. It’ll give us some cover.” He paused for a moment, handing Maggie a pistol. “I go. Then Daryl. Maggie and Glenn, in the middle. Fiadh, Oscar, take the rear.

A chorus of nods responded.

“Oh three. Stay tight. One, two, three.”

Fiadh sucked in a breath, her clammy hands tightening around the clutched Ruger. She rolled her shoulders, trying to elicit a calm, memory response from her body. But her heart still hammered. The stuff she used to do for nerves before a recital, or going on stage, never used to work, either.

But to be fair, she never risked getting shot when she walked out on stage. This was enemy territory. This was a potential war zone.

The flash bangs clinked and hissed, and soon their immediate view was clouded by the gas.

“Let’s go!”

She didn’t have time to think about her thumping heart or impending death then. If she had, she probably would have told herself that it was her own fault, and that she’d volunteered for this madness.

They moved quickly, bodies hunched low, guns raised. They made it to Main Street before the watchers on the wall saw them. Some shouts went up. Guns were fired. It wasn’t clear whether the first shots came from their people or Woodbury’s, but after a moment or two of bullets flying, it no longer mattered.

They pressed forward. Through the misty remnants of the gas, Daryl and Rick firing from the front, each taking out a wall guard with impressive - terrifying - accuracy.

Having given Glenn a bit of a shove forward, Fiadh turned on her heel and began walking backwards. She fired the gun, aiming at the indistinguishable figures coming through the dissipating clouds.

“Behind you!” Came a yell, and in a flurry of movement, she launched herself toward a nearby bench. As cover went it was a poor choice, but under these conditions there wasn’t exactly time to do a full reconnaissance.

She ducked, free hand covering her head as an arc of bullets made firewood out of the bench slats. Fiadh looked up, wildly searching for an opportunity to make a run for it, and caught sight of Daryl marching toward the fire, his own rifle raised.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Fiadh turned and fired off a few shots of her own. They went wide, but the two of them firing simultaneously had sent the Governor’s men ducking for shelter.

“Go! Get cover!” Came Rick’s shout over the din. “In there.”

A third set of gunshots joined in with Fiadh and Daryl’s, and suddenly Oscar was next to her. “Come on! I got you!”

With a grunt and an internal scream, she flung herself into action. She fired the entire time, her step a lateral one as she blindly followed the others. Once they’d reunited in the tighter formation, Rick ushered them down an alleyway.

“How many?” Rick asked, shouting to be heard over the noise in the streets.

“I didn’t see!” Oscar said as he reloaded. Glenn was pressed up against the wall.

“Two at the bench!” Fiadh shouted. “Another one to the left of them!”

“Don’t matter, there’s gonna be more of ‘em. We need to move,” Daryl pointed out, his hands already back in the bag, looking for more that they could use.

“Any grenades left?” Rick crouched down next to him, looking for himself.

“Uh-huh.”

“Get ‘em ready, we gotta gun it to the wall!”

Another gun was added to the chorus, proving Daryl right immediately. Maggie swung around one of the brick walls and fired off a couple of shots. The last thing that they wanted was the enemy advancing, thinking they’d run out of ammo.

“You guys go ahead, I’m gonna lay down some cover fire,” Daryl said, passed a reloaded semi-automatic back to Glenn.

“No, we gotta stay together,” Maggie shot back, and Fiadh nodded in silent agreement. Splitting up under these circumstances was a bad idea in her opinion, leaving them open to trouble if they had to wait for him to catch up.

“It’s too hairy. I’ll be right behind you.” Daryl and Rick shared a look, and apparently, a silent agreement of their own.

The corner of Fiadh’s left eye twitched; an obvious tell, if anyone cared to look. Of course, nobody was paying much attention to facial expressions or tics, not while they were under siege. She bit her tongue and edged toward the corner of the wall. Maggie nodded at her, and then the two in unison stepped slightly out of cover and released a few rounds.

“Ready?” Daryl called, then stepped past them, wound his arm and tossed a grenade.

“Move!”

Fiadh waved Glenn and Maggie out, then Oscar, and then she too emerged from their hidey-hole, leaving Daryl behind. Rick was already out in front, drawing fire as the others scrambled toward a parked school bus.

“This way!” She could hear Oscar’s voice calling, and quickly, saw his plan. While he pulled Glenn up and over the hood of the bus, she and Maggie stood close by, facing away from the others as they climbed, covering their backs. She had never in her wildest dreams thought that the ra-ta-ta of gunfire would be something her brain became accustomed to. It was almost filtering it out.

Almost. The absence of Rick’s bullets was something she heard. She side-stepped once, twice, moving laterally with left foot over right, squeezing the trigger as the silhouette of a man, outlined against the mist, began approaching. Not by itself a surprise, but what was, was the fact that Rick had stopped moving completely.

“Rick!” Fiadh shouted, moving forward quicker. He didn’t move, he just stared.

The other man pumped his rifle, took aim, and shot.

“Rick!” She roared again, though the sound of the bullets from her Ruger drowned out her voice. The man dropped. “Rick!”

But Rick was on his feet, pistol in hand, back in the room, so to speak. He took long strides toward the downed man. There was only blood where his face used to be.

Maggie’s shouts joined in with Fiadh’s. Both she and Rick turned simultaneously, Fiadh’s wild stare first falling on the bus, then at the crouched figure in front of it. Glenn’s desperate voice called for his girlfriend, but Maggie couldn’t move yet. She was hunched over someone - a body.

Fiadh knew it could only be one person, but she couldn’t let herself really think it. “No,” she muttered as she stepped back from Rick and the man she’d killed, and turned toward Maggie and the man she was kneeling next to on the ground.

It was Oscar.

And then Maggie stood, aimed, and shot Big O in the head.

Fiadh’s breath caught in her chest, but she couldn’t stop. They had to get out of there before they were overrun and overwhelmed, before their fates became worse than Oscar’s.

“Come on!” She yelled, turning to make sure Rick was moving. Daryl’s cover fire remained a steady stream. She stepped around Big O on the ground, trying not to look at him, then shouldered her gun so that she could climb.

Two palms on the hood and she’d hoisted herself up and over smoothly, and quickly. She lay on her stomach on the roof of the bus, waiting for Rick and Daryl.

Rick’s hands appeared over the edge and she reached out to grab a handful of his shirt. She tugged, eyes searching the tarmac down below, looking for signs of the woodland elf.

“Go!” She heard.

Once Rick had scrambled onto the roof, the two of them moved into a crouch. “We have to wait,” Fiadh shouted, eyes sliding back over Woodbury’s Main Street. The gunfire continued at the same rate.

“He’s not movin’,” Rick said, his shaking head spraying sweat from his curls. “We gotta go.”

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, giving her a little shove onto the platform of the wall next to the bus. “Go! Now!”

Rick was a lot stronger than Fiadh; bigger, too. But she didn’t want to leave. “He’ll be killed, Rick.”

“We’re not leavin’ him,” Rick stepped onto the platform, then turned and held out his hand. “We just need to wait somewhere safer. Come on. We can’t waste this chance he’s given us.”

Some of the bus windows shattered, glass exploding outward. Fiadh automatically ducked. It was clear that they had to move, Rick was right about that much. She ignored his outstretched hand and hopped over easily to the platform. From over the other side, the drop was manageable. Probably the easiest thing she would have to do that night.

Fiadh just followed the others, trying not to think about how they’d left without two of their number. Rick directed them to the cover of the abandoned cars - the same place as where they’d staked out Woodbury only about an hour before - and gestured for everyone to stay down.

Glenn gratefully collapsed onto his knees, bending over as he tried to catch his breath. The moment's rest was having a different kind of impact on Fiadh, though she too quickly found herself bending over. Images of Oscar flooded her mind and then flickered away, replaced by the sight of the man she'd shot. His face, riddled with her bullets. She retched and heaved. The others politely ignored her as she emptied the meagre contents of her stomach, trying as best as she could to keep it quiet.

“Come on Daryl,” Rick muttered, reloading his gun with ammo from one of the bags they’d left behind, his eyes flickering from the task at hand, to the guards on the wall, steadfastly ignoring the vomiting lady. She took a few moments to calm herself, taking a few deep breaths. She wiped her mouth on her vest top, then took her cap off and smoothed back her hair before replacing it on her head. With the nausea beginning to dissipate, she was able to concentrate again. She sought distraction. Fiadh moved up toward the hood of a jeep and peered over it.

“It’s all quiet,” she said. In honesty, she was somewhat impressed with how quickly Woodbury seemed to get a handle on the situation.

A sound of rustling from behind them caught everyone’s attention, and everyone turned with weapons raised toward the source. Michonne emerged, looking more than a little worse for wear.

But that garnered no sympathy, as every gun pointed at the warrior.

“Where in the hell were you.” It would have been a question, but Rick spoke it like an accusation. He cocked his gun. “Put your hands up. Turn around.”

Michonne complied and Rick reached out to unsheathe her katana. He held his arm out to the side, passing it to Fiadh. Once she’d relieved him of it, he stepped closer to Michonne, backing her up against the abandoned train car. “Get what you came for?”

“Where are the rest of your people?” Michonne asked, not meeting Rick in the eye and avoiding his question just as surely.

“They got Oscar,” Glenn said.

“Daryl is missing. You didn’t see him?” Maggie followed up, both of them pointing pistols at Michonne, who was shaking her head in a 'no'.

“If anything happens to him…” Rick was back in her face again, but this time Michonne addressed the issue head on.

“I brought you here to save them.”

“Thanks for the help,” Rick responded, his expression slack.

Michonne's breathing quickened, and for the first time since she’d met the woman, Fiadh could see more than just a flicker of desperation. There was something else; something that had shaken Michonne. She did not want to be left behind, left here. “You’ll need help to get them back to the prison… Or to go back in there for Daryl. Either way, you need me.”

The silence between them grew heavier. Rick almost snarled, he hesitated for just a moment, but then took a step back. Fiadh took that as the go ahead she was waiting for.

“Is there another way in?” She asked Michonne, her gun lowering. She’d kept the katana down by her side. Its owner eyed it for a moment, before forcing her gaze to meet Fiadh’s.

“Yes. They’ve got some abandoned units, a couple of warehouses, near the back of the compound. I think they used to be factories or something. When I first arrived I was doing some scouting, checking out the place. Discovered they were keeping walkers chained up inside some of the warehouses.”

“Walkers? Why would they keep chained up walkers?” Fiadh asked.

“To torture people with.” All eyes turned toward Glenn’s pale face. “Merle had one on a line . On th-this pole. He tossed it at me and then left the room, locking the door behind him. I was tied to a chair.”

“Jaysis-fucking-Christ.”

The blasphemy came from the Irish person, of course.

“The Governor is a psychopath,” Michonne said, her eyes sliding to the left, as though remembering something. “Those tendencies have been let loose in there, unchecked.”

“No shit.”

Again, the Irish person. But the brief exchange, as disturbing as it had been, galvanised Fiadh. The blood began to thump quickly in her veins again as adrenaline surged once more. “Okay. Take us there,” she said. She turned her wrist and stepped forward, offering the hilt of the sword back to its owner. For a moment she thought Rick was going to protest, standing there as he was with hands on his hips, jaw clenching and unclenching.

“You just show us. You’re not comin’ in with us,” he said finally.

“Fine.” Michonne took her sword and slid it smoothly into its sheath. Moments later, they were on the move once again.

The entry point was really just a half-nailed sheet of tin, hastily fixed against a large hole in the fence. Fiadh could only assume that it wasn’t finished on purpose, perhaps out of need for someone’s escape, or for smuggling. The alternative was pretty frightening negligence on the part of whoever was in charge of Woodbury’s security.

She tapped Rick’s shoulder, then pointed at herself. “Let me check,” she whispered, concerned that the others might make too much noise. Not far from where they were crouching, they could hear the sounds of voices. People were moving inside, in a group, toward something close by. The night was even brighter there, suggesting that the area behind the wall was lit up.

Rick studied her for a moment, then nodded. He held a hand out to the others, gesturing for them to stop and still. Fiadh handed her Ruger to Maggie and then crept forward, hands reaching for the tin sheet. Gently, she pulled on the bottom edges. There was a soft, scraping sound as it pulled outward toward her, managing about a 45 degree angle from the wall. Enough for her to squeeze through without having to remove the top two nails holding it in place.

Someone grabbed the edge of the sheet and held it in place for her, freeing her up to crawl inside. She slid through on her stomach, stopping when she was about halfway through to peer into the darkness, trying to discern if the shapes and shadows were threats. After a few quiet beats, she pushed forward and emerged fully.

When she stood, she realised she was in one of those warehouse units Michonne had mentioned. Some light was coming in through the filthy windows, which were high above her head, close to the ceiling. A clanging sound coming from the other side of the cavernous building caught her attention. Her head whipped around, her eyes searching in the dark. The sound came again, and again, and then a low, guttural snarl gave it away.

Walkers. Chained up, just like Michonne had said. Fiadh grimaced and started moving away in the opposite direction, toward a side door, repeating in her mind that they were restricted in a vain attempt to calm her nerves.

Tongue sticking into her cheek in concentration, she wrapped her hand around the handle of the door and gently pressed down. The door mechanism opened easily. She cracked the door itself open just an inch or two; enough for her to see outside without having to leave cover. She could make out those lights, but no people in the immediate vicinity. Quickly, softly, she stepped outside. Leaving the door on the latch behind her, she ventured forward.

She heard the people before she saw them. The raised voices were growing and she followed their direction, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. She stopped just behind a skip, which was parked flush against the side of another warehouse. It was the perfect cover, so she wedged herself behind it, peering around the side.

On three sides were the empty, derelict warehouses. In front of those, and arranged in a horseshoe, were rows and rows of benches, fixed in elevation. In the middle was the stage. Standing there, surrounded by adoring fans and agog spectators, was the Governor, a large bandage over one of his eyes.

He was speechifying. In that moment Fiadh understood what Michonne had meant when she’d compared him to that cultish serial killer. While she listened, she took the opportunity to count the armed support, defences and weak points. She was wondering if they could get someone, maybe even her, to a point of elevation, when a hooded prisoner was dragged into the arena.

The Governor ripped off the cloth, revealing Daryl.

“Shit,” she muttered. Time to go.

Chapter Text

As soon as her head appeared through the fence, Rick was down on his knees, offering his hand in case she needed it. Once through and upright, she gestured for everyone to move away, pointing toward a nearby SUV. When they were behind the limited cover, she started talking.

“They have him. The Governor and his people are in some kind of… like… gladiatorial pit.” She couldn’t think of anything else to call it. “He’s going to make him fight. We have to go, now.”

“How many guards?” Asked Rick, his hands running over his face once, before he stuck his thumb in the corner of his eye.

“About ten armed that I could see. The rest were just regular people. If they react like they did when we first got here, if we shoot they’ll be confused, scared, and will start running around like headless chickens.” Fiadh began talking with her hands, trying to describe the area. “There are these big spotlights,” she remembered, one arm raising in the air.

“We can shoot those out,” Maggie suggested.

Nodding, Fiadh continued, “There’s a skip about 200 metres from the warehouse exit, it should provide good cover.”

At the blank expressions, she sighed with some frustration, fingers of one hand tapping against her thigh as she tried to think. “A skip. A… what do you guys call it? A dumpster. Two hundred metres…” She fell silent again, her face screwing up. Maths was not her strong suit. “About 600 feet maybe?”

“Okay. Okay. We got a plan.”

She might have questioned just how good that plan was, but time was of the essence, so Fiadh merely nodded.

“Maggie, Fiadh, we’ll head in now.” Maggie passed Fiadh back her Ruger, then dove into the duffel for something with a little more precision.

“Hey,” Glenn said, trying to stand up straight, “I’m coming too.”

“No. No you can’t. You’re in no shape to do this,” Rick told him, though his tone was a lot more gentle than it had been before.

“And Maggie is!?” Came his incredulous response.

“I’m fine.” The statement was punctuated by Maggie loading her weapon and disengaging the safety.

“No, you’re not.”

Fiadh looked at Maggie, noting the set jaw, her squaring of the shoulders. Then she looked at Glenn. “She says she’s fine.”

“Our car is a couple miles out. Michonne knows where. Both of you, head back there. We’ll meet you once it's done.” Rick’s tone, while still gentle, did not encourage argument. Glenn threw a murderous glare at Fiadh, then at Rick. Or a half-murderous glare might be more accurate, as he could only really use one eye.

After that, the plan, as loosely as that term could be applied, went off quite well. Rick squeezed himself through the hole in the wall, then he, Maggie and Fiadh set themselves up and opened fire. As indiscriminately as this Governor and his people had opened fire on Fiadh Kelly’s group at Sandy Creek. Maggie’s keen eye took out the spotlights, covering those below in glass and darkness. The walkers they’d been trying to sic on Daryl and his brother also got loose, adding to the rising chaos.

They left with a Dixon deal; two for the price of one, with the older brother providing an escape route.

There was a manic quality to the atmosphere being shared by the group running from Woodbury. Of course, that didn’t surprise Fiadh, everyone was very eager to put some distance between themselves and that place. And this Governor character. This psychopath who had tortured and then tried to execute Glenn and Maggie, and had pitted Daryl against his brother Merle in front of a roaring crowd. From what Fiadh had gathered Merle had been the Governor’s top lieutenant. Clearly, this leader wasn’t sentimental.

“Glenn!” Rick called out hurriedly as soon as they saw the first telltale signs of the road through the treeline, easier now with the sun up.

Fiadh’s hand reached for the pistol she’d been carrying. This was going to get very messy, very quickly, and she wasn’t sure that Officer Silver Tongue would be able to talk his way out of this one.

She had positioned herself behind Maggie, a small, lone little barrier between her and the Dixons. So when Glenn caught sight of their latest unwanted guest, she was perfectly placed to take a bullet.

I’m going to get myself killed.

These people are going to get me killed, she amended, gun raising quickly just as all hell broke loose.

Michonne and Glenn were out for Merle’s blood. Fiadh could understand that; oh, she really, really could. And Daryl was out to defend his brother. That, too, was a natural response.

She was Switzerland. She hated it; fence-sitting had never been her forté.

Rick stepped forward, his gun in hand. She had expected him to act as the peacemaker, but he pointed it right at Michonne. Both Glenn and Maggie drew on Merle. Or they tried to, Daryl stood right there in the path of any fire. Interestingly, the only thing the Dixons held up were their hands.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Glenn roared, his face a mess of swelling and hate.

The response was a chorus of shouts to put the guns down, met with protests.

“He tried to kill me!” Michonne shouted as she stepped forward, that sword of hers pointing directly at Rick’s chest.

“Hey, hey! Back up!” Fiadh shouted back, her gun finally finding a target that made sense. Maggie followed suit immediately. “Do as she says!” The brunette snapped.

“If it wasn’t for him…” Glenn flung at Daryl meanwhile, and Fiadh could hear in his voice that he was beyond discussion.

“Naw, he helped us get out of there,” Daryl said, trying to explain.

“Yeah, right after he beat the shit out of you!” Rick added, piling on in the other direction this time. He’d turned from Michonne to speak, but Fiadh and Maggie had kept their attention on the sword-wielding unknown.

“Hey, we both took our licks, man,” drawled Merle, who looked entirely too comfortable leaning back against a tree.

“Jackass.”

Fiadh’s eyes flickered between the two Dixons, mind working, wheels turning as she tried to work out the dynamic of this particular doozy of a relationship. Siblings were always complicated.

“Hey, shut up,” Merle threw back at his brother.

Fiadh’s eyes narrowed. Yes, complicated. And mature.

“Enough!” Came another Rick roar, and this time he made the mistake of really taking his eye off the prize. Michonne moved in, sword within only a couple of feet from Merle.

Fiadh cocked her gun. “I will fuckin’ shoot you, Michonne,” she warned, her tone betraying her irritation, if not her serious intent.

“Put that thing down now!”

“Get that thing out of my face!”

A laugh broke through the frenzied exchange as Merle, who seemed to actually be enjoying himself, decided to take another shot at his brother. The only one who was really trying for him.

It was enough to tell Fiadh that this older Dixon was not scared of any of them. He did not fear the outcome or consequences of this problem. He gave so little a shit, and he was that much of a shit, that he was taking time amidst all of the in-fighting to hurl abuse. “Man, looks like you’ve gone native, brother.”

“No more than you hanging out with that psycho back there.” Daryl shot back, his arm waving. Fiadh could hear something in his voice, something different.

She holstered her gun. Fiadh was done with it.

“Oh, yeah, man. He is a charmer, I got to tell you that.” Fiadh stepped away to the side as Merle drawled his way through a fairly problematic speech. He had a way with words, she could give him that. The words were frequently poorly chosen, but he had half a brain in his head, clearly. And to Fiadh, that just made him all the more dangerous.

He was beginning to spin a web. He turned on Michonne. “Been putin’ the wood to your girlfriend, Andrea. Big time, baby.” Merle’s tongue swished back and forth against his lower lip and he made a groaning noise.

Fiadh crossed her arms against her chest, the corners of her eyes pinched as she narrowed them. But Merle’s play was working. She had no idea who this Andrea person was, but everyone else seemed to.

“Andrea’s in Woodbury?” Glenn asked, the anger from earlier seeming to seep out of him, replaced with surprise.

“Right next to the Governor,” Daryl confirmed. His voice was low, settled. The air was deflating out of everyone’s balloons, it felt.

That was until Michonne made another move.

“I told you to drop that!” Rick growled, and honestly this time he really did look like he wanted to take her out. But there was something else that he wanted more. “You know Andrea?”

She stepped back, her expression falling. Merle’s rose. He was back leaning up against his tree, smiling at the chaos he wrought.

“Hey, do you know Andrea.”

“Yeeep!” Merle declared, “She does. Her and blondie spent all winter cuddling up in the forest. Mm, mm, mm. Yeah.” He was just short of rolling his hips and humping the air.

“Someone misses porn,” Fiadh deadpanned, her eyes still narrowed as she watched Merle play to the gallery. He turned that focused, pointed gaze on her and flashed a grin. “Oh those kinda thoughts helped me through many’s a cold, dark night, darlin’.”

He sucked his teeth and turned once more on Michonne, armed with his racial slurs, though he seemed to be talking only to Rick at that point. What he said about her keeping pet walkers was a bit of a shock. “No arms, cut off the jaws, kept them in chains. Kind of ironic, now that I think about it.”

“Shut up, bro!” Daryl shouted, rounding on Merle again. His arms and shoulders were tense. He was shuffling, moving around way too much, as though he was unsure which direction to step in.

Merle chuckled, then gave a shrug. “Hey, man, we snagged them out of the woods. Andrea was close to dyin’.”

“Is that why she’s with him?” Maggie asked, the confusion giving way to upset as she tried to make sense of why someone they knew, someone who had obviously once been a part of their group, was now literally sleeping with the enemy.

“Yeah,” said Merle. “Snug as two little bugs. So what you gonna do now, Sheriff, huh? Surrounded by a bunch of liars, thugs and cowards.”

“Shut up.”

Merle was just getting warmed up. “Oh, man, look at this. Pathetic. All these guns and no bullets in ‘em.”

“Merle, SHUT UP.” Daryl’s hand tightened around the strap of his crossbow. This was it, here came the move. This was where Merle would stomp his brother into the ground, and where he would try to keep him.

“Shut up yourself! Bunch of pussies you roll -”

The words died on Merle’s lips as he fell forward to his knees, and then the ground came up to meet his face. He’d taken the grip of a gun to the back of the head.

Rick stood behind him. “Asshole.”

“Jaysis,” Fiadh blasphemed into the pregnant, awkward silence that followed. “He’d give an aspirin a headache.”

Pretty much as soon as Merle’s body hit the ground, Glenn began to march off. Rick cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to the road, talk this out.”

“I’ll stay. Watch him.” Michonne offered, her hand still wrapped around the hilt of her sword.

“Ain’t no way,” Daryl spat, planting his feet. He turned to Rick. “Ain’t no way. She’ll stick him soon’s our backs are turned.”

“Go back to the car,” Rick said to Michonne, his tone brokering little argument, “You’re done.”

“I’ll watch him,” Fiadh offered. She could see this devolving into another stand-off, and that seemed like a waste of time considering the main reason behind it all was unconscious on the ground. With Merle out of the way they might actually make some semblance of a plan, and not draw every walker within two miles down on their location. “Yous go and sort your shit out.”

Rick took a step toward her, his head dipped in question. “You got this?” There was meaning behind the words. Fiadh wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but she nodded anyway.

“Mmhm. It’ll be fine.” She leaned back up against her tree and crossed one foot over the other in front of her.

Daryl paused for a moment, piercing her with a look she could not decipher, either. Then he nodded. “Alright.”

“C’mon,” Rick gestured, beginning the short walk back down to the road. Maggie and Glenn were already waiting. “We’ll talk this through.”

It didn’t take long for Merle to come to. She’d been expecting that. Fiadh stayed where she was, though she did not once take her eyes off the tall, elder Dixon. She caught a few words from the road but once Merle started to speak, he had her full attention.

“Hello,” she greeted, her tone not wholly unpleasant.

“Well, hello to you, too,” he drawled, standing up to his full height slowly, his hand pulling away from his head to check for blood. “I ain’t never had a prettier guard dog.” He grinned and began to take a step toward her.

She held up her hand, the other slipping over the grip of the pistol at her waist. “Please, don’t move.” Fiadh smiled at him, but while the corners of her mouth curved upward, the expression never reached her eyes. “I promise, my bite is worse than my bark.”

His smile was still there, though his expression did sharpen a little. For the briefest of moments his eyes flickered down toward her hands. Merle was weighing up the threat. Being that Fiadh was an unknown quantity to him, she guessed that was why he didn’t push any further. Yet.

“Unless my ears are deceivin’ me, and by god I do hope they ain’t, that’s an Irish accent I’m detecting there. I had an Irish girl once. From Galway. Mmm, she was somethin’.” He shook his head, pretending to be lost in memory. “Fiery, bit like you. Thought we was gonna have half a dozen fire-headed young-uns. Would have enjoyed makin’ ‘em, that’s for sure.”

Merle chuckled, amused by himself. “An’ now here you are, another Celtic Princess just fallin’ into my lap.”

“Hardly.”

“Where you from, Princess?”

She ignored the question. “Sandy Creek. Was that you?”

Centimetre by centimetre, his smile fell. “Well now Princess, you sure as hell ain’t from these parts with a cadence like that.”

“I was with a group at Sandy Creek. About 25 of us.” Fiadh’s fingers began to tap on the side of her gun. “We were attacked. Was that you, and your people, Merle?”

He sucked in his bottom lip as he eyed her. Then his jaw clenched, his mouth turning downward. He didn’t want to answer, but he wasn’t going to back down, either.

“The Governor. It was his call.”

Fiadh raised her brows and pressed her lips together. She nodded, like she was accepting Merle’s answer at face value. “I’m sure it was.”

Merle’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He then turned toward the road, finally taking a proper look at what was transpiring between his brother, Rick, Maggie and Glenn. “I’ll be headin’ on down there now,” he said suddenly, but when he turned back to her the smile was back. “State my case. I’d be much obliged if you didn’t shoot me. Whattaya say?”

Fiadh shook her head. “Give him his time to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye? What, ya lip-readin’ over there or somethin’?”

“There’s no way they let you back with them, into that prison. And there’s no way he leaves you behind.” Fiadh was watching Daryl as he moved away from the others, his shoulders set. Then she looked over at Merle, her expression showing her disbelief. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know how this was going to go down.”

“Daryl!” Glenn called from the road, but it was clear that it was a last ditch effort. Daryl didn’t turn around, his eyes on his brother as he walked away from the group he’d known since the beginning.

“And you ain’t a party to those discussions, huh?” Merle asked Fiadh, his tone turning in that sly, drawling direction he’d taken earlier when he sold out Michonne. “You must be at the very bottom of the totem pole. Tut tut. Just some bitch brought to heel when master Rick whistles.”

“Shut up, Merle,” Daryl growled, close enough to hear Merle’s last parting shots.

Merle just laughed, and then opened his arms, beckoning his brother. But Daryl stopped for a moment and reached out to touch Fiadh’s arm. With his chin, he nodded in the opposite direction, asking her silently to follow him.

She pushed off her tree. “Bye, Merle!” She said, giving him a little wave, before following his younger brother a short distance away.

“Thanks,” Daryl said, shifting a little once he’d come to a stop. He seemed uncomfortable, but Fiadh could see that his decision wasn’t changing. She nodded, giving him a smile that felt almost apologetic. He spoke up again. “You should stay with ‘em. The Governor is gonna try get even. They’ll need you.”

She frowned, caught a bit off-guard. Then Fiadh shook her head and almost scoffed. “They need you more.”

“Yeah, well, they made their choice.”

She held his hooded gaze for a few moments, her eyes narrowing as she considered. “And did he choose you?”

Merle answered. “Hey! What you talkin’ ‘bout? I chose my baby brother every damn day! Every damn day since the day he came into this fucked up world!”

Fiadh just held up her hand, gesturing for Merle to shut up. She stepped closer to Daryl and lowered her voice. “You’re about to choose him, over all of those people down there, and all of the people back at the prison. So. Did he choose you?”

Daryl was still, the only thing moving was his mouth as he worked the inside of his cheek.

“I know you know what I’m talking about.”

“You don’t know us. Don’t know me.”

Daryl took a step backward, removing himself from her space, throwing that wall back up again.

Fiadh searched his face, looking for the truth of it. She found nothing, just a blank, blue stare, piercing hers. It was none of her business, really. It was out of character for her to ask, to push, but if this was to be the last time she saw him, she didn’t want anything plaguing her conscience. Not when it came to the woodland elf who had given her somewhere safe to stay after she’d almost lost everything.

“Okay. Good luck, Daryl.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

He took a couple more steps backward, still watching her. “Are we finished braidin’ each other’s hair now?” Merle asked, his arms back out again, ready to embrace his little brother. Arm in arm, they disappeared into the trees, and Fiadh stared after them until Rick called her name.

Chapter Text

“Do you know what he did to her!?”

Glenn’s roar echoed in Fiadh’s head. The journey back to the prison was a strained, quiet one, punctuated only by that sentence as she rolled it over and over in her mind. They had stopped to push a truck off the road so that they could pass. Something that should have been so simple had turned into something that would never be simple.

Fiadh understood Glenn’s upset. He’d been beaten nearly to death. Merle had tried to kill him with a walker. He’d been separated from the girl he loved and had felt powerless, lost, bitter. Fiadh knew a little something about that. And now, apparently, if Glenn’s shouted protests were to be believed, so did Maggie. 

She got it. What she didn’t like and what she had no time for, was Glenn’s insistence on telling the whole world. It wasn’t his to tell. It was Maggie’s.

Fiadh could only really describe the meltdown at the side of the road as an odd kind of tantrum; borne from frustration at himself and of course, at the situation. His attitude to Merle, while it had been completely comprehensible, had cost them Daryl. Glenn seemed to be fluctuating between blaming himself, Merle and even Rick at one stage. 

She kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t her place, but the words kept replaying.

“Do you know what he did to her!?”

Fiadh leaned back a little, trying to catch a glimpse of Maggie. With Michonne between the two of them in the back of the car it was a little difficult to make out too much, but from what she could see of her pale face, Maggie’s features were blank.

Fiadh felt like she had held her breath for the entire trip back to the prison, and released it only as soon as she was able to escape the confines of the car.  

Hershel was waiting. Fiadh had the distinct impression that if he’d had two legs, his foot would be tapping restlessly. As soon as he saw Glenn, a range of emotions passed over the older man’s face. Relief, then concern. Glenn looked as though he’d gone ten rounds with Brock Lesnar. As soon as Hershel saw his daughter, he began moving toward them, keen to gather her to him in an emotional embrace. 

Glenn did not slow down to talk. “Glenn!” Hershel called, his arm releasing Maggie’s shoulders for long enough to reach out to the young man.

“I’ll be inside,” he muttered, ignoring them. “Maggie and Fiadh can fill you in.”

Hershel looked after him, a shadow crossing his expression. But it didn’t remain for long. Beth took the place that had been offered to Glenn, and Hershel happily remained for a moment, surrounded by his two daughters. His two, safe daughters.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Fiadh, who was standing off-side and looking a little like a spare part. The look on her face though - that was soft.

“You’re welcome,” she mouthed, smiling a small smile as the short reunion drew to a close. 

“The others?” Hershel asked then, as Maggie stepped back.

“Oscar didn’t make it,” Fiadh said, her voice low. “The Governor took Daryl. We got him out, along with his brother, Merle.”

“Merle was the one who took me and Glenn,” Maggie filled in.

“With the circumstances being what they are, Merle and Daryl split off from us, went out on their own,” Fiadh continued, noting Hershel’s clenched jaw. His eyes moved beyond them, to where Rick, Carl and Carol were strolling up the driveway. “I think Rick wanted to break it to Carol himself.”

Hershel nodded, then turned to Beth just as Rick approached. “Take your sister inside.” Hand in hand, Beth and Maggie walked into the prison.

“Go on,” Rick added, gesturing at Carl and Carol. Fiadh fell in behind them, hand reaching out to flick the rim of Carl’s hat.

“We had a mission of our own here, while you were gone,” Carl said as they left the early morning heat and stepped inside, leaving Rick and Hershel behind to chat. 

“Oh yeah?” Fiadh asked, genuinely interested in what the kid had been up to in their absence, but very suddenly feeling the tiredness creeping in on her. 

Of course, she got a second wind as soon as she realised there were four strangers in the common area, all turning their expectant stares on her as soon as she hit the top of the stairs.

“Oh, wow. Wow, holy shitballs, Carl.”

Carl tittered, surprised at the unusual outburst. “They made their way inside. I found them, led them out of the tombs.”

“Go Carl,” she muttered, holding out her fist for him to bump. He obliged, but it wasn’t long before he was taking up a sentry position. Clearly, it had been one he’d held and had taken very seriously while they were away. The others continued on into the cells, but Fiadh hung back, positioning herself near Carl.

“And we’re really grateful for all of the help,” came the smooth voice of the biggest of the bunch as he stepped forward, arms raised and hands out, showing that he wasn’t a threat. “I’m Tyreese. This is my sister Sasha, and this is Allen and Ben.”

Ben nodded, Allen barely moved. But Sasha came forward a little to join her brother, a cautious smile on her face.

“I’m Fiadh,” she introduced. “Welcome to the Four Seasons.”

The door creaked open again, admitting Rick and Hershel. Rick was walking with purpose, full-on sheriff mode, she thought, as he all but glided past the small group, piercing them with a stare that brokered absolutely zero words, let alone argument. Carl followed immediately, Hershel not far behind. Picking up on the atmosphere the rest of the group were putting down, Fiadh straightened up and loosed a long exhale. This was going to be another long day.

All she could really offer the newbies was an apologetic half-shrug, as she brought up the rear behind Hershel and entered the cells.

Rick kept going, intent on checking in on the baby. The cries filled the cavernous room, but nobody seemed to react. They’d gotten used to the sound, she supposed, though the newly named baby Judith luckily wasn’t a screamer. Fiadh hung back, as did Hershel.

“Do I need to take a look at you?” He asked Fiadh, repositioning his crutches so he could do just that: look.

“Nah. I’m grand,” she reassured. She pulled off her cap and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. Most of the French braid was still intact, but some strands had come loose throughout the course of the night. She carefully touched her stitches with her fingertips. “No new damage.”

“Good. We’ve taken a pounding these last few days, don’t need any more.”

Fiadh found herself glancing behind her, back toward where the four strays were all standing. They blinked back at her. “What are your thoughts on them?”

Hershel’s bushy white brow arched. He paused for a moment before answering, giving his words the due consideration that the question deserved. “There were five initially. Another woman, she’d been bit. Seems like they’ve been struggling for a while. So far Tyreese has done most of the talking.” Fiadh nodded, recognising the name of the man who had been so quick to step forward and represent. “They seem… normal.”

Fiadh turned an amused look on him, and he chuckled. “Well. As normal as normal can be, these days.” His hand gripped her shoulder gently then, as he used her for balance to reorient himself and his crutches. “I’m going to go look over Glenn and Maggie. Get some rest, Fiadh.”

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she answered, watching him as he left to see to his patients. 

Sleep was difficult to come by. Though Fiadh was exhausted, mentally, physically and every other way, she could not seem to turn off the slideshow of shit that her mind kept playing her. Seeing Glenn so beaten, shirtless, Maggie wearing his tee. Big O going down. That man she’d shot in the face… the man trying to gun Rick down. The Governor, the bloody bandage over his eye. That crowd, yelling “Kill! Kill!”

Merle’s poisonous tongue. Daryl’s goodbye. Glenn’s revelations. 

She tossed and turned, fighting against the rising nausea again. At some point, blessed oblivion took her, and she did not awake until she heard voices from down below. Fiadh did not bother trying to recapture the sleep. Noting the waning light outside, she sat up, grabbing for the clean, damp cloth and bowl. She wrung it and slapped it over her face, hoping that the cold shock of the water would clear her head properly.

A short while later, she was walking down the stairs, joining the others. She had a pair of slippers in one hand. Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, she moved toward Axel, who was looking pensive. 

“Whenever Tomas went off,” he said to Carol, who was rubbing his arm comfortingly, “Oscar always stood up for me, you know? He was my friend.” 

Fiadh held out the slippers. “I went in and got them,” she explained, “I think he’d have wanted you to have them. Think of him whenever you wear them at the end of a long day.”

Axel looked taken aback at first, but then he smiled softly. He took the slippers from Fiadh and held them. “Thank you. I will.”

“He went out fighting,” Rick said, as he and Hershel approached. Both Glenn and Maggie appeared at their cell doors, conspicuously separate. 

“So… What now?” Beth asked suddenly, breaking the grieving moment with a very practical question, baby in arm. “You think The Governor will retaliate?”

“Yes.” Maggie’s simple response was soft, but very certain.

“Let him try,” added Glenn. To Fiadh he sounded equally certain, but it had an edge to it that Maggie’s hadn't.

“Sounds like he’s got a whole town,” Carol pointed out. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

Rick shuffled on the spot, his hands hovering a little before they found their usual place at his hips. “Fiadh.” His eyes found hers, he said her name like this was the beginning of a petition. “After what you’ve done with us, done for us, I hate to ask more.” The others fell silent, all watching her.

Her shoulders stiffened. Her gaze swept over them, seeing some, not seeing others, while she thought. 

“You’re one of us now,” Hershel added.

Fiadh sucked in a breath and then loosed it, her arms crossing her chest. They were right, she supposed, she was in this. “Merle confirmed that it was The Governor who ordered the attack on my group.” Rick just nodded. She realised then that he’d expected that to be the case all along. 

“I’ve got skin in this game now, too. I’ll stay ‘til it’s done.”

“I appreciate that,” Rick said, head dipping. 

“We could use more reinforcements,” Hershel continued, his jaw set as he looked at Rick. It wasn’t a challenge, per sé, more like a strong suggestion.

Fiadh looked into the darkness of the prison, through the bars that held the four strangers. “Can’t hurt to talk to them.” 

There was really only one thing that was clear to Fiadh as she followed the others into the communal space where Tyreese and his small group were being held, and that was that they could not keep them in there forever. 

The prison had never been the most welcoming of places, nor the most clean. But over the past week, with everything that had been going on, and with their efforts focused elsewhere, it was beginning to look even less inviting than before. 

The exchange with the four strangers had started out pretty awkwardly, with Rick firstly refusing to shake their spokesperson’s hand. Hershel attempted to alleviate some of it by introducing the rest of Tyreese’s small group. 

Rick didn’t seem all that interested. “How’d you get in?” Straight to business.

“Fire damage to the administrative part of the prison. Wall’s down,” Tyreese explained immediately. His sister Sasha stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back. Fiadh found herself wondering if she had some sort of military training.

“That side’s completely overrun with walkers. How’d you get this far?” 

Fiadh’s gaze slid toward Carl, who was standing close by, next to Maggie. She managed not to wince when she realised that the kid’s father hadn’t been told.

“We didn’t,” Tyreese said, a strange air of what Fiadh viewed as calm sadness coming over him, “We lost our friend Donna.” 

“They were lost in the tombs,” Carl said, his tone slipping into that matter-of-fact way he seemed to be cultivating. 

That succeeded in pulling Rick’s attention away from Tyreese. He turned to address his son, voice sharp. “You brought them here?”

“He had no choice,” Hershel said, defending Carl’s decision. 

It seemed to have a placating effect, because Rick took a moment and then nodded. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said to Tyreese. For a moment, Fiadh believed it. “We know what that’s like.”

“Hershel said you could use some extra hands. We’re no stranger to hard work. We’ll go out and get our own food, stay out of your hair. You got a problem with another group, we’ll help with that, too. Anything to contribute.”

Fiadh’s brows rose at the pitch. It was a good one. Perhaps it was too good. Perhaps these people were too ready to promise their bodies to a potential feud they had no part in. 

That could be why Rick said no. 

“No.”

“Please,” Sasha said, the need clear in her voice. Something in Fiadh’s gut twisted at the sound. “It’s like Ten Little Indians out there. It’s just us now.”

“No.”

Fiadh’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and she found herself looking around, trying to gauge the others' reactions. They mostly gave nothing away. They have nothing left to give, she thought then, the realisation threatening her already plummeting mood. 

“Let’s talk about this.” All eyes turned toward Hershel. “We can’t just keep -”

“We’ve been through this,” Rick interrupted, the tell-tale signs of his irritation becoming clear in his stance. “With Tomas, Andrew. Look what happened.”

“Axel and Oscar weren’t like them. Fiadh isn’t like them,” Carol spoke up, quick to defend the lost, but contributing members of their group.

Rick’s voice raised; he turned some of that bubbling ire back on the rest of them. “And where’s Oscar now?”

Fiadh wasn’t sure in that moment if his hesitancy regarding Tyreese and Sasha and their group was because he didn’t trust them with his people, or if he didn’t trust that they’d survive his people.

Perhaps it was both.

“I can’t be responsible,” he told Tyreese. 

“You turn us out, you are responsible.”

That seemed to strike a certain chord, because Hershel spoke up again, clearly willing to fight for them. Rick shifted his feet, then walked over to where Hershel stood, leaning on his crutches. “You’ve done so much for us.” He spoke quietly, but the words still travelled. 

“I appreciate that. We all do. We owe you our lives. We’ve done everything you asked without question. And I’m tellin’ you, you’re wrong on this. You’ve got to start giving people a chance.” 

There was a pause. A brief stop that everyone could feel. Breaths were held, but the slightest flicker of hope passed over a couple of expressions as Rick looked at his people, his son. The man’s sigh was one of deep tiredness.

But the smallest of smiles broke through, and he reached out to place his hand on Hershel’s shoulder.

In that moment, it felt like a win. But the next moment took that feeling away just as quickly as it had sprung to life.

“Can’t hurt to talk to them,” she’d said. Oh boy, was Fiadh about to eat her words. 

Rick’s face just changed. It was like a curtain had dropped and revealed an unseen terror. He stared, he shook his head. His gaze shifted from one point near the ceiling and back down again. His hand shook as he held it to his forehead. “No, no.” He began to mutter. “No, no, no, no.”

“Why are you here?” He asked, stepping away from Hershel, stepping through the others. “What do you want from me?”

Fiadh sensed a threat, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was. Restless, she began to move, hand reaching out uselessly as Rick shoved passed. 

“Dad?” Carl asked, his tone no longer matter-of-fact; there was something scared in it echoing off the walls. 

“Why are you… No.” 

Rick was staring up at the second floor, at something near the windows that they couldn’t see. The man was having a breakdown.

“I can’t help you!” He roared, stepping back again, away from whatever it was he was seeing, feeling. “GET OUT!”

“Whoa, whoa,” Tyreese murmured with his hands up, palms facing outward. 

“GET OUT!”

“Hey, easy, Rick,” Maggie said, reaching for him, “There’s no need to -”

“You don’t belong here!” He bellowed, turning on the spot, shouting at the space behind him. Where Tyreese, Sasha, Allen and Ben were standing, mouths agog. “Get out! Please!

Maggie moved toward Carl, her arm wrapping around him. Fiadh moved in front of Beth, who was holding baby Judith.

“GET OUT!”

He snapped; Rick’s voice and his mind, both breaking.

“We’ll leave,” Tyreese said, somehow managing to stay somewhat calm. At least, calm enough to make sure his people survived. “We’re going. Okay? Ain’t nobody got to get shot here.”

Rick continued to roar more nonsense, pacing up and down, his eyes completely wild. Glenn jumped into action, helping to usher Tyreese and the others out of the room as quickly as possible. 

Fiadh wondered if it was too late to leave. Then she caught a glimpse of Carl’s face. Carol’s, Maggie’s, Hershel’s. The baby started to cry. And she realised she just couldn’t.

***

Her hand closed around the little pill bottle in her pocket as Fiadh stopped outside Maggie’s cell. Maggie herself was inside, curled up on her bed, a candle flickering on the table next to it. It was dark and everything was cast into shadow, but Fiadh could see the girl’s face. She was very much awake, and still entirely too pale.

“Can I come in?” Fiadh asked softly from the threshold, leaning up against the open door for a moment. “It’ll just be for a minute, I promise.”

She wanted to add that she wasn’t there to lecture or to pry; that she understood. But that sounded trite to her own ears, even without speaking it. So she just waited for Maggie’s response.

“‘Course,” she said, shifting her position so that she could sit up. The movements were slow and Fiadh could see how tired Maggie was. It wasn’t a physical tiredness, either, it was something much deeper, much more integral than that.

Fiadh stepped inside. Maggie had turned and was sitting on the edge of her bed, her feet on the ground. She managed a tight-lipped smile.

“Got a pressie for you,” Fiadh said, pulling the small bottle out of her pocket and then lowering herself into a crouch in front of Maggie. 

“Pressie..?” Maggie repeated, a flicker of confusion passing over her brow.

“Present. Sorry. Sometimes I forget.” Fiadh unscrewed the cap and shook out the single, white pill into her palm. “It’s a Xanax. It’s okay to take a break, Maggie. It’s okay to not want to feel for a couple of hours, to look for the quiet.” Fiadh reached out and took Maggie’s hand. She turned it over and deposited the pill within. “You’ve got plenty of time to feel the other things tomorrow. And to deal with how others might feel about those things.” 

She meant Glenn, of course. “For now, I think you’re allowed to just try and process your own shit, yourself. If that's what you need to do.”

Maggie just stared at her for a few long seconds. Fiadh could see all of the myriad of emotions moving across the other woman’s pretty face; even shadowed as they were in the candlelight. 

“No, it’s okay,” Maggie eventually breathed out, the words coming quickly, “I can’t… What if something happens?”

“It’s just a couple of hours of quiet in your head, Maggie. And I’ll be here, I’m awake. I promise.” Fiadh closed Maggie’s fingers into a fist, the Xanax still inside.

“You should save it. Save it for someone who really needs it.”

Fiadh looked Maggie directly in the eye, then covered the girl’s fist with her own hand. “I did.”

Suddenly, Maggie’s eyes were filling with tears. Her shoulders shook a little and her breaths came in quick gasps, which she tried to hold. She was trying to stop herself from crying, trying to hold in the sobs. She didn’t want anyone to hear. 

“He didn’t -” A gasp of a breath. She held it, then it came out in a whoosh again. “He didn’t even, Fee…”

Fiadh hopped up from the floor and sat beside Maggie, their arms and shoulders touching.

“He didn’t!” She hissed.

Fiadh reached out and took her hand again, squeezing it gently. 

“They don’t have to.”

Assault was assault. And so many times, Fiadh knew, it wasn’t even about the act itself. It was something else. Her own eyes filled with hot tears and she dashed them away with her free hand. It was at that moment, while she tried to comfort someone else through their experience, that she realised she’d never processed her own.

They sat like that for a while, just the two of them, holding hands.

Chapter Text

Michonne had taken it upon herself to relocate her sleeping quarters to the overturned bus in the field outside. Fiadh, in truth, was a little bit irritated that she hadn’t had the idea for herself, but she did also feel a good deal of sympathy for Michonne. Two evenings before, after Rick’s meltdown, the rest of them had agreed that it was the best call for her to sleep elsewhere. But Fiadh had been very vocal about letting Michonne stay. With everyone else chased off and potential retaliation from The Governor on the cards, it would have been a mistake to boot her out.

Fiadh was walking down the pathway outside, a bowl in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. She squinted against the mid-afternoon sun, looking for a sign of the sword-wielding warrior. The back of the bus was open, indicating she was awake and moving around, at least. Fiadh kept walking until she caught sight of her, down near the primary gate. When Michonne heard her coming, she turned.

“Hey,” Fiadh greeted, her voice raised. “What’s the story?”

Michonne’s dreads swung a little as she looked back off into the distance, then back to Fiadh. She shook her head, frowning, and then started walking up the path to meet her.

“Rick’s gone out,” Michonne replied, dark eyes back on the far-off figure of the sheriff gone walk-about. “Didn’t even close the gate behind him.”

Fiadh's mouth twisted downward in a frown. Since the issue with Tyreese and his group, everyone had been avoiding Rick. They called it giving him his space, but Fiadh could feel the tension inside. That tension was natural, considering what they were up against and going through, but it was magnified when Rick was around. It was like waiting for someone to light a cigarette in a room with a gas leak.

“Looks like he’s talking to someone…” Fiadh mused aloud, eyes squinting again, trying to make out what he was doing.

“Yes, it does.”

Fiadh suppressed a sigh. Then, remembering why she was there, she held out the bowl to Michonne. “Brought you some of those shitty powdered eggs.” Michonne looked at the bowl, then Fiadh, and almost smiled. “I sprinkled one of the spice packets over it for you.”

Michonne took the bowl. “Thanks.”

“We’re about to have a meeting. Thought you should be there.” Fiadh had turned and was starting to walk back up the path. She could hear the sound of the spoon against the bowl. Michonne was making short work of the eggs. Fiadh took that as a sign that she was starting to feel better.

She slowed her pace a little, so that Michonne could catch up.

“Sorry for saying I’d shoot you, by the way,” Fiadh said. “It was a tense moment. I wouldn’t have actually shot you.”

Michonne paused in her eating, taking a sidelong glance at Fiadh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Fiadh returned the look. “I’m not the ferocious warrior woman running around separating people's heads from their bodies with a kick-arse katana.”

Michonne swallowed the last couple of mouthfuls of eggs. “No, you’re just the merciless mini-assassin who can take walkers out with a flick of a kick.”

Fiadh stopped walking for a moment, amusement clear on her face as she reached out and took the empty bowl from Michonne. She replaced it with the water bottle. “Drink up, Warrior Woman. Dehydration’s the real killer here.”

Michonne's face finally cracked into a smile.

Fiadh stood over the chalk map of the prison on the floor, mulling over the layout as the discussion around her devolved. Michonne’s information about The Governor keeping heads in tanks was something of a revelation, and had removed all question as to whether or not he was going to retaliate.

The idea of sneaking in and taking him out covertly was, in Fiadh’s opinion, not necessarily a bad one. She could feel Michonne’s eyes on her when Glenn pushed for action, but Fiadh didn’t look up, instead letting the discussion play out. Glenn’s frustration was palpable, but curbing his need to plan and act would only make him worse.

Hershel, in an attempt to restore some order to things, took the discussion in a new direction. At the end of the day, it all boiled down to Option A or Option B. Stay or go.

“What are we waiting for? If he’s really on his way, we should be out of here by now,” Hershel continued, making his case.

“And go where?” Glenn shot back, having none of it.

“We lived on the road all winter.”

“Back when you had two legs. And we didn’t have a baby crying for walkers every four hours.” Fiadh glanced up then, brow arched in Glenn’s direction.

“We can’t stay here,” Hershel appealed to Glenn.

“We can’t run.”

The sound of Maggie’s retreating footsteps was the only thing to slow their roll. Glenn watched her leave for a moment, then he and Hershel both turned on Fiadh. She found herself wondering if her shiner was as shiny as Glenn’s.

“Fiadh?” Hershel spoke her name, seeming to expect something.

“What?” She blinked, wondering if maybe she’d said something aloud that she was supposed to keep in her head.

“You’ve been through something like this before, what would you advise?”

She was taken aback for a moment. She hadn’t expected to be asked her opinion. Not that she was ever shy about offering it, but she hadn’t known these people all that long. She’d tried to keep her opinions to herself, hard as that was for her sometimes, but she could concede that when it came to her own personal safety, she had an equal say. She could end up as equally dead as them, after all.

“I don’t think either of you are wrong. I think tactically it’s best to leave. But with the group in its current state, and with a brand new baby in tow, we wouldn’t get very far. Glenn’s right about that.”

Hershel frowned, Glenn began to shift his weight, eager to get going again.

Fiadh held up a hand though, she wasn’t finished. “We could scout out a retreat point. Strategically having somewhere safe for us all to rally to in case of emergency is smart. But in the meantime, we do need to find out what’s going on in the tombs. Whether we stay, or whether we go, a herd coming through would wipe us out.”

“Alright. We’re staying put.” Glenn said, Maggie’s steps fading in the background. “We’re gonna defend this place. We’re making a stand.”

Fiadh bit back a wince. That wasn’t exactly the point she had been trying to make. Glenn returned his attention to the floor map. “Carl, you and I will go down to the tombs. We need to figure out where the breach is.”

Carl, ever eager to be involved and counted, replied, “You got it.”

“You’ll need some help,” Michonne said. Fiadh was about to offer, too, her gaze falling on Carl, when Glenn refused.

“No. In case anything happens, I need you up here.”

Silence fell for a moment, before he stood suddenly. “Who’s on watch!?” He demanded, tone reminding Fiadh of an irritable principal, disappointed in his charges. Glenn sighed, stood and stomped off, leaving some half-guilty expressions behind him.

Everyone seemed to gradually return to their chores. Fiadh met Hershel’s eye and gestured back toward the cells. He followed, curious to hear what she had to say.

“On a scale of one to everything’s on fire, how bad is this thing with Rick?” Her voice was low, and he leaned in a little. Neither of them would want this conversation overheard.

“He is struggling, I won’t lie. I’d thought we might be through the worst of it after he came out from the tombs last time. That was just after you’d arrived.”

Fiadh nodded, remembering it well. But at the same time it felt like so long ago, so much had happened over the course of the last week. “It seemed to help him a lot when you spoke with him,” Fiadh said, remembering that Rick had emerged to see Judith after Hershel had gone down to see him.

Hershel shook his head, knowing exactly where Fiadh was going with this conversation. “I don’t know if it’ll make any difference. But I will try.”

“I think you stand the best chance, to be honest.” Fiadh’s tone was a little doubtful, but if anyone could get through to someone, it would be the white-haired, one-legged medic with the measured words.

“I’ll take a trip out to the fence shortly. I hear he’s been moving around near the woods.”

“Alrigh’, thanks, Hershel. I should give the others a hand with the fortifications.”

“Fiadh,” he began, reaching out a little when it looked like she was about to leave. “I’m worried about Glenn.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“I think he might go after The Governor by himself. He’s angry, hurt and half-cocked. He will get himself killed.” Fiadh could hear the worry in Hershel’s voice. He cared about his daughter’s boyfriend a lot, that much was clear. “I might have to try and stop him. Can I count on your support?”

Fiadh suppressed a sigh. She didn’t want to get in the middle of this particular family domestic. She agreed with Hershel in that Glenn running off to Woodbury was a suicide mission, but she also understood why he would want to do it. Would she stop him? She would probably try.

Coming to that conclusion, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Inside, she’d seen Hershel packing bags with supplies. He wasn’t trying to hide it or anything, had even started calling them “go bags” like she had, but Fiadh wasn’t all that sure the dissent would help. Once Glenn and Carl had returned from their scout, she had collared the kid into helping her move pallets outside. They were setting them up in strategic positions (or what they’d decided were strategic positions), while Fiadh took the opportunity to pick the kid’s brains.

“So, how bad?” She asked, picking up one side of a pallet and waiting for him to take the opposite end.

“Bad.” He lifted, using his knees like she’d taught him to. The wood wasn’t heavy, but it was never too early to learn some good physical habits. At least, that’s what she’d said to him. “It’s a steady stream of them. We won’t be able to ignore it for much longer.”

He sounded so solemn. Sometimes Fiadh forgot he was but a tween. But then, she wondered, would he ever be that again? Unlikely. This world was forging a new Carl. She would help it, in any way she could, if it meant his survival.

“Maybe there’s some way we can use them. Y’know, as some sort of natural defence.”

“Maybe,” he said, one shoulder rising up in a shrug. He began to move backward, carrying the pallet with him.

“Here,” she said, nodding toward the gate outside of C Block. “At least here we can get out from behind the wiring and aim, without being completely exposed.” They placed the pallet and Fiadh took a step back, then another, surveying their handiwork. Carl mirrored her.

It looked like an obstacle course. Or something someone set up for a game of paintball or capture the flag. She pursed her mouth, then glanced up at Tower 1. “Glenn’s right, we should have someone on watch. Someone in one of the towers, at least. Once we’ve finished here I’ll get up there.”

“With Daryl gone, and Maggie and my dad… We don’t have enough people.”

“We are short-staffed, Carlito. And really underpaid.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, getting that look that she’d seen more and more of over the last few days. He was staring out into the distance, before refocusing and turning that pensive pose on her. His hands were even hovering at his hips, just like his father.

“Do you think we should go?”

Fiadh’s expression softened. Her shoulders dropped a little with a sigh. She shook her head. “Two days ago, yeah, maybe. But now we’ve kind of stuck ourselves. We could head out there blind, or make the best of it here.”

“We promised we’d make this place safe. For us, for Judith. I think we have to try.”

“I think the safest place for Judith is always going to be with you, Carl. With her family.”

“Then we’ll just have to make it work, wherever we are.”

Yeah, definitely not a kid anymore.

She caught a flash in the corner of her eye, and looked up to see Glenn storming out of the Block, headed toward the other truck. Hershel wasn’t far behind him. For a bloke on crutches, he could definitely move when he wanted to. Fiadh eyed the pair of them and knew instantly that this was exactly what Hershel had meant earlier.

“Gonna go and make sure we don’t end up down another man, Carl,” she said to him, already walking backwards. “You got this?”

“Yeah, I got this.”

Fiadh turned and took off in Hershel’s direction, her pace quick, her boots making soft pat-pat sounds on the concrete as she ran. She caught up just as the argument between the two men reached a crescendo.

“This rage is gonna get you killed,” Hershel said to Glenn, the appeal in his voice emotional, unmissable.

Glenn’s jaw clenched. “With Daryl gone and Rick wandering Crazytown, I’m the next in charge.”

Hershel recoiled a little, taken aback. Fiadh didn’t know if it was because Glenn had pulled rank, or because he was handling that rank so poorly. She stepped forward.

“Should you be?”

Glenn, halfway to the truck, turned around and gaped at her. “Excuse me!?”

“Should you be in charge? It’s a legitimate question. You seem hellbent on fighting, on getting your bit of revenge. And I don’t blame you Glenn, I don’t blame you one bit, but you’ve got other people here relying on you. Needing you to come back.”

“I’m doing this for them! You think I want this!?” He asked, incredulously, pacing back to plant himself in front of her.

“I think you want to kill The Governor.”

“Of course I do! Of course I want to kill The Governor! After everything he did, to me, to-to Maggie? I want this over. You don’t get it!”

“You’re angry, you’re out for blood. You’re frustrated. You felt powerless, and that’s the worst part. I get that much. But take that shit that you’re feeling right now, mate, and multiply it. Then you might come close to understanding what it’s been like for Maggie.”

Glenn looked like she’d just slapped him in the face. He stood there, chest heaving up and down with exertion.

“Stow your own shit, Glenn. Start using your fuckin’ head.”

He waved dismissively, arm flying up in the air. He began to march back toward the truck but Fiadh wasn’t to be sent away that easily, not even by the third-in-charge of the group.

“And don’t even think for a second you’re going out alone! Not one second, Glenn -” She paused speaking mid-rant, realising then she didn’t know Glenn’s last name and therefore couldn’t really use it to proper effect. “...Glennson!”

She yanked open the passenger door and flung herself in, just as Glenn gunned the engine.

The tires screeched over the driveway. Poor Axel barely got out of the way of the speeding truck. But by the time they got beyond the main gate and onto one of the side roads, Glenn’s foot had eased a little off the accelerator.

“Glenn Glennson? Really?” He asked her, baffled. He’d turned his head to take a quick, accusatory look at Fiadh.

“Sorry, I didn’t know your last name.”

“Glennson, though?”

“I know, I know.” She rubbed her hands over her face with shame. “The angry voice just doesn’t have the same punch without the full name.”

“Rhee. My last name is Rhee.”

She peeked over at him through her fingers. His eyes were back on the road, and he was no longer shouting. Progress.

“Okay. Thanks, Glenn Rhee. Y’know, in Ireland, the name Rí means king.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, in Korea it means plum.”

She beamed at him. “Very cool.”

He glanced at her again, probably having expected a different kind of response. After a moment, his pinched, frustrated expression gave way to something that resembled his usual demeanour. A little more tired perhaps, but there Glenn was, beneath it.

He turned the truck again, following the road to the south part of the prison, where Tyreese had reported damaged walls.

“What you said about Maggie…” He began, his voice kind of trailing off.

“I know, I shouldn’t have. It’s not my business.”

“I guess I just didn’t think of it any other way, you know. The stuff that happened to us, to her.” Glenn was shaking his head. He leaned his elbow against the door and rubbed his hand across his mouth.

“You were blaming yourself for what happened. Thought you were, I dunno, lesser because you couldn’t stop it. I think it’s natural, but I think that makes it more about you, when it should also be about her. About what she needs, too.”

He nodded, slowly. Then he sucked in a deep breath. “I see it now.”

“There’s nothing like a bit of impending doom to put shit into perspective.”

He blew out his breath and looked at her, eyes wide. “Dude. Seriously,” he agreed. Then he turned the steering wheel, and pulled the truck in at the side of the road. The walker traffic was sparse there, but no more than a quarter of a mile ahead, they could see them bunching up, ambling alongside each other, headed toward a huge hole in the side of the prison.

“We can probably get a little bit closer on foot,” Fiadh suggested, already pushing open her door. Glenn followed suit, and the two of them rounded the truck and stopped at the hood.

“It’s bad,” Glenn deadpanned.

“Yep. That’s not fixable.”

“We’d need weeks. Months,” he agreed. He took another few steps forward and she followed, eyes peeled for any of the undead activity threatening to get too close.

“It is kind of a deterrent, though,” Fiadh added, her tone thoughtful as she remembered her earlier conversation with Carl. “It is a weakness in our security, true, but who would risk going through all of that to get in?”

“The Governor would,” Glenn said. “Or they could bring a truck, play some music and draw them away.”

“That’s true,” she conceded, before continuing to think aloud, “But that would alert us. They’d lose the element of surprise and we could just meet them in the tombs with a firing squad, and they’d be bottlenecked.”

“What about if we -”

A gun shot rang out through the air. And then another, and then so many more that it sounded unceasing. Fiadh and Glenn turned toward each other, and then in perfect unison, broke into a run back to the truck. Many of the dead had turned toward the source of the gunfire, and were shuffling in their direction.

Fiadh had reached the truck and had opened her door, but something stopped her. Her face was panic-stricken, though her eyes were focused, scanning. “Glenn! There are shots coming from Tower 2! There’s someone up there!”

“Get in, Fiadh! Come on, we have to get back!”

“Wait, wait! If there’s a sniper in that tower the others won’t be able to get to him. That’s completely blocked from our side of the prison. He’ll be able to pick them all off one at a time!” She slammed the door shut and started to back up. “I have to go. I can get to it.”

“Not alone! Wait, I’ll come with you!” Glenn reached into the driver’s side, grabbing for his semi-automatic.

“No, no. I can do it. I’ve got this. You take the truck back. Mow down every fucking one of them.”

He hesitated for a moment, half-in and half-out. A walker closed in on her and she pulled her pistol, the one Rick had given her that night at Woodbury, from its holster. “Go.” She fired one round into the creature, and then took off at a sprint.

Under normal circumstances, she probably wouldn’t have made it ten feet without becoming overrun. But the majority of the gathering, building herd were being drawn toward the massive noise coming from the prison, which had somewhat cleared the way for her. She barrelled through the trees until she’d put enough distance between herself and the road, and then she slowed down a little.

For the last leg, she’d need to be quieter. Stealth was her friend.

Chapter Text

Fiadh rounded a tree, the hunting knife sliding into the temple of a straggling walker behind it. She retracted her arm and turned, back hunched, knees bent so much she was almost squatting. Two more were approaching from her right, from the direction of the road, but they hadn’t noticed her yet.

With quick, smooth movements, she continued her progress toward the outer wall. One of the dead, wearing a very bright, very Hawaiian shirt, had become fixated on the noise from the shots at the top of Tower 2. Either that, or it was confused, because it kept banging very insistently on one of the gates. With each bang, the gate pushed against the frame and bounced back just a little. It was open, the walker just hadn’t figured that out yet.

With silent steps, she crept up behind it. Once within reach, she grabbed a hold of the colourful collar and yanked back and down. It stumbled backward, but it had seen her, smelled her, and it was halfway through an eager turn when Fiadh slid her knife into it, ending its incessant groaning for grub. The sounds of the gunfire masked the body crumpling lifelessly to the ground.

Fiadh glanced upward, trying to make out the figure at the top of the tower. He was standing at the railing, his back to the treeline. From this position, she could tell that he was getting some return fire, which was all at once a relief and a worry. He had the high ground. She had to fix that.

With a gentle push, she opened the wired gate into another smaller inner courtyard, which gave access to the ladder to Tower 2. She shoved her knife back into its holster and began to climb. One arm over the other, one rung at a time, any sounds she made cloaked by the action below. That was until everything just… stopped.

She’d almost been at the top, but as soon as the shots died, so did her climb. She hung there, one arm hooked through the rung of the ladder as she twisted her body, pushing to the side, trying to get a better look at what was going on. In the far off distance, she could hear the sound of an engine. It was gaining quickly.

Everyone seemed to be waiting.

And then there was the sound of a crash, and the gunfire restarted with a vengeance. She hefted herself up onto the platform and then rose to her feet slowly, still crouched, the top of her head not reaching above the viewport.

The sniper was presenting his side to her. She pulled out her gun.

And then the sound of a bullet pinged off the wraparound railing, and he ducked for cover. In doing so, he came eye to eye with Fiadh, who had just emerged, gun raised.

She squeezed the trigger, the same time as he threw himself at her.

The distance had been almost point blank; she’d been in hand’s reach. He hadn’t had enough time to raise the rifle, not enough space either, so the blow he’d dealt to her was with the butt of it. But her shot, though diverted, had managed to hit, and he fell to the side against the railing, his leg straightened out to his side, bleeding from his thigh.

He let out a roar and raised the rifle. Her body propelled itself forward into motion immediately, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She jumped, two hands grabbing a hold of the huge tower lamp on either side and bent her knees, bringing her feet up. The momentum carried her forward, and her feet thumped into the sniper’s chest, sending his rifle clattering to the side, knocking him backwards.

Knocking him almost flying.

For one of those too-long, almost slow motion moments, he hung there.

Then he went over, falling right into a crowd of the undead, like mana from heaven.

FIadh tasted blood in her mouth as she scrambled to the railing and peered over. If the fall hadn’t killed him, then the walkers would. She looked away, eyes searching out the others. There were a few down in the courtyard; though her eyes were drawn to the dead body immediately. She bent down and scooped up the rifle, bringing it up to her face so that she could use the scope.

It was Axel, riddled with holes.

She caught sight of a flash of movement; a white shirt. She stood again and raised her arm in the air, hand closing into a fist, letting them know she was there. She turned the gun on the field below.

The Governor had driven a van through the gate and released a small battalion of the dead onto the grounds. Rick, Hershel and Michonne were caught in two different danger zones. Fiadh sucked in a breath and took aim at one of the walkers ambling toward Michonne, an enthusiastic spring in its step.

She loosed the sigh and squeezed the trigger. The walker dropped.

Fiadh was no sharpshooter. She hadn’t even shot a gun before coming to the US. It just wasn’t a thing in Ireland. She learned quickly, but she was not as comfortable with the rifle as one of the others might have been. She would much rather be moving, on her feet, using her body. But she was what they’d gotten, and she was going to try.

Michonne ducked back behind the overturned bus, though this time she was trying to avoid bullets from an armoured attacker, who had hopped out of the van. Slowly, trying to keep herself and her movements calm, Fiadh turned the gun in that direction, trying to get a clear shot.

It was a moving target. Her first two went wide, but she didn’t need to concern herself with a third, because Maggie and Carol were already running toward the gate, firing at will.

The lamp above her smashed, glass shattering everywhere. Instinctively, Fiadh ducked, trying to make herself an even smaller target. She stayed down and hunched over, eyes scanning beyond the walkers, toward the field outside the gate. There was a large truck and beside it, stood a figure she knew had to be The Governor. He had a rifle of his own.

She brought her scope up and peered through it, though she was careful not to offer her head for him to shoot at again. He was too far; she’d never make that shot. Not her, not in a hundred practice rounds. But she didn’t have to hit him, she supposed, just fuck up his day.

She pinched off a round, then another, and she just kept shooting until she hit something. Earth and dirt flew up into the air. Bullets ricocheted off metal. And then finally, she hit one of the cab roof lights of the truck.

He and his henchman piled inside and for a moment she thought they were going to drive right on in. When they didn’t, she wasn’t sure if that was fortunate or unfortunate. She kept her gun trained on the departing truck, muttering under her breath as she saw Glenn pass by in his.

“Come on Glenn, come on, come on.”

The others opened the gate and everyone descended on the field, firing guns, swinging swords, trying to get to Hershel. Glenn sped by, tires spinning, headed straight for the older man. Fiadh tried as best she could to pick off the walkers crowding them, but it wasn’t long before her attempted shots were met only with disappointing clicks. She was out of ammo.

Flinging a string of curses into the air, and backed up, intent on climbing back down the ladder and getting in there. As soon as she saw what was waiting below, she completely stilled.

The walkers who had been feasting on the sniper had drawn quite a crowd, and the tower was surrounded on all sides but the prison’s, where there was no ladder access. She was effectively trapped.

Fiadh stomped back to the railing, knowing that at that moment, all she could do was watch the others as they fought for their lives.

And fight they did. Glenn managed to grab Hershel. Maggie and the others were making a fair indent on the herd from the van, and even further out, even above the action, she could hear the shouts of the Dixons joining the fray.

Glenn was waving at her very vigorously. Stopping in the courtyard for a moment while some of the others were ushered back inside, to the relative safety of those thick prison walls, he peered up at her. All she could really do was wave back and offer a shrug, which was really very helpful.

He broke into a jog, headed right for her. By the time he reached the outer wall of Tower 2, he seemed to be getting the idea as to why she wasn’t coming down. “Too many?” He called up to her.

She leaned over the railing, directly above him. “They just got fed,” Fiadh responded. If the sniper hadn’t just been trying to kill her and everyone else in this group, then she might have outwardly cringed. For the moment, she swallowed it, along with some rising nausea.

A steady stream of walkers were coming from the treeline, along with at least a dozen who had ambled in through the gate that The Governor and his people had knocked down. Fiadh’s tower was the focal point of two different arms of Undead, coming at it like a pincer.

From the other side of the courtyard, Rick, Daryl and Merle came running. Rick dropped the bolt cutters they’d used to create a quick entrance for themselves, away from the distracted herd, and joined Glenn below. His eyes were still wild, beyond, but when he spoke she thought that maybe he’d come back down to Earth.

“How bad is the south side?” He asked, getting the measure of the situation just as quickly as Glenn had.

“It was bad when we scouted it earlier, but with the noise, they started dispersing,” Glenn said, chest rising and falling with the exertion of the last manic twenty minutes.

Fiadh pushed off the railing and paced to the other side of the watchtower. She made a quick count and returned, mouth pursed. “About two dozen.”

“We can take that,” Daryl said, clearly willing to go another round.

“No,” Fiadh said straight away, head shaking. Some small pieces of glass from the lamp were shed from her hair with the movement. She pointed down toward the sniper, or what was left of him. The walkers were no longer distracted and they seemed keen for seconds, a few of them even pressing themselves up against the brick, arms uselessly reaching for her. “Any action on the south side will bring these ones, too.”

“You got ammo?” Came his follow up question.

“I’m out.”

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” Merle sang, arms spread as wide as his grin.

“Shut up, Merle,” they said in chorus.

Rick turned, hand reaching for Glenn’s arm as he spoke to her. “We’ll get you some ammo. You can start picking them off, thinning the herd enough for us to get over that side.”

“We’d blow through all of our bullets, Rick. We are going to need them.” She shook her head again, cogs in her mind whirring. For all of his ridiculous bravado, Merle had given her an idea. “A rope. Have we got some rope?”

“Rope!?” Daryl repeated, his mouth turning downward. “You wanna climb down?”

“Yeah, it’s only, what… 10 metres? I can do that.” Fiadh leaned over a little further, gaging the distance. It had been a while, but she wasn’t going to let anyone else know that. “No problem.”

“There’s some in the back of the truck,” Glenn said. “I don’t know if it's that long.”

Rick was mulling it over. His head was moving this way and that, he was agitated. Beads of sweat were dripping from his curls. He swiped his eyes with his hands. “Okay. Okay, I’ll grab the rope. Glenn, pile some of those pallets into the back of the truck, some mattresses from inside if you can. Get Michonne and Carl to help you. Then bring it here. At least that way there’ll be something beneath her.”

He started to move. “You,” he pointed at Merle, “Stay here ‘til we figure out where to put you.”

Merle’s response was to salute with his stump. When they turned around, he spat on the ground.

“What a pleasure to see you again, Merle Dixon,” Fiadh called down as Rick and Glenn took off.

“The pleasure is all mine, Princess,” Merle said, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “I’m happy for you to see much more o’ me, you just say the word.” He chuckled, then lunged at the wire fence, shoving his knife through one of the gaps and into the temple of a walker who was getting a little too close.

“You hurt?” Daryl asked her, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the lowering sun.

“Nah.”

Daryl’s gaze narrowed and even at this distance, she could tell he was focusing on her face. She swiped her hand across her mouth, wiping some of the blood away. It wasn’t much, just a bruised, busted lip. It wouldn’t affect her ability to climb. “I’m grand.”

Rick’s quick steps grew louder as he jogged back to them, a coil of rope wrapped around his upper arm. “Alright, let’s try this.” He shrugged the rope off, and Fiadh moved closer to the edge of the tower. Rick took a hold of the loop and tossed it upward, underarm. It fell about six feet short.

“Okay, wait,” Fiadh grunted, lying flat out on the tower, inching forward on her stomach until her head was out over the edge. Then she dropped both of her arms, trying to close some of the distance. “Try again.”

Rick was about to do just that, when Daryl snatched the rope from him. “Ain’t gonna work,” he muttered, pulling some of it out of the coil. When he reached the end, he created a smaller loop and knotted it. He gave it a tug and then looked up at Fiadh. “Ready?”

She inched forward just a little further, and then opened her hands, splaying her fingers. “Go.”

He threw with his knees and arms, crouching down and releasing, like a springed coil. The end of the rope flew upward, and this time, she managed to grab it. Immediately she slithered backward, rope in hand, until she was completely gone from view below.

“Okay, got it.” She pulled the knot loose as she stood, then her head reappeared over the top of the rail. “Woodsmen,” she said, looking down at the Dixons. “Talk me through a knot that I can tie to the rail here that’ll hold me.”

“Nah, not to the rail,” Daryl ordered, his hand coming back up to his eyes again, “See that corner there, between the two broken windows? Wrap the rope around that.”

“Blake’s hitch is best for descent,” Merle opined, walking over to stand next to his brother.

“Too complicated,” Daryl said with a shake of his head. “We ain’t got all day.” He raised his voice then, speaking to Fiadh. “I’mma walk you through a bowline knot, ‘kay? It’s simple, it’s best for securin’ at the end of the rope.”

“Alrigh’.”

If she sounded a little doubtful, it’s because she was. But she watched like a hawk while Daryl mimed the motions of the knot, trying not to get distracted by the others flinging mattresses onto the back of the truck. Fiadh was becoming increasingly aware that their noise and activity was aggravating the walkers below. It would only be a matter of time before they rushed a part of the fence that wouldn’t stand up to the pressure.

She bit her lip, the line forming between her brows showing that she was concentrating.

“Okay. Now show me,” he said, managing somehow to sound encouraging.

With the rope in hand, Fiadh mimicked Daryl’s movements. The knot itself was exactly as he’d described, though not as tight as a surer hand might have made it. Still, it would do. She’d make it work.

“That’s good,” he said. “Okay, now around the steel support column, between the windows.”

She disappeared from view again, easily undoing the knot. If she hadn’t been feeling the time crunch, she might have spent a while thinking about cool knots actually were. Maybe later. She threaded the rope through the empty window frame, and out of the one beside it. Then she re-tied the knot she’d just learned. Not for the first time since the world ended, she was happy that her brain had long since been wired for any type of choreography or physical mimicry.

Fiadh tugged on the rope, testing it. It felt solid. She planted one foot on the side of the building, then the other, still holding on to the rope. It didn’t budge. Satisfied, she added two more, rougher knots to the rope, one about a third of the way down, the second half that again. Once ready she tossed the rest of the length of it behind her, over the side.

The sound of the truck below meant it was time. She peered over again and almost laughed. The bed of the truck was piled high with mattresses atop crates, and Rick was waving the reversing vehicle back until the tailgate hit the tower.

Daryl hopped up onto the back of the truck, gaze measuring the distance between him and the end of the rope. “‘Bout 15 feet.”

Fiadh nodded. “Now or never.” Sucking in a breath, she took the rope in hand. She resisted the urge to twist it around her hand, knowing that wouldn’t help. Keeping her eyes level, she kicked one leg over the railing, and then the other. There was a ledge of a couple of inches on the other side, and with her small feet, she managed decent purchase.

She began turning, so that she would be facing the tower as she climbed down. Once in position she let go of the rail and leaned back, threading the rope through both of her hands. The first push off was going to be the hardest.

Her body arched inward, like an accordion. Her hands were moving down the rope, one moving below the other, slowly, in turn. Then she stepped off the platform.

A pained hiss shot from her as the palms of her hands burned from the rope friction, caused by the extra weight she was suddenly subjecting her arms to. She bounced once, twice, off the rail, before finally her upper body was free from that obstruction. She pressed her feet together, the rope trapped between the arches of her shoes, and Fiadh started climbing down properly.

Hand below hand, knees bending, then straightening, rope trapped between her boots. She didn’t look down, she kept her eyes straight ahead. As soon as she was looking at the flat bricks of the tower she quickened her pace. Before she knew it, she’d reached the first knot she’d put in the rope, giving her the comfort of feeling something a little more secure beneath her feet than just air. She reached the next knot, which signified she was at the end of the rope. Good thing too, as any further she was pretty sure she’d have no skin left on her palms.

“Forward four feet!” Daryl called, thumping what she suspected was the roof of the cab with his hand to get someone’s attention. The engine gunned.

“Fiadh, kick off the wall. You’ll be fallin’ backwards. You’re gonna land right here. I got you.”

This was a terrible idea.

She released the breath she’d been holding. She hadn’t realised she hadn’t been breathing, and of course, that was the moment that she started to feel a little lightheaded. She’d dropped from greater heights before. She’d even jumped from greater heights before. Though those times there’d been a net beneath her. Or like that time when she’d been in Crete and she’d flung herself off a cliff for fun, there’d at least been a sea.

Fiadh forced herself to breathe in deeply. She closed her eyes for a moment, then made herself repeat the act. “Count me down,” she requested, opening her eyes. She stared at the grey wall in front of her, and the muscles in her thighs clenched in anticipation. Her arms flexed as she tugged herself upward just a little, forcing the rope into motion. Her back arched as she forced her body into a backward lean, creating a short pendulum effect.

The toes of her feet brushed against the grey wall.

“Three.”

She swung back again.

“Two.”

She sucked in a breath as the wall raced to meet her. Her legs extended into pike position - straight out in front of her and parallel to the ground, until her toes met the wall once again. She bent her knees.

“One!”

She pushed off with the soles of her feet, releasing her hold on the rope with her hands at the same time. She hadn’t once looked down, or even behind her to make sure she was lined up with their makeshift trampoline below, instead just trusting that Daryl wouldn’t tell her to jump unless it was clear for her to do so.

The hang time was negligible. Barely even a nanosecond. Her back hit something firm, but not solid, and on instinct, as she’d been trained as a kid, she rolled a little out of the landing, trying to spread the impact.

Fiadh found herself looking up at the blue sky, very much still alive. Then Daryl blocked her sun. “You weren’t lyin’,” he said reaching down a hand to help her up. She took it, wincing at the contact with the chafed skin, but grateful for the assistance nevertheless.

“About what?” She asked as she stood, finding her feet on the mattresses.

“Knowin’ gymnastics an’ stuff. Hold still,” he ordered gruffly, reaching out to pluck a shard of glass from her hair, and then another.

Glenn’s face appeared over the side of the truck, a relieved expression on it. “I did not see that going this well.”

Fiadh shrugged. “Me neither.”

The others stared at her for a moment in disbelief, until she started to feel self-conscious. “Okay, let’s go, we’re attracting way too much attention.”

Rick nodded, and Glenn jumped back in the truck, ready to drive them and the mattresses back the short distance to C Block.

Chapter Text

The decision to come back had been the right one, and that had been confirmed pretty much immediately. He and Merle had heard the shots from about a half mile away, and had arrived just in time to stop Rick from becoming walker chow. The real difficulty came after they’d gotten the crazy Irish chick down from the tower, when the adrenaline flatlined and everyone remembered why they hated his brother.

Daryl belonged with this group; this was his place. He had risked his life running after them and helping them when they’d gotten it into their heads to do stupid, dangerous shit, so he had earned his voice. And his voice was saying that Merle got to stay.

The aftermath of the attack was frenzied, with everyone feeling scared and somehow lucky all at the same time. It could have been much worse, but everyone knew it could get a lot worse if these assholes came back. There was no doubt about it, they needed to do something about The Governor. They needed to end it, one way or another.

Daryl was on his bunk, his back against the wall. The candles were all mostly snuffed, with the only real source of light in the night being the moon’s beams shining in through the high windows. For a while the only sounds had been the quiet noises of sleep, until something else broke the cautious peace.

It sounded a lot like retching, and it was coming from the cell two doors down. Fiadh’s. It was muffled, strangled, he could tell she was trying to do whatever it was quietly.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled one of his backpacks from beneath it. After some rooting around, he pulled out a vial of clear liquid, palmed it, and made his way to her cell.

He found her hunched over the small toilet in the corner, throwing up whatever it was she had left in her.

“You okay?” He whispered, pausing at the threshold.

She didn’t turn, just held up her hand. Then her index finger, he assumed asking for a minute. He obliged, and she went back to emptying the rest of her stomach. From the sounds of it, it was mostly liquid, anyway.

Once finished, Fiadh pushed away from the toilet bowl and crawled back to her bunk, which she sat against, ass on the floor. She wiped her mouth and reached for a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. “I’m fine,” she whispered back, before taking a slug from the minty bottle and swishing it around in her mouth, winching for a second when it came into contact with her split lip.

Daryl stepped inside. “You sick?”

Fiadh shook her head, then leaned over and spat into the toilet. “It’s kind of like... A stress thing. Or a shock response.” She shrugged.

He eyed her in the dark, the moon shedding enough illumination to shine the strawberry tones in her hair, which was loose, and still glinting with glass when she moved. He lowered himself down to the floor beside her, his back bumping off the bunk. “Like when you puked back in the daycare.”

“Yep. And when I shot that bloke in Woodbury.”

Daryl connected the dots, but said nothing else about it. Instead, he handed over the vial. “Iodine. For the scratches.” When she turned to look at him, brow arched, he explained. “You didn’t get checked out after.”

“Well, everyone was a bit busy,” she muttered.

“Don’t gimme that.”

Fiadh sighed, but then reached out and took the iodine. “Fine. Thank you.” She looked down at her bare arms then and made a displeased tutting sound. His eyes followed, counting the scratches and indentations the glass had made.

“You ever have a day when you ain’t injured?” He asked, the question sounding a lot more harsh than he’d intended it.

“Not since I met you people.”

His eyes darted away from her arms, up to meet her eyes. Everything was still between them for a moment, then her entire face changed. The grin was broad, one of her brows arched, and a little dimple puckered her right cheek. Impish was the only word he could use to describe it.

He snorted a short laugh, then looked away quickly, shaking his head. “Yeah, hazard of the job.”

A silence fell, but it was okay. He was okay not speaking, he preferred it, to be honest. Fiadh didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence with unnecessary words. She had even popped the top off the iodine and had started dabbing bits of her exposed, pale skin.

“You were right,” he said after a companionable minute or two, his voice cutting through it all.

“Narrow that down for me.” She was still sort-of grinning, her attention on her arms.

Even though she wasn’t looking, he rolled his eyes anyway. “About Merle.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked over at him then, whispering the words so softly that he wouldn’t have heard had he not been right next to her.

He shrugged. “It was time for me to be the one doin’ the choosin’.”

“And he had to follow,” Fiadh finished.

For the first time, Merle had followed. Daryl nodded, realising then that she’d known from the very first time she’d met Merle. He’d known, too. For a long time. He just hadn’t wanted to deal.

She pushed the stopper back down on the iodine bottle and held it out for him. He was about to tell her to keep it, when she moved suddenly.

“Almost forgot!” Fiadh breathed, twisting her body so that she could reach behind her. She grabbed a hold of something folded on her pillow and tugged it down toward her. His poncho. Then, with another grin, she placed the bottle on top of it, and presented it to him. “I washed it. Sorry about the puke.”

He was trying not to laugh. He almost managed it, but a very quiet snort burst out. He took the bundle. “Ain’t nothing,” he said, his mouth twitching with the attempt to stay serious. “It’s had worse on it.”

“I believe it.”

With his poncho draped over one of his arms, he prepared to stand. “S’good that ya stayed,” he said gruffly. Then he leaned over, his fingers snaking into her loose hair. “An’ don’t go to bed without brushin’ your hair, woman.”

He plucked the small bead of broken glass from the mess of locks, stood, and then flicked it into the toilet. It made a ting sound, but he could also hear her chuckle behind him as he left her room.

She’d fallen asleep just before dawn, and did not awaken until she heard Hershel shouting at Rick. The angry words had been an attempt to shake the leader from the strange stupor he’d fallen under. The day devolved from there, with the Stay vs Go debate raging onward; Rick insisting that they remain and defend the prison, and the naked hatred for Merle pushing Daryl into a state of constant defence.

And they were grounded. They had actually turned into prisoners of the prison. As per Rick’s orders, only those on look-out were supposed to be outside. The smell of the fear within overpowered every other odour. Which was probably a good thing, because the conditions were deteriorating fairly rapidly.

Fiadh was not good at doing nothing. She was a creature of movement. Even when she was relaxing, listening to music back in Ye Olde Non-Apocalyptic times, some part of her had moved. And if she couldn’t, she moved in her mind, choreographing routines and set pieces.

She was too restless to do even that. After an hour of stretching in her cell, another of pacing around, picking up random odd-jobs she could do, she found herself outside of Merle’s space. Maybe she’d been looking for someone to take her irritation out on while they waited for The Governor to come back and finish the job, or maybe she wanted answers.

Fiadh leaned against the cage door, staring inside. It was open, of course, Merle was free to come and go, but it was wisely set apart from the others. The man himself was lounging on a camp bed, a book in his hand. She recognised it immediately as Hershel’s own personal bible.
“You just gonna stand there an’ gawk, Princess? Not that I blame ya, I’m sure the view is most admirable.” He looked up from a verse, brows raised, drawl engaged.

“Didn’t take you for the religious sort, Merle.”

“You didn’t take me any way, darlin’.”

Everything out of Merle’s mouth was either filth or factious, from what Fiadh had noticed. The obvious differences between the Dixons just continued to grow. Or maybe they were both equally as filthy, and Daryl just kept it to himself.

“Tell me about Sandy Creek, Merle,” she said, cutting the “banter” short.

He licked his thumb and turned the page. “Ain’t nothin’ to tell.”

Fiadh crossed her arms against her chest and straightened up. “I want to know.”

“I’ll make ya a deal.” Merle folded over the corner of the page he’d been reading, and then closed the book. Still in his lounging position, he gestured with his stump - now with knife attached - to a nearby stool. “Won’t you have a seat?”

She eyed the stool, and eyed him. After a moment’s deliberation, she took the bait and entered his little grey lair. When she took a seat, he moved to sit up so that he was directly opposite her.

“I ask a question, you ask a question. Somethin’ of a quid pro quo, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“Good. I’ll go first.”

“Well, that’s not fair,” she shot back immediately, frowning at him.

“It’s my game, Princess, an’ I say I go first.”

She sighed, but did eventually gesture with her hand, indicating for him to get on with it.

Merle gave her a toothy grin, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He raised his hand and pointed at her eye. “Who gave ya that? Your old man?”

For a moment, Fiadh didn’t quite follow what he meant. As soon as it had stopped hurting the black eye had become a distant memory. She blinked several times, and then understanding flooded her face. There was still some bruising there, clearly. “Oh, no. An old man did give it to me, but not an old man of mine.”

“Hm.”

“My turn.” She wasted no time. “Why did you attack us?”

Merle sucked his teeth for a moment before answering. “Woodbury’s got scouts. They got a set list of criteria to look out for, and that includes other people who could be a threat to The Governor and his community. Your group at the Creek was big. Big enough for him to see it as a threat. We were sent in to neutralise that threat.”

“So you all just blindly obeyed?”

“Nuh-uh, girly, you ain’t playin’ by the rules. Only one question at a time, remember? It’s my turn now.” His eyes glinted, his grin etched further across his face. “What you do to the old man who roughed ya up?”

Fiadh clammed up, her face carefully blank.

“Come on now, an answer. Fair’s fair.”

“I killed him.”

“Coo-ey! Princess, you are fucked up five ways from Sunday. Most people, in some sort of vain attempt to intimidate, might have offered up that tasty little nugget from the get-go. But not you. No ma’am. I had to drag it outta you, like pullin’ teeth.” He sucked his own teeth again, his eyes glittering at her with something malicious in their depths.

Fiadh merely stared back at him, offering nothing else. “So you didn’t scout out Sandy personally? Did no recon or anything before attacking?”

“Now why would I do that, when I got someone else to do it for me?” Merle asked, waving his hand dismissively. “One of The Governor’s lackeys scoped out the place, reported back, and I got sent in to clean up. Just like I said.” He licked his bottom lip, and paused, perhaps savouring the taste of the tension in the air. “My turn.”

Merle rose to his full height. Fiadh’s eyes followed every movement, and leaned backward as he stepped closer. The movement was almost like a flinch; her body responding to a perceived threat before her mind could still it.

“Where’d you get that, girl?” He asked, his voice soft, almost gentle, as the knife taped to the end of his arm closed the distance between them, almost catching on the thick strap of her vest top. Fiadh didn’t need to look; she knew this time exactly what he was talking about.

“That ain’t new. That’s an old one. The way it marked, the way it curves, well, it looks like a knife did that to ya, Princess. Startin’ at that lovely neck,” his voice was almost a croon, as he traced the journey of the scar on her right shoulder, “Endin’ in the soft parts below. Parts we ain’t seein’.”

Fiadh just stared as colour slowly bloomed on her cheeks. Her fists clenched as she felt that heat, that anger, leave blushes in its wake. Her face, her neck; they were burning with it.

“Someone got ya nice an’ good. Got ya young, too.” His face was the picture of the predator she’d guessed was always within, just lurking beneath the surface. The thing he was able to pull out and use whenever he needed to. To survive.

In one swift movement, Fiadh stood. She closed the distance between them, pushing herself against his knife. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were completely white.

“You know there were kids in that camp, right?”

Merle’s expression faltered. His lips flattened into a thin line and he shook his head. “Nah, you’re lyin’. I didn’t see no sign of kids at Sandy Creek. Not one.” But he took a half-step backward. She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d been pressing into his knife, and risking drawing her own blood on his blade, or because she’d caught him off-guard. Whatever the reason, she planned on pressing him as mercilessly as he’d pressed her.

“There were two. A twelve year old, Reese, and a thirteen year old, Charlotte. She preferred to be called Charlie.”

“I don’t shoot kids,” he said, his mouth curling downward into a sneer. “Come to think of it Princess, I don’t seem to recall you bein’ there, neither.” He recovered the ground she’d gained. The height difference was considerable, but she didn’t move. “I’d have remembered that pretty hair. An’ that ugly scar.”

Her arm shot out, swatting his away as soon as it moved back toward her, to point at her chest.

“‘Ay. Merle.”

Merle’s gaze broke from hers, to a spot over her shoulder as soon as Daryl spoke. Immediately, his gait changed, his shoulders lowering a little, his stance becoming less stiff. “Hey baby bro, we were just havin’ a talk. Gettin’ to know each other a little. Ain’t that right, Princess?”

“You tell her what she wants to know ‘bout her group, Merle.”

The voice got closer, the steps halting at the threshold of the open cage.

“Well I was, I was just gettin’ to that. We were just enjoyin’ a little old fashioned information exchange. I give some, she gives some. Can’t get nothin’ for nothin’ these days.” With a smile nobody could say wasn’t charming, the older Dixon swept back to his cot and lowered himself with zeal.

“Give it to her for nothin’.”

“It’s fine. I’ve heard enough.” Fiadh turned on her heel, one fluid movement, though her shoulders were still rigid, her fists clenched. Without even so much as glancing at Daryl, she shoved passed him. She needed out of there. Out of that stuffy, dark prison. Away from these people and their never-ending bullshit.

“Fiadh -” Daryl made to follow her.

Just out. Out, out, out.

And then Carl burst through the door, his light steps hammering with speed down the stairs. Fiadh stopped, rooted to the spot as the worst case scenario flooded through her mind. The Governor: he was back to finish them off.

“Andrea!” Carl breathed out, eyes already looking around frantically at them all. “Andrea is here.”

Fiadh’s gun was in her hand in an instant. “Your dad’s in the cells,” she told him, already moving toward the steps. She didn’t even have to look to know that Daryl and Merle were right behind her.

One of the weapons lockers had been strategically placed on their exit route, so Fiadh stopped for long enough to grab her Ruger on the way out. Rick and Michonne weren’t far behind them, and together, in a tight, single file, they emerged from the prison, deadly weapons raised.

They remained in formation until Rick reached the truck, where they each broke off to cover a different area of the courtyard. Guns and bows were raised, moving, scanning, eyes drawn toward different points in the distance. They were all looking for the same thing.

“Go!” Rick said, and everyone dispersed. From behind them Fiadh could hear the sounds of Glenn and Carol emerging on the gangway.

“Clear!” Merle shouted, signalling for them all to converge near the gate.

Fiadh slid behind one of the fortifications. It was really no more than an overturned steel dining table, but it would serve this purpose well. The nose of her gun poked out through the slats, trained on the woman walking up the driveway. She held a pole in one hand, pushing it in front of her. At the end of that pole was a walker. A memory flashed in Fiadh’s mind: Glenn telling them the story of what had been done to him in Woodbury. A walker on a pole.

“Are you alone!?” Rick yelled at her, kicking up pebbles as he skidded to a stop in front of the gate. The others were still scanning, watching for signs of more intruders.

“Open the gate!”

“Are you alone?” He repeated.

“Rick!” The blonde woman called, her tone tinging on desperate.

Answer him! Fiadh internally yelled at her, her teeth grinding together, eyes flashing this way and that. So far all she could see in every direction were loose undead in the field. Undead that The Governor had left them.

Next to her, Michonne stood. Slowly, Fiadh began to follow her lead, just as Daryl tossed Rick a set of keys.

“Open it!” He ordered, and the gate rattled to life. As soon as the blonde woman got inside, it smashed closed and Rick grabbed a rough hold of her.

“Turn around now!” He shouted at her, though he really gave her no time to do much of anything. In a second, he had her face first, up against the fence. Fiadh slipped out from behind the table with her gun raised.

The one they’d called Andrea was gasping as Rick patted her down, searching for anything she’d concealed. It was crystal clear to Fiadh in that moment that despite having known her from before, they were not trusting her.

She screamed when one of the walkers flung itself at her through the fence, its decaying hands reaching for her, almost getting a hold of her. But Rick was quicker, and he tugged her away. “Get down. On the floor.” He pushed her to her knees and continued the search.

“I asked if you were alone,” he snarled, grabbing a hold of her bag and pulling it over her head. He tossed it to Fiadh, who had moved in to cover.

“I am!” She gasped.

Andrea remained on her knees, arms raised. She sucked in unsteady breaths, her eyes squinting in the sunlight as she looked around, seeking a friendly face. In that moment, she found only suspicion, pain.

“Welcome back,” Rick said.

Chapter Text

By the time Fiadh filed back into the prison behind the others, Andrea and Carol were caught in a tight embrace. Her eyes on the hugging pair, she let Andrea’s bag slide off her shoulder, and put it down next to the makeshift weapons locker. Perhaps it was overkill, but she kept her gun on her.

“After you saved me, we thought you were dead,” she heard Carol say softly to their guest. Fiadh’s expression offered just a little of the curiosity piquing within her. Her gaze was sharp as she stopped to stand next to Carl.

“Hershel, my God,” the blonde said with a sharp gasp as she caught sight of him on his crutches. Her arms loosened from around Carol, and then dropped. Her ponytail flicked from side to side as she looked around. It was as if, for the first time, Andrea was realising what living in a prison actually was. “I can’t believe this.”

Carol stepped away while Andrea continued her survey. “Where’s Shane?” She asked after a few silent moments.

You could have heard a pin drop in that room.

Rick merely shook his head, though Fiadh could see the muscle in his jaw tightening just a little. Fiadh had only heard mention of Shane once, and that had been when Glenn had shouted at Rick earlier that morning. She had the distinct impression that he’d been comparing Rick being asked to live with this Shane person with Glenn being asked to live with Merle. She filled in the gaps of that story herself.

“And Lori?”

Many of the others looked away. Fiadh merely looked at Carl. She knew enough about that story to know what was coming next.

“She had a girl,” Hershel said, his calm voice almost like a balm to the frayed nerves in the room. “Lori didn’t survive.”

“Neither did T-Dog,” Maggie added.

“I’m so sorry.” Andrea’s voice was but a whisper. The sadness was plain on her face, for all to see. Then that sad face fell on Carl, and it morphed into something else. “Carl…” She intoned, some sort of pity replacing the grief.

The kid took the slightest of steps away. It was the most minimal of movements, but it was enough to propel Fiadh forward. She edged toward him, her body angled between him and Andrea.

Andrea faltered, her eyes moving from Carl, to Fiadh, where they rested for the briefest of moments. Then they slid right off her; like she just wasn’t there.

“Rick, I…” Andrea turned, taking a step instead toward their leader. He too stepped back away from her in response, his feet shuffling as he looked away.

It had become clear that her efforts at re-engaging them on a personal level were not working. “You all live here?” She asked, changing tack.

“Here in the cell block.”

Andrea spun around and saw Glenn. He’d been behind her the whole time, rifle still in his hands, watching quietly.

“There?” Andrea asked, pointing toward the cells beyond the communal room. When Glenn nodded in response, she started moving. “Can I go in?”

Rick reacted immediately. “I won’t allow that,” he said, stepping directly in front of her to block her path.

“I’m not an enemy, Rick.”

Fiadh could almost hear the amusement in Andrea’s voice.

Rick ignored her. “We had that field, courtyard, until your boyfriend tore down the fence with a truck and shot us up.”

“He said you fired first.”

For the first time since she’d arrived, Rick held her stare. He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. “Well, he’s lyin’.”

“He killed an inmate who survived here,” Hershel said.

Andrea’s hand flew to her mouth. Fiadh’s head fell to one side as she watched, trying to decide for herself if this was performance, or genuine surprise.

“We liked him,” Daryl added. “He was one of us.”

An image of Axel flashed in Fiadh’s memory, dead on the ground, back riddled with bullets, the back of skull shot to mush. She gulped, her eyes sliding toward Carol, who had been forced to use her friend’s body as a shield.

“I didn’t know anything about that,” Andrea said, her hand falling to her neck. “As soon as I found out, I came.”

She turned on the spot and stepped forward again to address the group - the room. “I didn’t even know you were in Woodbury until after the shoot-out.”

“That was days ago.” Glenn’s voice held a note of disbelief.

“I told you, I came as soon as I could.”

Finally, Michonne made her move. The warrior woman skirted the group and stopped at the door of Merle’s cage. When it became clear that Andrea was getting nowhere with the stoney-faced group surrounding her, she turned on Michonne. “What have you told them?”

“Nothing,” came the simple response.

“I don’t get it. I left Atlanta with you people and now I’m the odd man out?”

There it is, Fiadh thought, watching the other woman move around, posture, her ire clearly rising at the lack of celebration in the face of her return.

“He almost killed Michonne and he would have killed us!” Glenn told her. He was warming up for more, but Andrea interrupted him.

She pointed a finger right at Merle, who was guarding the exit. “With his finger on the trigger!” She accused. “Isn’t he the one who kidnapped you? Who beat you?”

“On your Governor’s orders,” Fiadh said, piping up for the first time, her soft accent offering a counterpoint to Andrea’s raised voice.

Andrea spun toward her, her mouth curving downward as her cold glare travelled the length of Fiadh. Assessing her, and judging by the expression, finding Fiadh wanting. “And who the hell are you?” She huffed out a breath. “You know what, it’s irrelevant.”

“‘Ay,” Daryl said, his voice coming out in a low grumble, “You don’t get to talk to her that way.”

“She’s the one who came to get Maggie and me,” Glenn put in, stepping forward and pointing a finger of his own. “Helped to save our lives when The Governor ordered our execution.”

Fiadh remained quiet, adding nothing to the exchange aside from a slight narrowing of her eyes. She didn’t care much what this Andrea thought of her, or how she felt, but she did want to figure out how much of her words were truth and how much was just her holding court.

Andrea looked at Daryl, then Glenn, then her eyes moved over some of the others, perhaps looking for some sign of support. None readily came, and the woman sighed deeply. She pressed her fingers into the side of her nose for a brief moment then seemed to reset herself.

“Look. I cannot excuse or explain what Philip has done. But I am here trying to bring us together. We have to work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out.” Rick was shaking his head as he took control of the discussion again. “We’re gonna kill him. I don’t know how, or when, but we will.”

“We can settle this. There is room at Woodbury for all of you.”

Merle straight up just laughed at her. “You know better than that.”

Going by the few things Merle had told her about his old boss, Fiadh couldn’t help but see the truth. After everything that had happened, The Governor wouldn’t want them anywhere near his community. He’d be stupid to allow it.

“What makes you think this man wants to negotiate?” Hershel asked, and Fiadh felt her face soften as she looked at him, all at once grateful and bewildered by his ability to flirt with the positive potentials of the situation. “Did he say that?”

“No.”

“Then why did you come here?” Rick asked. Everyone’s voices had lowered. A calm, strange sort of acceptance had descended upon them.

“Because he’s gearing up for war.” The calm broke again. “The people are terrified. They see you as killers,” Andrea pressed. “They’re training to attack.”

Right then, Fiadh thought she understood. Andrea wasn’t there to harm them, to trick them, or to do her lover’s bidding. Even after she discovered that their suspicion of her trumped their affection in that moment, she pushed through to try and help them. It was too little, far too late, but the intention was clear.

Perhaps it was her objectivity that allowed Fiadh to see that. Daryl didn’t seem to share the sentiment.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, hand tightened around the strap of his crossbow, “Next time you see Philip, you tell ‘im I’m gonna take his other eye.”

The fingers on Fiadh’s right hand twitched, then she clenched her fist.

“We’ve taken too much shit for too long,” said Glenn, his chin raised, “He wants a war? He’s got one.”

Too little. Too late, Fiadh repeated to herself as she watched the fervent blonde.

“Rick?” Andrea turned to try again. “If you don’t sit down and try to work this out… I don’t know what’s gonna happen. He has a whole town.” Fiadh almost flinched. But Andrea wasn’t finished, she was gaining momentum. She turned away from Rick again.

“Look at you. You’ve lost so much already. You can’t stand alone anymore.”

“You wanna make this right?” Rick positioned himself in front of her, blocking her view of the others. It was something Fiadh had seen him do a few times since she’d met him. “Get us inside.”

“No.”

“Then we got nothing to talk about.”

“There are innocent people!” Andrea said, but she was talking to Rick’s back. Clearly done with the conversation with her, he left. The internal door clanged shut and the sound of his boots echoed off the walls, each step signalling his dismissal.

The silence dragged out, awkward and almost final, until Fiadh spoke up again. “You have influence there, in Woodbury?” She asked Andrea.

The other woman turned to face her, giving her another long look before she nodded and decided to answer. “A little, I guess.”

“You said there are a lot of innocents there. From what we saw when we went in for Glenn and Maggie, and then Daryl,” Fiadh explained, her eyes flitting toward each of the people she named, before settling back on Andrea, “There were a lot of people running around, panicking. Untrained. Would you hold enough sway to convince them to… go somewhere safe? To hide? To stay out of it?”

Andrea continued to stare at her, a frown deepening between her brows.

“You could help us, like Rick said. Just a few of us, maybe two or three. We could get inside and take care of the problem, leave the others out of it.”

“Do you think Woodbury would stand down if The Governor wasn’t around?” Glenn asked Andrea then, catching on to what Fiadh was putting together.

“He has everyone believing you’re all murderers, criminals. Escaped convicts.” Andrea shook her head. “It would be impossible to predict what they’d do. And some of his men…” She paused to glance up at Merle, who was looking down at her from the top of the stairs with narrowed gaze. “They’re not untrained.”

Fiadh nodded, her mouth pursing. “You won’t risk it.”

“More bloodshed? No.” Andrea pierced her with that cool, blue stare. “Would you?”

Fiadh didn’t look away, didn’t move at all as she locked eyes with Andrea. “I would for the people I care about.”

The outer corners of Andrea’s eyes twitched as something flashed in her expression. But just as quickly, it was gone. The woman shook her head, ponytail swishing across the back of her neck. She huffed out a breath.

“I need some air.”

She made a move toward the stairs and nobody stopped her. Even Merle stepped aside when she barked at him to get out of her way. Without a word, Michonne followed her outside.

Daryl’s shoulders stiffened as he watched the stand off. Andrea’s icy blue stare was met with Fiadh’s flashing green. Not for the first time, he considered just how much her name fit her. They might have teased her about it before, but the way she stilled, the way she watched, it was like when you approached a deer in the woods and stepped on a twig by accident.

She was always watching them. Like she was waiting to spy a reason to bolt. But even when she was given one - and she’d been given a few - she stayed put.

It was irritating Daryl because he couldn’t get a read on her. One minute she was cracking jokes with them and cursing like a sailor, the next those moss-green eyes were counting exits. He’d seen her do that.

“I would for the people I care about,” Fiadh said.

That would hit a nerve; he knew it without even having to look at Andrea. He didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, Andrea had chosen her side. Made her bed. Now she had to lie in it and deal with the fleas.

Still, his chest felt tight.

“Tell me about her,” Fiadh asked some of the others when Andrea left. Carol, Glenn and Maggie turned toward her. She looked thoughtful.

“Andrea was with us at the beginning, when we were getting out of Atlanta. With her sister, Amy,” Glenn said. “She lost Amy early on. She got bit.”

“She watched her sister turn,” Carol added, her voice low.

Fiadh winced in sympathy. After a moment, she turned to Carol. “You said she saved your life?”

“On the farm. When we got overrun, Andrea pulled me out of it. Bought me enough time for Daryl to find me,” Carol said, a grateful smile turned toward him.

Fiadh turned a little to glance back at him herself, a brow arched. “What happened then?”

“She got left behind,” he said. He pushed himself off his perch on the table.

“You didn’t go back?” There was no accusation in her tone, but for some reason, Daryl felt one.

Carol was quick to speak up. “The place was a death trap, it would have been suicide.”

“We thought she was gone,” Glenn said softly.

“Well, that must have been poxy for her.” Fiadh folded her arms across her chest. He didn’t understand what poxy was exactly, but he could guess.

“She’s a decent shot,” Maggie said with a shrug.

Carol chuckled. “She shot Daryl in the head, remember?”

Fiadh balked. “She did what in the what, now!?”

“Grazed me,” Daryl corrected. “Thought I was a walker.”

“I remember those head stitches well,” Hershel said from his spot near the table, the ghost of a smile curling his lips beneath his moustache.

“Well, that explains it then,” Fiadh said, the dimple in her cheek making an appearance. When everyone looked at her expectantly, she just tapped her temple, making the universal sign for crazy.

“Hey!”

But he didn’t say anything else. The others were almost smiling. Some tried to hide their grins but even at that, the tense atmosphere from before had broken, leaving something milder in its wake.

With a shake of her head and a quick chuckle, Carol started to step away. “I’m gonna go relieve Beth from Lil Asskicker duty,” she said, giving his arm a quick squeeze as she passed.

They’d sent Andrea off in a car back to Woodbury in the afternoon, and by night time, the silent pressure had returned. They gathered in the cells after dinner, some standing, others sitting, nobody saying a word. The reality of what Andrea had said was setting in and everyone was lost to their own thoughts.

Daryl was leaning up against a cell door, his eyes on the high windows and the night beyond them for a while, before returning to the others. Hershel was next to him, watching Beth as she lit some candles on the floor near the stairway. Fiadh was on the other side of Hershel, her stare unseeing for once. But when Beth started to sing, the Irish dancer locked in on her.

He supposed that for a dancer, music was probably pretty important. Beth’s clear voice filled the cavernous prison, punctuated by Rick’s footsteps as he came down the stairs, holding Judith. Everyone watched and listened as the girl sang lyrics about holding on, maybe grateful to listen to something that wasn't their own ponderings. Even Merle ventured out of his hole to listen.

Rick came to a stop between Hershel and Fiadh, and Daryl shifted next to them. “Some reunion, huh?” He muttered, his voice not carrying far beneath the song.

“She’s in a jam,” Rick said of Andrea.

“We all are.” Hershel, his arms crossed, cut to the quick of it. All eyes fell to the baby in Rick’s arms. “Andrea’s persuasive, but this fella’s armed to the teeth. Bent on destruction.”

“So what do we wanna do?” Daryl asked. The itch to move, get going, do something scratched at him under his skin.

“We match it.”

Fiadh, who’d had a faraway look on her face and was leaning her head against the concrete wall, snapped her eyes suddenly toward them.

“I’m goin’ on a run,” Rick continued.

Daryl caught her look and angled in toward the small group. “We’ll head out tomorrow.”

Rick was quick to decline. “No, you stay here. Keep an eye on your brother.” Four sets of eyes looked toward Merle Dixon. “I’m glad you’re back, really. But if he causes a problem, it’s on you.”

He understood. They didn’t want his brother there, but they wouldn’t fight him on it no more. “I got him,” Daryl said, knowing that for the first time in his life, his older brother was solely his responsibility. He looked toward Fiadh.

“I’ll go,” she murmured, answering the questioning look almost immediately. She was looking at them, listening and talking to them, but the hand at her side tapped out a rhythm that mirrored Beth’s.

Rick shook his head again, though his tone was softer this time when he responded. “I need you here, too. They need you here. I’ll take Michonne.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Daryl asked, and at that point everyone was looking at Rick like he’d grown another head.

“I’ll find out.” He nodded and revealed more of his plan. “And Carl. He’s ready. You hold it down here.”

“You got it.”

With what looked like some regret, Fiadh pushed herself off the wall. “I’ll go relieve Carl from watch,” she said, eyes back on Beth as she started walking. “He’ll need the sleep.”

“I got watch next,” Daryl said quickly after her, his words a promise to take over her shift in four hours so that she could sleep, too. She didn’t look back, just kept on walking. The only acknowledgement he got was a raise of her fist.

The next morning, a weary but awake Fiadh was pacing up and down along the cells on the second floor of the block, a fussing Judith in her hands. Her arms rocked a little as she walked the length of the landing, over and over. She hummed to the baby; a song that had been stuck in her head ever since Judith had been named.

Down below, Rick, Carl and Michonne were preparing to go on their run. Rick claimed to have a line on a potential cache of guns, and he was taking the unusual pairing of his son and their latest member. The former because he’d declared it time for Carl to experience these things, and the latter, Fiadh assumed, was an experiment in trust.

As Judith calmed, Fiadh stopped her pacing, though she continued gently swaying. With her cheek pressed against the baby’s soft head, she began to tenderly croon. “And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain… Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders…”

A smile tugged on her lips as she sang; the natural continuation of the verses she’d murmured while pacing. The baby’s arm waved a little and Fiadh’s smile grew. She reached out, gently taking Judith’s little hand and stroked the tiny pink palm. Instinctively the baby’s fingers grasped her thumb.

“For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool…” She sang, so caught up in the moment that she didn’t notice the audience. “By making his world a little colder. Hey, Jude…”

“Judith has a song about her?” Carl asked, appearing at the top of the stairs as if from nowhere.

Fiadh looked up, noticing the kid, and then Daryl, who had emerged from his cell and was leaning against the railing, watching. She blinked a few times, then focused back on Carl.

“You’ve never heard ‘Hey Jude’?”

The boy just frowned and shook his head.

“By The Beatles?” She pressed, horror beginning to find its way into her expression.

“The insects?” Carl looked a bit confused. From somewhere around Daryl’s direction came the sound of an amused snort.

“Oh my holy Jaysis, Carl, no. The band. The band The Beatles.”

His eyebrows shot up with surprise at her passion, but he shook his head again in response. “Are they new?”

She let out a soft noise of despair. She stared at Carl for a moment, then at Daryl, who was apparently finding this all very amusing. “Carl,” she said then, trying to get a grip on herself, “This is a travesty. Your Dad never played you The Beatles?”

“Dad likes Ronnie Dee. And…” His face scrunched up a little, searching his memory for something. “The Reverend Morton Meat. No, wait. The Reverend Horton Heat.”

“No. Nooo. We have to fix this, Carl. I can fix this.” Fiadh started walking. “Stay there,” she told Carl as she approached Daryl. “Don’t go anywhere. Here, Chuckles, take her.” Without much preamble, she passed the bundle of Judith to Daryl. To his credit, he didn’t hesitate. “It’s almost naptime,” she muttered as his hands slid beneath her arms, ready for the pass. “I’ll be right back…”

Daryl was still silent and she stepped back, watching as Judith squirmed for a moment but then settled quickly against his chest. Automatically, he started rocking. She took that as her cue to slip back inside her cell.

Once inside, she pulled out her backpack from beneath her bunk and unzipped it. Her hand slid in, moving down the side until she got to the bottom. She started to feel around beneath the few items of clothing she had, some assorted bottles, small cases and other necessities bumping off her forearm with the searching movements. Then, finally, her fingers closed around it. She’d known it was in there the whole time, but every time she touched it that same sense of relief flooded through her.

When she pulled out her hand, she held her iPhone 4. She pressed her thumb against the power button, then the pad of it slid across the screen, over the spiderweb of scratches in the glass. Her breath caught as the familiar white loading screen appeared.

12%.

Fiadh loosed her breath. She hadn’t turned it on in over two weeks, not since she’d lost Frankie T’s truck and her ability to charge it. Since Merle took it and left it in Woodbury, she amended to herself, her eyes narrowing for just a moment.

She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t turned it on since then, why she hadn’t listened to anything. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to remind herself of what was left. Of what she had, right there in that little slab of technology, that would be removed from her as soon as that 12% of battery became zero.

She might have been waiting for the right moment to treat herself. But surely, this moment was a right one.

Fiadh untangled the wires of the earphones as she walked out of the cell. Carl’s face lit up. “Is that an iPhone?”

“Yep.”

“Does it have any games on it?”

“Well, it did,” Fiadh answered, waving him over. “But with no more internet connection, there’s not much functionality left. I just use it for music now.”

She handed the earphones to him and he obediently put them in, his expression bright and curious. Fiadh pressed the iTunes app and scrolled for a few moments, before alighting on the folder that was simply called: The Beatles.

‘Hey Jude’ would begin to play in Carl’s ears. The kid moved toward the wall next to her cell and he leaned against it. After about thirty seconds, he slid down until his arse met the floor. Fiadh leaned over and offered the iPhone to Carl. He took it and let it rest in his lap as his eyes drifted toward the baby.

She could tell when the chord progression in the song flipped, because his head fell a little to one side, just like hers always did. Fiadh grinned.

Rick arrived at the top of the stairs just as Carl’s finger tapped the REPEAT button on the screen. “What’s goin’ on here?” He looked a little bemused, though not at all irritated or heated, Fiadh was relieved to note. Rick’s gaze passed over Fiadh, Daryl holding Judith, and finally rested on his seated son.

“I’m listening to ‘Hey Jude’ by The Beatles,” Carl told him matter-of-factly and with some care to pronounce everything correctly.

Rick’s brows arched. But then one corner of his mouth curled upward ever so slightly. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Fiadh said, her arms crossing against her chest, “His musical education has been neglected, Rick.”

“Well, we are in the middle of the end of the world, Fiadh.”

But when he looked down at Carl, who was offering him one of the earphones, he accepted it readily. Rick lowered himself next to the kid, and the two of them listened to ‘Hey Jude’, their heads almost together.

The only sounds she could hear were the far away strains of the music through the earphones, Daryl’s muted swaying, and Judith’s little sighs. She moved to take the baby back, her arms open in silent question. But Daryl shook his head. “‘S’okay. I got her.” He was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Before she could ask, he’d broken the stare, and returned to watching Rick and Carl.

Once the song ended, Rick pulled the earphone out of his ear. “We need to get moving,” he told Carl as he pulled himself upright. The order was clear, though his tone was more even than she’d heard in a while. “Say thanks to Fiadh.”

Carl just rolled his eyes at her, as if to say “grown ups”. She stifled a snort of her own. He wrapped the wires back around her iPhone for her and held it out. “Can I listen again when I get back?” He asked, his grey eyes serious.

“Of course,” she said easily, softly. “You can listen any time, to anything.”

Until it dies and nobody can listen anymore.

He nodded, his fingers on the rim of his sheriff’s hat, as though he was bidding her a good day.

“Musical Appreciation 101 continues when you get back from your run. School’s out.” She narrowed her eyes dramatically. “For now.”

Daryl pushed off the railing, intent on putting Judith in her Lil Asskicker bassinet. “Dork,” he called Fiadh as he passed by. But he was smiling.

So was she.

Chapter Text

Fiadh took another watch shift later that afternoon. It hadn’t strictly been out of the kindness of her heart, rather she just felt a great need to get out. The conversation she’d had the day before with Merle, before Andrea had shown up, was still weighing heavily on her mind. She was trying to sort through and process a lot of the shit that it had brought up.

There was anger, sure. But there was also guilt. When she remembered the day the group at Sandy Creek had been attacked, her mind mostly conjured up images of her fleeing. Fleeing while the others around her fell, some of them never to get up again. She’d driven off in Frankie T’s truck and hadn’t looked back.

Fiadh hadn’t done what she had been expecting Andrea to do so easily. Fiadh hadn’t risked herself to go back, so she felt like a hypocrite.

Everything was still so tense inside. Everyone still expected The Governor to return at any minute, with his army of mercenary morons, blindly following his orders to kill. Glenn and Maggie still could not stomach the sight of Merle - and Fiadh couldn’t blame them. She barely managed to look at him at times herself.

But Hershel had been right; Merle Dixon had his uses. The other stuff they’d just have to deal with when they finished. If there was anyone left standing when they finished.

Fiadh stood in the middle of the courtyard and sucked in a lungful of air, savouring it. With her hands on her hips she looked out beyond the gates, eyes following the ambling movements of the undead in the field. After a few deep, steadying breaths, she raised her gun and peered down the scope, searching the treeline at the boundary of the prison.

A light breeze rustled the leaves, giving the branches a slight wave of sway. There was a cut to the wind outside as clouds obscured the sun, darkening the already grey facade of the prison. The seasons had begun to change almost without her noticing. One day she’d been sweating buckets in a tent by the creek, feeling like she was melting in a sauna. Mere weeks later she was pulling her jacket out of her pack.

She dropped the rifle, letting it rest at her side. She started rolling her shoulders, trying to loosen the muscles tense not just from the atmosphere and pressure inside, but also from lack of activity. Fiadh felt like she hadn’t done anything really physical in days. Cooped up inside since she’d fought with one of The Governor’s lackeys atop Tower 2 and had to climb down.

She pulled her right foot up behind her, stretching her quads. She held it for about a minute, the rest of her body stock still, her balance perfect, then she switched legs. When she’d straightened back up again, she rolled her ankles, one at a time, while she peered around her. All was quiet. There was nobody out on the gangway, nobody around but the walking dead to pay her any heed.

She shrugged off her rifle first, and rested it up against the wall. Her jacket followed, then her hands moved up to her hair to tighten the high ponytail she’d pulled it into earlier that morning. She faced the road, and started to properly stretch.

Extended Mountain, an overhead arm stretch, to Forward Fold with legs and feet together, her body folded over itself and hands clasped easily behind her heels. Her hair brushed the ground. Then to Pyramid, one leg stretched out before her, body bent forward in a pose of worship, to a modified Downward Dog with left knee pointed upward to the sky, foot curled toward her behind. And so she went with the simple gymnastics warm-up routine she’d devised some time ago, incorporating yoga poses and other gloriously familiar steps that her body slid easily into.

It wasn’t long before she felt the need to push into more challenging territory. She tended to shun dance routines when she had no music, but there were always elements of preparation steps she could include, particularly extensions for leaps. So she started with an attitude extension, her right leg raised and then extended before her, the tips of her toes pointed as much as she could in her boots, her arms extended in front and to the side, fingers splayed.

Fiadh could almost hear her old ballet mistress, Miss M., calling out her forms in that shrill, Co. Kerry accent of hers. “Grand battements! Position!”

Fiadh lifted her raised leg so that the top of her pointed foot was level with her head, her arms pulling upward along with it.

“First Arabesque! Position!”

She held it for a few moments before grounding herself and then sliding into an arabesque lift.

“Pulses, girls!”

The leg pointed behind her now, she stretched, her muscles screaming. She grinned.

“Cecchetti! Third! Fourth!”

And on went that distinctive accent in her mind, until she’d exhausted her appetite for dance poses. Then it was time to turn her attention toward a different sort of dance routine.

It began with her hen tai-hokei. Vertical spins, fast kicks, coiled quads with release through foot and heel. Sen was for the core, the arms, the extended hands gripping into fists; accurate, deceptive power behind her limited reach. And then, her favourite. Ten tai-hokei. Utilising all of her gymnastic and even dance ability, ten was spins, back-handsprings and stretching flips. It made her blood sing, and it made her sleep like a baby afterward.

When she finished, her booted feet slid across the loose pebbles on the concrete to pull together in her complete Gentai stance. She remained just like that for a few moments, her breath coming in shorter bursts, the sweat glistening on her hairline and beads lazily trickling down her back. Then she sat down quickly, and laid back on the ground; flat out, eyes to the clouds. She stayed like that until she heard the car engine.

It was far too early for Rick and the others to be back, so she sat bolt upright, eyes toward the road. Fiadh squinted for a moment, before recognising the car. She scrambled to her feet, hand reaching for the rifle against the wall. She was hauling it up to her face for a closer look, feet already moving toward the internal gate, when she heard the sound of someone bursting through the door of the prison behind her.

“It’s Andrea,” Fiadh called out. She stopped at the overturned table, taking cover that would allow her a moment to focus on the approaching vehicle. “Nobody else in the car.”

The Dixons moved past her, headed straight for the gate. “That we can see,” Merle added. Fiadh’s mouth twisted at the thought of Andrea smuggling someone into the prison in the back of the car they’d given her.

“Clear!” Merle called.

Fiadh came out from behind the table and stepped toward them, gun still raised. “Are we letting her in?” She asked, glancing at Daryl as he pulled out the giant set of keys.

“Could be on the run,” he said, though the sentence rose slightly at the end, almost like he was asking a question.

She looked between the brothers, brows raised. Merle offered nothing but a shrug, but he didn’t lower his weapon, either. Daryl found the right key and slid the gate open, waving Andrea in. As soon as the bumper crossed the threshold, he was pushing the gate back into place with force. Half a dozen walkers slammed themselves up against it, blindly reaching.

Fiadh stayed at the gate a little longer, waiting to see if anyone else turned up. Another car, perhaps that truck she’d shot at a few days before, or maybe a sniper in the woods. She likely wouldn’t see that last one, but it didn’t stop her from looking. When she saw nothing else and heard nothing else but the tweeting birds and groaning zombies, she backed up.

Andrea was already stepping out of the car, her hands raised. Daryl took her gun while Merle kept his levelled at her. “Where’s Rick?” She asked, that same ponytail swishing to and fro as she looked around.

“Busy,” came Daryl’s typically monosyllabic reply.

“You sneak out, Blondie?” Merle asked. Fiadh could hear the suspicion in his tone, even though he’d asked the question pleasantly enough. “‘Cause I know he didn’t let ya go.”

“He sent me,” Andrea said, lowering her hands and placing them on her hips. “Philip wants to talk. I’m to set up a meet.”

“Fuck off,” Fiadh spat out, her tone completely disbelieving.

“It’s the truth!” Andrea said, turning to look at her. There was none of the dismissal in her expression that she’d shown Fiadh the day before. “I got him to agree to a sit-down with Rick. Now I just have to get Rick to agree to the same thing.”

Two shocked expressions and Merle’s barked laugh were the responses.

Everyone was gathered in the communal area of the Block, with the exception of Beth, who had offered to take over watch. It had become clear pretty quickly that Rick, Carl and Michonne were missing, so they didn’t bother trying to hide it from Andrea.

She was standing over the table, hands leaning on two corners of a map that had been spread out. The blonde lifted one hand and pointed at a spot that had been marked with a black marker. “This is the location Philip has chosen.” She tapped her index finger on it. “It’s neutral ground, between Woodbury and the prison.”

Fiadh bent over the table herself to get a better look, then she looked up at Daryl, catching his pinched expression.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere he says.”

“He could be leading us right into an ambush,” Glenn said, clearly agreeing with Daryl’s sentiment, but looking at Andrea. “And using you to get us there.”

Andrea shifted her weight from one foot to the other, head angling this way and that. She was definitely a restless one, Fiadh observed. “No. This is on the level, I swear. The people of Woodbury are scared and most of them are not ready for a fight with this group. He’s going to do what’s best for his people.” Then she nodded firmly. Maybe she’d managed to convince herself.

Fiadh didn’t think the others were quite there yet.

“That spot is out.” All eyes turned toward Merle. He had one hand cupping his elbow, his astute stare on the map. “Too close to the pits.”

“The pits?” Fiadh asked, brows raised.

“Governor had us dig holes. Big ‘uns. He keeps his biter supply in ‘em.”

“He keeps holes filled with walkers?”

“Yeah.” Merle just shrugged as he looked back at her. “Saved us from havin’ to go out and get ‘em ourselves. Efficient.”

One way of putting it. She pursed her mouth, attention back on the map. Merle stepped forward and pointed his knife at another spot, further to the west. “Here. It’s an abandoned feed store. It’s got a couple sheds, storage, those big drums.”

“Is that the one off Owens Road?” Fiadh asked.

“You know it?” Daryl put in, looking between Merle and Fiadh.

“Yeah. I’ve camped there before.” Perhaps it was finding herself in agreement with Merle that prompted the frown, but she continued nonetheless. “It could work.”

Andrea remained silent for a bit, watching while Merle removed his knife from the map. The tear in the paper had left a handy marker. “Okay,” she breathed out, and began to gather up and fold the map. “I’ll take it back to him. It’s set for tomorrow. Just Rick.” She looked up, scanning the others. She was anticipating the response. “He comes alone. Philip goes alone.”

“Naw.” Daryl planted his feet. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

“We have no way of knowing if The Governor will stick to that,” Hershel said, voicing what everyone else had been thinking.

“I’ll be there,” Andrea said, “I’ll be mediating.”

“And whose side are you on?” Glenn asked, and then in typical Glenn fashion, added a bit of an apology. “No offence.”

“I’m on the side of the living.” Andrea sounded frustrated.

“Both sides should get to take a small host.” Hershel remained calm, softly-spoken. “No more than four each, total.”

She hesitated, her weight shifting again. With her hands on her hips and her lips thinned against each other, Fiadh was expecting her to argue further. But when Andrea finally spoke, it was in acceptance.

“Fine. I think those terms are acceptable, fair. But I’d carefully consider who you bring as part of your host.”

It’s good advice, Fiadh supposed to herself. There were some very poor choices to bring before The Governor.

Andrea stuffed the map down the back of her pants. “Tomorrow. Midday. I’ll be there.” They watched as she walked back out of the prison, Carol following behind her to see her out.

“What was that crazy shit you were doin’ earlier?”

Fiadh was sitting at the top of the stairs, finishing off a bowl of disgusting porridge-y slop. She hated the prison food, but she ate every scrap of it. Her spoon scraped the last of the goop from the bowl as she looked up at Daryl, who had stopped a few stairs down. His hands were gripped around the rails, one foot resting on the next stair up. He watched her.

She licked her spoon clean, his eyes flickering down toward the movement of her tongue for the quickest of seconds. “What crazy shit?” She asked after she’d swallowed.

There was a little colour in his cheeks as he shuffled his feet just a bit. Then he raised his hands and did a mimic of a karate chop. “That crazy Bruce Lee shit.”

“You saw that?” Fiadh could feel her own cheeks colouring then. Which was stupid, she thought, because she’d never been self-conscious or behind the door about her abilities before. In fact, she’d made a career out of them. Perhaps it was because she’d thought she’d been alone; unseen. Whatever the reason for it, it was uncomfortable.

“Yeah. Carol and Beth want ya to teach ‘em.”

Fiadh blinked several times and then shrugged, one shoulder raising. “I suppose them knowing some self-defence couldn’t be a bad thing.” It would take years for a beginner to master any of the hokei, but trying it would keep a body fit, and learning how to defend against a larger, stronger enemy was something Fiadh thought every woman and girl should do. Especially now. “And Bruce Lee’s style was called Jeet Kune Do. My technique comes from a style called Taido.”

“Parts of it looked like dancin’.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It’s known to be one of the more fluid styles of karate. Incorporates elements of gymnastics.” Her eyes followed him as he moved, lowering himself to sit next to her. If she thought about it, she wasn’t sure how much of her own style she injected into her technique. It had been years since she’d been to a dojo. Routines tended to evolve over time, especially hers.

“How’d ya learn it?”

“There was a community centre near where I lived - in Dublin inner city,” she said after a pause, her voice low so that it wouldn’t carry. “I was walking back from school one day, taking a shortcut around the side of the building, when a man smoking a cigarette at the fire exit spied me and called me over. I nearly ran off, y’know, stranger danger and all.” Daryl nodded in response, though remained totally silent.

“But he was wearing this black robe thing. It looked just like what they used to wear in Kung Fu movies,” she continued. She was still smiling, though the brightness had faded somewhat. Her eyes lost focus. “So I went over. He said he knew my family. Then he asked me if I wanted to learn to fight.”

Her hand tightened around the bowl. “I said yes.”

Her dance teachers had been furious when they found out. They’d tried to ban her from going to those classes. When it became clear that she wasn’t going to give up, being as stubborn at 15 as she was at 26, they compromised. She was allowed to continue Taido as long as she didn’t compete.

“It was good for me,” she said then, exhaling deeply and coming back to herself a little more. The closeness of the man beside her reminded her of where she was. “I had a lot of pent up energy to spend.”

“The fatal fairy.” He bumped her shoulder.

She turned her head to give him a glare, but ended up chuckling. “Better than ‘the dancin’ deer’,” she said, remembering the name he’d called her that first night she’d arrived.

“Still like that one.”

Fiadh shook her head in disagreement, her nose scrunched up. Quiet fell on them then for a while, like a blanket. She put her empty bowl down and then leaned back, resting her elbows on the step behind them. “You think Rick’ll go for this thing?” She asked, finally putting voice to some of her thoughts.

Daryl shrugged. “Whatever we wind up doin’, it’s a dangerous call.”

“How do you mean?”

He turned to the side, moving himself a little on the step so he could look at her as she reclined. “He goes an’ it turns out to be a trap, he gets himself along with whoever goes with ‘im killed. He doesn’t go, an’ stays right here, he gets himself along with everyone else killed.”

“I see your point,” she deadpanned, mouth pursing in thought. “And with The Governor setting the meet for tomorrow, it gives us zero time for recon.”

“Gonna have to get there early. Check it out. Least he didn’t get to decide the location.”

“Well, well, well…” Came the familiar drawl, interrupting the chat on the stairs. Merle had a big shit-eating grin on his face as he stepped into the Block. “What have we here? What are you two lil lovebirds twitterin’ ‘bout, hmm?”

He raised his arms above his head and then started twirling on the spot, taking dainty steps as he spun.

Merle was doing a pirouette.

“Oh, give me fuckin’ strength,” Fiadh groaned, her eyes rolling upward, as if beseeching the actual heavens.

He started humming a few bars of Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. To be fair, in truth, she was actually kind of impressed with his moves, even if they were intended to take the absolute piss out of her.

“You been at the whiskey, bro?” Daryl asked, his voice casual. To Fiadh’s ears, it may have sounded a little too casual.

“Hell nah, I wish.” Merle stopped twirling and stepped toward them. “Ya got any? What ‘bout you, Irish, ya holdin’ out on me?”

“I’m not holding anything for you, Merle Dixon,” Fiadh said, stretching out her legs this time and crossing them at the ankle.

“You sure?” He flashed another broad grin at her. It turned suggestive pretty quickly. “Feel free to visit me in my cell later, I can teach ya some real moves.” He gyrated his hips. “None of that fru-fru twinkle-toes bullshit. I mean the kind of thing that’ll leave us beggin’ for more.”

“What, me begging for satisfaction and you for a hip replacement?”

A burst of surprised laughter sprang from Daryl.

“Satisfaction is guaran-fuckin-teed, girly!” He boomed, arms spreading wide and then angled in toward himself, like looking at his body alone was proof of it.

“You got a pill for that?” She asked, then looked over at Daryl and said conspiratorially, “I hear men over 50 need those little blue fellas.”

“Viagra,” Daryl supplied, very helpfully through his snorts of laughter.

“Yeah, those ones! Gives the pensioners the stamina they need to finish their women.”

“Hey!” Merle looked genuinely offended. “I got stamina for days!” He turned away from them and waved a dismissive arm, starting back toward the end of the Block and likely toward an easier audience. “Y’all don’t even know.”

He pulled open the internal door. “I got moves! Fuckin’ pussy-rattlin’, Earth-shakin’ techniques. Go for hours… Days! Your loss, Princess Prissypants!” He kept hurling statements to his prowess, interspersed with occasional abuse as he walked off, but Fiadh was too busy watching Daryl laugh to notice.

Chapter Text

Rick had agreed to the meet. He’d returned from the run with Michonne and Carl, armed to the teeth with enough guns for them to possibly stand a chance. Relations between all three seemed better, too. Easier, perhaps. Carl had even announced to Fiadh that he liked Michonne. It had drawn a smile from her.

The discussion about the sit-down with The Governor had the opposite effect. It had gone on for hours, with both Fiadh and Merle detailing everything they could remember about the location, and then everyone had opined and argued about who should be brought along as part of the host. They’d agreed on one thing, though; The Governor was not to be trusted.

It had been well into the night when they’d decided on Daryl, Fiadh and Hershel to accompany Rick to the meeting place. Early the next day they gathered outside at the car to exchange a few farewells and warnings. Rick was imparting orders to Glenn when Maggie slipped behind Fiadh and reached out for her hand. When Fiadh met her eyes, Maggie gestured for her to follow.

The pair moved off-side a little, just outside of earshot of the others. “I will look out for him,” Fiadh promised. Maggie’s glance flickered toward her father, who was arranging himself into the passenger seat of the car. He had been an unusual choice, and one neither Maggie or Beth, or Glenn, for that matter, had been happy about. But Fiadh could understand why Rick wanted him there, even if it was a choice that she herself wouldn’t have made. Hershel was a level-headed presence. He had experience and he gave good counsel, but he didn’t take any shit, either.

Besides, they were going to hide guns on him.

“I know,” Maggie said softly. Then she reached out to pull Fiadh into a quick, tight hug. “You look out for yourself, too. I know what that man is capable of.” Fiadh’s fist tightened against Maggie’s back at the mention of The Governor, and specifically what he’d done to Maggie.

“I will.”

Maggie stepped back, offering a tight-lipped little smile. Fiadh reached out and gave her arm a quick squeeze, not missing Glenn’s glance toward them as she backed up toward the car. When she opened the door to the back seat, she caught a meaningful look between the two. With any luck they’d make the last few steps and find their way back to each other.

It was a nice thought that kept her company on the ride to the meeting point, the noise of the engine and Daryl’s bike ahead of them the only sounds for miles.

They pulled off Owens Road and came to a rolling stop between two of the large silos. When Rick opened the door a cool, stirring morning breeze rushed into the car, but otherwise everything seemed quiet. He held up his hand, indicating that Hershel and Fiadh should stay, and then he and Daryl took off to survey the grounds.

Hershel pulled his rifle onto his lap. With gentle movements, Fiadh slid across the backseat and tapped the button for the window, her gun aimed in the opposite direction to Hershel.

The pair stayed silent for a few minutes. The only part of Fiadh that moved were her eyes, but inside she was all aflutter. They were taking too long - she hadn’t heard anything and she was itching to get out and look.

Another minute or so later Hershel saved her. “I’m gonna move the car up further, Fiadh,” he told her, shifting in his seat and putting his gun down next to him. “Let’s see if we can’t spot them around that barn.”

Just as they reached it, Daryl emerged from alongside some stacked hay bales. Her sigh of relief was brief; she couldn’t see Rick behind him.

“He’s already in there,” Daryl told them as Hershel pulled up alongside him. “Sat down with Rick.”

Fiadh’s grip tightened on the Ruger. “I don’t see any cars,” Hershel said, his own unimpressed expression sweeping the roads ahead.

“It don’t feel right,” Daryl said, looking equally discomfited.

“That’s because it isn’t.” Fiadh pulled the handle on her door and stepped outside. “It’s just the two of them in there?” As she stood she started to roll her shoulders, trying to banish some of the stiffness that had invaded after her workout the day before.

“Yeah, just them,” Daryl confirmed, then looking at Hershel, “Keep it runnin’.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when they heard the other engine. “Head’s up!” Daryl tapped the top of the vehicle and then began moving into a defensive position, crossbow raised. Fiadh rested her gun atop the car, using it as a support as she took aim at the approaching truck. It was the exact same van that she’d shot at back at the prison during the attack. They hadn’t fixed the busted roof light.

Daryl inched forward immediately as three people stepped out. Andrea, some bespectacled bloke in a buttoned-up shirt, and…

Someone she knew.

“What the hell, why’s your boy already in there?” Daryl asked, his voice coming out a little muffled with his crossbow pressed to his face. But Andrea heard the accusation clearly enough.

“He’s here?” She asked, voice incredulous.

“Yep.”

Andrea exchanged an exasperated glare with a man who did not look the least bit apologetic. The man who looked very familiar to Fiadh. She took a step back away from the car. Her gun was still raised as she moved around the trunk so she could get a clear view of him. So he could get a clear view of her.

“Caesar Martínez? What the fuck?”

Brown eyes flew toward her and the smug smile dropped from his face.

“Fee?”

Both of them lowered their weapons at the same time.

“You know ‘im?” Daryl asked, the edge still clear in his voice. Once Fiadh dropped her aim, he raised his and stepped closer.

“Yeah, I know him.” Her emotions were warring within. She’d gone from the briefest nanosecond of almost happiness, to almost crippling dismay. “We got out of Atlanta together. Got split up around Tyrone.”

“You threw in with these people?” Some of the colour had drained from his face.

“Me!?” Fiadh’s voice rose considerably. “You’re one to talk! Your leader is a fucking psycho. You Woodbury fuckers slaughtered my camp last month!” At that point, Daryl had stepped up right beside her. Martínez’s hand tightened around his gun.

“Th-that was your camp? I didn’t know you were there Fiadh, I swear. I swear, had I known…”

“Had you known I was there you what, would have fuckin’ captured me instead and held me and tortured me like you did Maggie and Glenn? My friends?”

“Hey,” Martínez barked at Daryl then, ignoring Fiadh’s question completely as he focused on the threat of an arrow to the face. He pulled his gun up. “Step the fuck back, hick.”

“You aim that thing anywhere near her an’ I’ll take your eye. You an’ your Governor be a matchin’ pair.”

“Not before I blow a hole in you.”

Fiadh was reaching out a slow, steady hand, her fingers brushing beneath Daryl’s elbow. She didn’t take her eyes off Martínez and his gun. This tricky stand-off was not the right time for her indignation, she’d realised.

“Caesar. Carla, the boys... Are they in Woodbury?”

That seemed to break the spell of the staring match between him and Daryl. He blinked a couple of times, then met her gaze. He shook his head. “No.” His hand lowered. Daryl responded to the slight tug on the leather of his jacket, and he followed suit. Inch for inch, no more, no less.

“They didn’t make it.”

The words hit her like a slug to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out. Her voice had a slight tremor to it. He locked in on her again, Daryl momentarily forgotten.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low, “Somewhere private.”

“No chance,” Daryl growled.

“Daryl,” Fiadh turned to look at him, fixing her gun to its spot at her side, “It’s okay. We’ll be just over there.” She gestured toward the nearby wind vane, no more than a few metres away from where they all stood. He met her gaze for a moment, his teeth working his bottom lip hard as he sorted through his thoughts.

Then he turned a twisted expression on Martínez, his features arranged into something menacing. She almost did a double take herself at the force of it. “You lay a finger on her an’ you’re done.”

Martínez paused as he studied Daryl’s face and let his words permeate a little. Then, something akin to a look of realisation dawned on his face, and he smirked. “After you,” Martínez said smoothly, giving her back the barest of touches to direct her away.

Still with the smirk, Martínez started backing away, wriggling his fingers.

“Stop baiting him,” Fiadh said from over her shoulder as she strode away, “Or I’ll let him shoot you.”

Once she’d reached the vane, she spun around, arms crossed. Martínez’s brown eyes alighted on her. He was still half-smirking. “That your man?”

“No.” Her arms tightened. She glanced away from Daryl, who had started pacing. She could make out Hershel speaking something that sounded calming.

“I didn’t know, Fee, I swear.” He hadn’t stopped looking at her.

“Would it have changed anything?” She felt some of the anger drift away. Being faced with someone she’d bonded with so early on during those first months of fighting and scrambling was having an unprecedented impact on her emotions. They warred within her, each fighting for supremacy.

“Of course it would have. I don’t want to be on the other side against you. Not for this thing.” That, at least, sounded genuine to Fiadh’s ears.

Her eyes softened a little. “Then don’t. It’s not too late.”

“Aw, honey,” he tutted and then shook his head, “It's too late for me.” He raised a hand, about to reach out to her. He dropped it after a moment. “But it’s not for you. Come back with us. I can explain what happened, how you got caught up with the wrong people, but you had a change of heart once you saw me.” He even had the temerity to grin at her.

“You’ve got skills, Fee. You just need to keep your mouth shut, do as the rest of us do, and it’s an easy living. I got pull there, I can make it happen.”

“So you’re saying I could go back to Woodbury with you and that your Governor won’t slaughter me as soon as we set foot inside the place, just for knowing everything that I know? You’re saying you can protect me from that.” Fiadh’s green eyes were hard.

For a moment, she thought Martínez was going to make her a promise to that effect. But after a few beats, rationality seemed to kick in.

“If you don’t come back with me, then you need to get out of that prison.” His voice lowered and he leaned in closer. What he had to say now took on an urgency. “He might want to do a deal for Merle or the Samurai, he might even offer it, but he’ll come for you all anyway. If you stay there, you’ll die.”

“How can you be a part of this?” She asked, barely above a whisper as she looked up at him, searching his face for an answer.

“After Carla… I-”

His response was cut off by a raised voice coming from the cars.

“You better watch your mouth, sunshine.”

Both Fiadh and Martínez turned toward Daryl, who seemed to be having a problem with the man who was scribbling notes on the hood of the van, watching them all like he was writing about them in his diary.

“There’s no point in denying what you are. You are a henchman. We all have our uses,” he said, then dismissed Daryl with a wave of his hand and went back to his writings.

Daryl pounced and whipped his notebook away. “What are you, his secretary or somethin’?”

“Give it back,” Martínez said, already walking back toward them, Fiadh quickly on his heels. Daryl pulled up his crossbow.

“Look.” Martínez came to a stop between the pair of them, “If you and I are gonna be out here, pointing guns at each other all day, do me a favour, shut your mouth.”

Daryl stepped up to him immediately, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. Both Fiadh and Hershel raised their weapons.

“We don’t need this,” Hershel said, “If all goes south in there we’ll be at each other’s throats soon enough.”

One of them listened to Hershel’s reasoning at least, and Fiadh loosed a breath as Daryl stepped away, tossing the notebook behind him. The man with the glasses scrambled to recover it, while Martínez just grinned that antagonistic grin at Daryl.

Fiadh met her former friend’s gaze as Daryl walked away from him. In that moment, she knew they’d said all there was to say. She wasn’t going to Woodbury, he wasn’t going to leave Woodbury. It was a stalemate and it was likely that at some stage, in the very near future, they’d be pointing guns at each other again.

She moved back to stand next to Hershel. Daryl, putting the distance of the road between them and Martínez, caught her eye. “You two have a nice reunion?” He asked, that edge to his voice returning. “Cozy ‘lil chat?”

Fiadh stared back, unblinking. “Something like that.”

Daryl looked away with a sneer and continued his pacing. His energy was so chaotic that she found it impossible to stand still herself.

“Learn anything?” Hershel asked her, leaning in so that his question wouldn’t carry.

“Nothing we didn’t already suspect,” she muttered back.

At that moment Andrea stormed out of the barn. She looked defeated as she sat down on a nearby bench, sticking her face into her hands.

“Looks like that’s goin’ well,” Daryl sniped.

Maybe they just want to kill each other in peace, Fiadh thought as Martínez closed the door, shutting Rick and The Governor inside.

“There’s no reason not to use this time we have together to explore the issues ourselves,” the bespectacled man said to them as he crossed the road. Fiadh had learned that his name was Milton. She remembered Merle referring to him as Milty.

“Boss said to sit tight and shut up,” Martínez told him, not moving from his spot in front of the van. He’d been silent for about twenty minutes, looking up only twice. Once to look at Fiadh, the second time to stare at the barn.

“Don’t you mean The Governor?” Daryl said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s a good thing they’re sitting down, especially after what happened,” Milton continued, ignoring the exchange between Daryl and Martínez. “They’re gonna work it out. Nobody wants another battle.”

Hershel was on his crutches, moving toward the road.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a battle,” Daryl said. He’d stopped pacing, at least.

“I would call it a battle and I did. I recorded it.” He held up his notebook.

“For what?”

“Somebody’s got to keep a record of what we’ve gone through. It’ll be a part of our history.”

“That makes sense,” Hershel said.

Spying perhaps someone open to his ideas, Milton stepped forward with some enthusiasm. “I’ve got dozens of interviews…”

The sound of walkers snarling nearby drew all gazes toward the silos. Andrea, Martínez, Daryl and Fiadh were on their feet in the blink of an eye, moving toward the sound in low, practised movements.

Fiadh pulled Wyatt’s knife from its sheath and took off after Daryl, who had broken into a jog. In a loose four formation, they slipped through the metal sheeting of the large, circular containers. Up ahead were two walkers.

Daryl dropped his crossbow. “After you,” he said to Martínez, gesturing before himself.

Martínez, who was holding a baseball bat like he knew exactly how to use it, scoffed at the offer. “No way. You first.”

Andrea sighed, barrelled past the two of them and with a shout, threw herself on one of the walkers, knife raised. She pushed it against a silo with one forearm, and buried her knife in the thing’s eye with the other, spraying herself with dead blood as she did so.

“Pussy,” Martínez called Daryl, before twirling his bat a few times.

Maybe he’d been a batonist in his former life, Fiadh mused. He gave another of the walkers an almighty thwack, spraying rotting brain matter everywhere. Then he turned triumphantly and gave Daryl a challenge of a stare. Daryl shrugged in response, and stepped up to show off his own skills and mettle.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Fiadh muttered, wondering for a second if it was possible to choke on testosterone.

Andrea just sighed again and turned to walk off, leaving the two of them to take turns with their manly flexing.

“Yeah, yeah, you both have massive penises,” Fiadh told them, before following Andrea. Once they got clear of the silos, Fiadh spotted a couple of stragglers near the bales.

“Let’s go,” she said to Andrea, taking off in the direction of the extra snarling. The blonde nodded and the pair of them approached, split, and sank their knives into dead flesh, Fiadh kicking her quarry to the ground first. They kept walking a bit further, intent on clearing the green area to make sure there were no more surprises.

“You know, in another life, if the circumstances had been different, I think we would have been friends.” Andrea was looking into the treeline when she said it, but she turned a sidelong glance toward Fiadh when she started walking back toward the cars.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Fiadh said easily, eyes roving the grounds still. “Carol told me you had plenty to say about the gender roles of the group back in the beginning.”

Andrea huffed out a laugh as she fell into step alongside Fiadh. She shook her head, smile somewhat rueful. “That’s putting it mildly. The little women were supposed to wash and clean and cook, nobody wanted me near a gun.”

“But you got near one anyway.”

“I did. And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be alive today.” When no response came, Andrea kept talking. She didn’t wait and it became clear to Fiadh that the blonde had something on her mind. “Woman to woman…”

Fiadh stopped walking and turned to look at her properly. She had a feeling she knew where this might be going.

“What happened with Maggie?” Andrea had one hand on her hip, the other flicking her knife in and out.

Fiadh watched her for a moment, trying to decide how much to say. She had a duty to Maggie, but she also had a duty of a similar kind to Andrea.

“Woman to woman,” Fiadh responded then, “You need to get the fuck out of there. That is not a man you want to attach yourself to. Be beholden to. Bloke like that…? I dunno, Andrea. From what I’m hearing from everyone else, he just uses you for as long as you’re useful, and then…” She shrugged and started walking again.

“He terrorised Maggie. Made her strip off. He didn’t even need information from her, he just did it because he could.”

Fiadh didn’t look back at Andrea, her eyes drawn instead toward the small clearing where Daryl and Martínez were having a cigarette together. She rolled her eyes and kept walking.

“You give a shit about that girl, or anyone else in that prison, you’ll get them out,” Martínez said to Daryl, nodding toward Fiadh as she and Andrea skirted the clearing on their way back to the barn.

Daryl took a drag from his smoke, hooded eyes narrowed under the noon sun as he looked at The Governor’s latest right-hand man. He exhaled, the plume of smoke curling in the air.

“You know this is a joke, right?” Martínez continued, “They ain’t gonna work anything out. Sure, they’ll do their little dance but tomorrow, next day, they’ll give the word.”

“I know.”

Martínez reached out and took a cigarette from the pack Daryl was holding. Once they’d finished, they trudged back to the others, and to their jobs.

Hershel was speaking quietly to Andrea, who had tears in her eyes. Fiadh was leaning against the hood of the car, watching them both carefully, but from a distance away. He walked around the car and leaned next to her.

“So, who won?” She asked, not looking at him.

“We called it a draw,” he said, glancing sideways at her, watching for the grin he was hoping to get out of her. When none came he cleared his throat and found himself saying something he’d had no intention of saying. “Sorry. ‘Bout earlier.”

When he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what it was he was apologising for. His reaction to Martínez was to be expected; this was a tense situation and blood had been spilled already. But he didn’t know why he’d been so pissed at her.

After a moment she looked at him, plump bottom lip turned downward. “Y’know where my loyalties lie, don’t you?”

Daryl’s eyes darted from her mouth to her eyes, and then slid away. He picked a spot on the road and studied it. They hadn’t known her for very long. It was true in that short time though, that Fiadh had done a lot with them, a lot for them. She even had a reason to hate Woodbury as much as they did. But he couldn’t process all of that and look at her at the same time, it made things murky. “Yeah, I know. Just wasn’t expectin’ ya to have history with ‘em, that’s all.”

“Me neither.” She fiddled with the zipper of her short leather jacket. “Doesn’t change anything, though.”

“So ya ain’t gonna run off an’ join The Governor’s harem, or whatever?”

Then came the grin he was waiting for. The ghost of the dimple in the cheek - blink and you’d miss it. “I dunno, I quite fancy Milty. He’s got that nerd appeal. Think he’s single?”

He’d started to laugh, the surprised sound bursting out of his mouth, but he’d just about managed to stop it and turn it into a strangled kind of cough. Laughing in such a tense, serious situation really wasn’t the right thing.

She sensed blood in the water and like a gator, she slid in for the kill.

“Bet ya anything that’s not data he’s writing in those little notebooks of his. It’s erotica, probably about him and The Governor. 50 Shades of Gingham.”

Daryl’s shoulders were shaking. He sucked in a breath or two, trying to steady himself.

“Bet he’s a fuckin’ weirdo in the sack. Filthy Milty.”

He elbowed her sharply to get her to shut up, just as the snort finally escaped. All eyes turned toward him. Martínez looked curious, Milton himself frowned in concentration for a moment, before going back to his notes.

And just as quickly as she’d brought light into a moment of the day, The Governor emerged and snuffed it right out.

Both Daryl and Fiadh stood immediately, being closest to the door. The Governor strode by, not once looking at anyone. Rick followed some distance behind. Daryl gave him a quick once-over.

Where The Governor had ignored everyone, Rick’s gaze sought out each of their people, checking in visually. Nobody said a word as everyone went for their cars - some a little more hesitant than others.

Andrea looked lost. She and Hershel seemed to be having a silent exchange. As did Fiadh and Martínez. To Daryl, it looked like a goodbye. All of his amusement was vanquished as he realised it was a last goodbye. He was glad for the solitude that his bike allowed him on the way back to the prison.

Rick didn’t speak, didn’t address them properly or tell them what had happened until they’d all gathered together in the Block a short time later.

“So, I met this Governor.”

He stood before them all, rifle in his arm. His eyes were clear, clearer than Daryl had seen them for some time. Everyone stood, watching, waiting, collectively holding their breaths.

“Sat with him for quite a while. He wants the prison. He wants us gone. Dead. He wants us dead for what we did to Woodbury.”

“We’re goin’ to war.”

Chapter Text

“We should be cutting our losses,” Hershel told them as most of the group gathered in the communal area of the Block. From her spot at the table, Carol was nodding in agreement.

The others were dispersed throughout the cavernous, infinitely grey room. Some were leaning against walls, doors and stairways, others were pacing. For once the movement wasn’t all Daryl’s, it was Glenn wearing holes in the floor.

“You heard Rick,” the young man told them, turning on his heel to look at Hershel first, then the others. “We’re going to war. We need to prepare for war.”

“Should’ve hit ‘em when we had the chance, bro,” Merle told him, prompting a frown from Fiadh. Glenn just threw him an exasperated look and restarted his pacing.

“What chance?” Fiadh asked, arms crossing against her chest as she watched them. She’d taken a spot near the exit, one of her feet propped up behind her on a step as she leaned against the rail.

“We discussed hittin’ The Governor at the meet,” Merle said with no hesitation. There was no apology in his face, either.

“We decided that it would be putting the rest of you at risk,” Glenn said, eyes flashing.

“Michonne agreed with me.”

Fiadh managed to stamp down on the hard, incoming eyeroll at Merle’s attempt to shake things up again. That man could cause trouble in a convent.

But there was something bothering her, all the same. If it had been The Governor’s intention to go to war all along, then why had they been allowed to leave? It meant that either Rick had refused an offer of something, without speaking to them about it, or he was playing for time. Again, without speaking to them about it. Her eyes scanned the room. Rick himself was conspicuously absent.

“I agreed that we should strike,” Michonne corrected. Fiadh focused on her and found herself nodded slightly in agreement.

“Instead of waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Fiadh pursed her mouth in thought.

“More like the guillotine,” huffed Merle.

“A small group of us could still work,” Fiadh continued, “We’re familiar with the layout of the place now.” She gestured toward the mouthier of the Dixons, then she glanced at Hershel. “And Andrea may be more willing to help us now.”

Glenn’s brows shot upward. That caught Maggie’s attention, too. “What makes you think that?” She asked.

“The Governor’s mask is slipping,” Hershel answered, before Fiadh could speak again. He met her eye, and paused. She could see the mind working behind those eyes. “I made some progress with Milton, too, one of the advisors. And Fiadh knows Martínez, one of The Governor’s other lieutenants.”

Well, that got everyone’s attention. Stares flew toward her, some intrigued like Merle’s, others incredulous like Glenn’s. “You know that piece of shit?”

“I knew him. At the beginning. I don’t know him any more.”

“Do you think he’d help us?”

Fiadh levelled a gaze at Hershel and didn’t even have to think about the question. “No.”

When the continued glaring wasn’t fading, Fiadh assumed they were waiting for more. She sighed. “He said as much. He basically told me that if I didn’t get out of this prison that they’d kill me.”

From a corner, Daryl finally spoke up. “He said the same thing to me.”

“Well, that should settle it,” Hershel said, straightening himself up on his crutches. “We should be getting ready to leave. We’re wasting time.”

“Are you all deaf?” Carl snapped, his voice raising, his little face transformed with anger. “My dad says that we fight, so we fight.” He stood in the middle of the room, his stance almost a mirror image of his father’s. One hand even hovered over his gun. “We need to defend our family. It’s what we do.”

Nobody said anything at first, they were all shocked, or maybe even a little shamed into silence. Then Daryl cleared his throat.

“We can start by clearin’ out the walkers in the field.”

“Aren’t they a deterrent?” Carol asked as she stood, palms pressing on to the surface of the table to help her upward. Then she was moving toward the cooking and preparation area they’d cleared.

“If Woodbury drive right through our gates and let the stragglers in again it’ll just add to our headache, not theirs,” Fiadh said, noting the container Carol was opening with a small cringe. Noodles again. Or hot wheat water, as she called them, being as completely tasteless as they were. She’d run out of spice packets a couple of days ago. She missed them.

“We could set a couple of traps,” Michonne suggested. “A strip of some of that barbed wire, nails, steel, laid out along the paths should put a stop to their trucks.”

“Nice,” Glenn said, stepping forward, some enthusiasm returning to his movements. “Okay, what else can we do? What about using the tombs?” While some of the others threw out some ideas, Hershel hopped over to Fiadh.

“I’m going to start on those go-bags of yours,” he told her in a low voice, while the others played War Council.

“It’s a smart move,” she said to him, some loose strands of hair falling forward as she nodded, brushing her jaw. “It never hurts to have an exit strategy. And a Plan B. And C, D, E…” She pursed her mouth and blew a raspberry.

“I concur with that sound.” His tone was grim. “Excuse me,” he muttered, then tackled the stairs toward the exit, intent, presumably, on speaking to Rick about the mess they were in.

Once again the meeting had gone long into the night, though Rick did not rejoin them. The next day they were preparing to put some of their plans into action, gathering around the truck and loading the makeshift traps into it.

“We could use another,” Daryl said, eyeballing them all. “I’ll go get Merle.”

“I’ll go,” Fiadh offered, feet already moving and fingers twitching ever since she realised she was without her knife, “I saw him in the cells earlier. I need to grab something, anyway.”

Daryl nodded and went back to work.

“Hey, Fee, another pot!” Maggie called to her, waving the kitchenware she already had. “Carl’s gonna help with the distraction.”

“You got it, Jailbird!” She replied with a grin, still amused by the other woman’s choice of attire. To be fair to Maggie, she somehow managed to pull off the brown prison jumpsuit. Fiadh had even joked earlier that if this had been the Before Times, Maggie might have sparked a trend.

Inside their Block it was quiet. There was no sign of Carol or Hershel in the communal area, but the stacked pile of pots and pans were what she really needed. She picked one from the top, and rooted around briefly amongst the utensils until she found a large ladle. Together with the pot the big spoon-shaped thing would make for a decent noise-making drum, and an effective way to draw some of the walkers away from the field and toward the fences.

She set them on the table and continued inward. Once she reached the cells she began to hear some muffled, unusual sounds. Reaching the top of the stairs she caught sight of the source of the curious disturbance: Merle. He was on his knees in the end cell, surrounded by the fluff and innards of a mattress.

He stared at her defiantly as she paused at the top of the stairs and looked in at him, eyes a little narrowed with thought.

“Mind your business, Princess,” he told her when it became clear she wasn’t going to say anything, just stare.

A moment or two passed with Fiadh just standing there, until she had seen enough and moved along. She entered her own cell with empty hands, but emerged with her knife and two miniature bottles of alcoholic spirits. Specifically her favourite; Jameson whiskey.

She marched right on into Merle’s cell and offered both to him. “It’ll help take the edge off.”

“So you were holdin’ out on me.” Merle’s expression turned greedy for a moment and his hand snapped out, ready to grab. But something else passed across his features for a split-second, and he slowed his roll. “How’d you know?”

At a more sedate, perhaps polite pace, he plucked the two bottles from Fiadh’s hand. He unscrewed one.

“I know a bad habit when I see it.” Her eyes shifted around the cell, taking in the destroyed mattress. There was a smell of sweat in the air.

Merle knocked back the first miniature in one impressive go. Then he pocketed the second. “Meth,” he told her, shaking his head. “Helluva drug. You in the same boat, darlin’?”

“Meth has never been much of a problem in Ireland. But heroin is a scourge.” A frown line between her brows deepened. “One of my brothers is a junkie. When he was looking for a fix he’d take literally anything to stop it.” Her eyes stuck on the small lump that the miniature bottle had made in his pocket. “That’s my last one.”

Like everything else in her weird little random backpack, she’d been saving it. For what, she had no idea really, because there’d been at least a dozen times when it would have been appropriate to drown her sorrows a little. She’d always been a bit of a pack rat, but the apocalypse had turned her into a fully-fledged hoarder. “Downed plane,” she added, explaining where she’d picked them up. That had been one of their better days of scavenging.

“Ya know, just when I start believin’ that I have you all figured out, you go changin’ again.” He pursed his lips and sucked in a breath through his teeth, likely enjoying the sensation of the air hitting the remnants of the whiskey taste. “See, like knows like.”

He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his thighs. It felt like his sharp eyes were pinning her in place. “Ain’t no doubt that you know somethin’ of the life me and my brother had. That ya lived it, or somethin’ akin to it. But which camp do you fall into, huh? Are you the one who comes rushin’ in, wavin’ your weapon, riskin’ your hair an’ hide to save the day, or are you the weapon itself? Are you the one who takes out the trash. The one who does the hard shit. The dark shit. The nasty shit that no one else is gonna touch, because they’re better’n ya.”

He licked his lips and straightened. “Mm. You got that weak, soft centre like my baby brother, or is your core made of cold, hard steel, like me?”

Fiadh’s expression was carefully blank. She began to back out of the cell, her eyes on him until she’d stepped over the threshold.

“Don’t tear up my mattress, Merle,” she said to him finally, her feet already moving down the stairs. “There’s nothing in it.”

“I’m startin’ to like you, Princess.” Merle’s chuckle followed her as she made her way through the cells and out of the building.

As she stepped out, the brightness of the day served as a stark contrast with the cold environment she’d just left. She shook away the remnants of turmoil Merle’s musings had kicked up in her, and with a small grin, she handed Carl the pot and ladle. Immediately he began to bang on it, producing a sufficiently loud, if arhythmic, noise.

Maggie and the kid set off toward the fences. “You find Merle?” Daryl asked, his questioning squint drawing Fiadh’s attention. She nodded, though her words were delayed. She hadn’t quite thought of how to explain what she’d seen when she had found Merle.

“He’s… gonna take a rest.”

Solid, she thought.

Daryl clearly thought it wasn’t, though he didn’t press too much further. “He okay?” Was all that he said.

Fiadh nodded again, but then looked rather pointedly at the others, silently telling Daryl that she couldn’t - or wouldn’t - elaborate much further. “Oh, yeah, he’s grand, just taking some recovery time, I reckon.” Daryl’s gaze followed hers and his jaw clenched, but he seemed to catch her meaning. When Glenn and Michonne hopped into the truck, the two of them hopped up on the back of the bed.

The engine gunned and once the truck was underway, Fiadh took the opportunity to speak to Daryl without being overheard. “He’s looking for meth,” she told him, her legs swinging off the back of the bed. She didn’t look at him, either, instead watching the walkers amble toward Maggie and Carl’s cacophony.

“I’ll talk to ‘im.”

Fiadh bit her lip and held it between her teeth for a few moments. Some of the undead in the field were turning on the spot; caught between the desire to go for the fence and the morsel buffet on the back of the noisy vehicle. “If we -” She broke off for a moment to rephrase. “When we finish dealing with this Governor shit, it’ll be all eyes back on Merle.”

They’d take any excuse to get rid of him. Being strung out would be a good one, and there wouldn’t be much by way of rational argument anyone could make against it.

“We got heavier shit to deal with first.”

That caught her attention. She looked toward Daryl, brow raised in question, but he didn’t say anything else. He thumped the side of the truck and it rolled to a heavy stop, then slid off it easily. A door opening signalled Michonne stepping out.

“You helpin’ or nah?” Daryl asked, already pulling one side of the long, thick plank.

Fiadh hopped down. Michonne’s blade caught sun as it slashed through several walker necks and heads. Though she kept an eye on her surroundings as she moved, Fiadh felt confident in Michonne’s ability to watch their backs. She took hold of the opposite end of the plank, tugged in unison with Daryl, and then placed it where they’d planned.

They didn’t hang about. Michonne stayed on foot, moving herself toward their second and last target area. Fiadh and Daryl jumped back onboard again, and seconds later, Glenn had them on the move once more.

“You mean the stuff with Woodbury, yeah?” She asked, voice raised a little over the engine. At first he pretended he couldn’t hear her and just stared straight ahead.

“Daryl?”

“Yeah.” He still wasn’t looking at her. “The stuff with Woodbury.” He thumped the truck again and disembarked before it had even stopped moving.

A sense of disquiet filled Fiadh. Clearly, something was off with Daryl, and clearly he didn’t want to tell her about it. For the first time since she’d arrived at this prison and met this group, she felt locked out. Sure, she’d been an outsider for a while, had even separated herself from them on purpose several times, but she’d always known what was going on. Or where they all stood.

Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe this was a personal issue that Daryl was dealing with.

It didn’t sound like it, though.

She jumped down again, her knees bending easily when she hit the grass after the short drop. They’d made two of these DIY spike strips, and had chosen the two most effective spots for them. Between Fiadh and Daryl, they carried the second strip to its final resting place, a short distance away from the truck.

Michonne had doubled back around the pair of them to provide cover, but they were drawing a lot more attention now than they had been when they started the simple mission. The clangs and bangs from Carl and Maggie’s percussive distraction only did so much at this distance. Fiadh felt the pressure to hurry.

When they’d reached the spot, she crouched a little, eyes on Daryl so that they could time the drop somewhat simultaneously. The wood slipped through her hands when he gave the nod, pricking her with splinters as it fell. She winced, but they had no time to hang about.

“C’mon, let’s go!” Daryl shouted, rallying everyone back to the waiting truck. They piled in, with Michonne slipping back into the passenger seat, leaving a thinned-out herd behind her in the field.

When they reached the gate, Rick was there waiting to let them back in.

“Show me,” Daryl ordered gruffly, holding out a hand to Fiadh as soon as Glenn had parked and she'd stepped down off the back of the truck. She frowned in response. “Your hand,” he explained, the words coming out in an impatient huff of breath.

“It’s grand.” She was still confused, but at the sight of his frown, she eventually did as she was asked. He took her right hand and turned it over in his, exposing her palm. The gate behind them clanged shut, locking them safely inside the courtyard. Rick began to jog over to them, while Daryl started picking the tiny shards of wood from beneath her skin.

“Ow!” Her fingers automatically curled inward and she tried to wrench her hand away from his relentless picking.

“Quit squirmin’,” he said, his hold on her wrist tightening a little. He continued with ruthless efficiency, squeezing and plucking each small embedded splinter out. She watched him work, her frown deepening.

“They try to drive up to the gate again, maybe some blown tires will stop them,” Glenn said to Rick, walking around.

“That’s a good idea,” Rick said by way of greeting.

“It was Michonne’s,” Daryl told him, meeting his eye. Fiadh might have picked up on the undertone of the short exchange had Daryl not followed the sentence up by pressing his mouth to her palm.

Her lips parted and she stared at him, completely agog, as he began to suck.

Rick stared at Daryl, too, and much like Fiadh, he may have also looked surprised. And a tad embarrassed, though likely for very different reasons.

Fiadh’s cheeks started to burn. Daryl pulled her hand away from his face, squinted at it for a moment, and started the suction again, the bristles of his facial hair scratching against the mound of her palm. He ignored her the entire time.

“We don’t have to win,” Michonne was saying, her voice a little far away in Fiadh’s ears, “We just have to make their getting at us more trouble than it’s worth.”

She felt the graze of teeth and a gentle pressure, then he pulled back again, turned to one side and spat something away. The final, stubborn splinter, she assumed. He released her hand and she dumbly stared down at it, noting that there were a few small cuts, but otherwise it was fairly unblemished. And sting-free.

“Let’s go,” Rick said, his voice low. Daryl nodded in response and began to follow, leaving Fiadh standing there, holding her own hand with a dim-witted expression on her face.

“Uh…” She managed lamely in their wake. “Thanks?”

Daryl just raised his fist and kept walking.

Chapter Text

“Merle!” Daryl called as he ducked around a corner, following the sounds of something clattering and falling through the corridors beneath the prison. “You down here?”

The banging started up again and in response, he raised his crossbow. “Merle.” The sounds were coming from the generator room.

“Heeey, little brother!” Merle greeted, leaning very casually up against a cabinet, like he had nothing to do and all the time in the world to do it in. Daryl lowered his weapon and stepped inside.

“What the hell?”

“I was just about to holler back at ya.” Merle shifted his position and his hand rose, absently scratching at his chin.

“What you doin’ down here?” Daryl asked, eyes cast about, roving the random messes on the floor and disorganised shelves. Merle moved to subtly block his path. Of course, Daryl noted it straight away, but he allowed his older brother to redirect him.

“I was just lookin’ for a little, uh, crystal meth.” Merle’s lips thinned into a strange sort of smile.

“Yeah, I heard,” Daryl said, turning away.

“Li’l birdie tell ya, huh? Yeah. I figured.” When Daryl shook his head and blew out a sigh, the elder Dixon continued, his tone managing to sound rueful. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Shouldn’t mess my life up when everything is goin’ so sweet, right?” He chuckled at his own weak joke.

“You talk to Rick yet?” Daryl had begun to pace back and forth, a physical sign that he had more on his mind than he was able to say at once.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. I’m in. But… He ain’t got the stomach for it. He’s gonna buckle. You know that, right?”

Daryl just nodded, and then simply shrugged. “Yeah. If he does, he does.”

“You want him to?”

The question gave him pause. It had been on his mind since the plan had been shared with him the day before. The wrongness of it; how strange it felt. He could understand the call, could see the cold logic of it. But this was the first time he’d been asked directly. He hadn’t realised until that moment that he had wanted someone to ask, wanted someone to talk about it with. Maybe that was why he’d almost let it slip to Fiadh earlier in the field. He held back from sharing that with Merle, knowing it would only invite an argument.

“Whatever he says goes,” Daryl said.

Merle scoffed. “Man. Do you even possess a pair of balls, little brother?”

Daryl shook his head, his jaw clenching. He turned to move away.

“Are they even attached?” His brother’s voice followed him. “I mean if they are, they belong to you? You used to call people like that sheep.” He spat the last word, his acid tone full of contempt. “What happened to you?”

Daryl met Merle’s eye. “What happened with you and Glenn… and Maggie?” He had wanted Glenn to try to forgive. To try and move on from what had happened in Woodbury. He had asked him for that very thing less than an hour ago. But true to form, Merle didn’t even give a shit.

“I’ve done worse. You need to grow up.” Merle’s chin jutted out as he looked down his nose at his younger brother, the disdain clear. “Things are different now.”

The strong chin quivered, just a little. Merle’s eyes were shining, like glass. He sucked in a breath. “Y’all people look at me like I’m the devil. Grabbin’ up those lovebirds like that, huh? Now y’all wanna do the same damn thing I did. Snatch up Michonne and deliver her to The Governor. Just like me. Yeah. People do what they gotta do or they die. I know that. The Governor knows that. Hell, even your cute li’l girlfriend knows that.”

“Can’t do things without people anymore, man,” Daryl said, ignoring the jibe. He saw it for what it was; just a way for Merle to get under his skin again. To set up camp and spread and grow until his was the only voice that Daryl could hear.

Merle had been expecting Daryl to come back with something else, so at first his only reaction was to scoff again. Then he shifted his weight as he leaned back up against the cabinet. “Maybe these people need somebody like me around, huh? Do their dirty work. The bad guy. Yeah, maybe that’s how it is now, huh? How’s that hit you?”

Daryl closed some of the distance between them. A strange sort of sadness took root in his gut. He reached out and placed his hand on Merle’s shoulder.

“I just want my brother back.”

His brother’s expression fell. For a moment he just stared, his mouth slack, at a loss for words. Then he shrugged Daryl’s hand away. “Get outta here, man.” He turned away, trying to hide the snarl of emotions from his face. Daryl walked away, leaving Merle to it.

Before he could take his shift on watch, he first had to check in and put eyes on everyone. He had to, otherwise he would have been distracted while he walked the courtyard. Hershel had been about to sit down with Maggie and Beth, intent on some kind of prayer circle. Carol had been putting Lil Asskicker down for a nap. Fiadh and Carl had been in the Block, standing over what looked like a detailed layout of the tombs, hands and knees covered in chalk. He’d spotted Glenn pacing along the perimeter of the fence, but hadn’t interrupted him.

He didn’t see Rick until he approached in a hurry, striding quickly through the courtyard toward him.

“It’s off. We’ll take our chances.”

Daryl didn’t need Rick to say anymore. He understood immediately: Rick had decided not to hand Michonne over to The Governor. “I’m not sayin’ it was the wrong call, but this is definitely the right one.”

To Daryl’s reckoning, Rick should look more relaxed after making a decision like that. Instead the man looked shook. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find Merle or Michonne. They’ve gone.”

Daryl was already moving, headed right back into the prison, bound for the generator room. “C’mon.”

Rick’s footsteps echoed off the walls behind and around them as Daryl led the way deeper into the prison, into the passageway that linked their Block with Block B. When they turned the final corner that opened out into the large space containing multiple generators, all silent, Rick raised his rifle.

“He was in here,” Daryl explained as they slowed to a walk, “Said he was looking for drugs. Said a lotta things, actually.” He went straight for the area adjacent to the cabinets, the part of the room Merle had blocked him from entering.

“Like what?” Rick asked, moving parallel to Daryl.

“Said that you were gonna change your mind.” Spotting some cloth on the ground, Daryl bent over to examine it. “Here we go.” He took a knee and picked it up. It was a pillowcase. “Yeah, he took ‘er here.” He paused for a moment, looking at the area. “They mixed it up.”

“Damn it!” Rick spat, and broke into a jog as he headed for the back door. “I’m goin’ after him.”

Daryl was hot on his heels. “You can’t track for shit.”

“Then the both of us.”

“Naw,” Daryl said, catching up, “Just me. I said I’d go an’ I’ll go.” He had made promises. Merle was his responsibility. This was on him.

He overtook Rick then turned, his back slamming against the door. “Plus when we come back you’re gonna need to be ready.”

Daryl backed out, his eyes cast down for a moment. “You’re family, too.”

And they were. Merle was his blood, and that was important, but he understood that these people, this group, they were important, too. He had responsibilities to all of them. They needed each other.

It was a day for realising truths, he thought, eyes squinting against the light as he left the building and moved through the courtyard.

A flash of strawberry blonde caught his eye.

Fiadh had been standing in front of Tower 2, her hands on her hips, staring at the rope still hanging from it as though she were contemplating climbing right back up again. He’d have yelled at her to stop, even in the hurry as he was, but when she spotted him she saved him the hassle.

She took off straight toward him, breaking into a quick sprint.

“What’s the story?” She asked when she caught up, not even the slightest bit out of breath.

“Merle’s gone,” Daryl said, not slowing down. His gaze was intent on the gate.

“I’m going with you.” It wasn’t a question, or an offer, it was just a statement.

He was almost at the gate and finally, he slowed down. “Naw. Stay here. I need to go.” He pulled out a set of keys. She moved to the other side of him, hands wrapping around the handle of the gate, ready to pull it open.

“I won’t get involved,” she said. He could feel her eyes burning into the side of his head. “I won’t even speak. I promise. I’ll just be there to watch your back.”

He slipped the key into the lock and twisted it. She began to pull. “You ain’t a tracker. You’ll slow me down.”

“You know I won’t.”

He looked at her then, responding to the no-nonsense tone. He bit the inside of his cheek as he weighed up the proposition. Weighed her up. “Ain’t got time to wait for ya to go back an’ get your shit.”

“I’ve got a pistol and a knife, I don’t need anything else. Come on, let’s go.”

She gestured for him to go ahead of her. He wanted to argue more, but something inside was telling him he didn’t have the time.

“I’ll just follow you anyway.” Fiadh stared at him and then raised one shoulder in a shrug.

He stepped through the gate and waited for her to follow before closing it again. “You’re real annoyin’.”

Fiadh kept her word and didn’t speak for a whole six minutes.

Daryl was dutifully following his brother’s tracks. They’d entered the treeline, continued about half a mile due east, and then veered off. He assumed toward the road.

Fiadh was standing at his back, facing the opposite direction. She seemed to automatically do that without having to be told; being the eyes in the back of his head so he could concentrate on what he was doing.

“They’re headin’ toward Cedar Rock,” he muttered aloud.

He heard the mistake as soon as he’d spoken it. And of course, she pounced right on it.

“‘They’re’?”

Daryl stood up. “Yeah. Merle… and Michonne.”

“Why is Michonne with him?” He could hear the sudden edge in her voice, but she hadn’t turned around yet.

“He’s takin’ her to The Governor.” Suddenly, his skin felt like it was crawling. Like hundreds of ants had discovered his foot in the woods and decided to climb him like a tree.

Slowly, she turned around. She stopped when she faced him, less than a couple of feet away.

“And why would he do that, Daryl?”

He bit back the impulse to gulp. He managed to keep his gaze on her, his eyes meeting hers. “Because The Governor made Rick an offer. Give ‘im Michonne an’ he’d leave the prison be.”

Daryl was watching her face carefully. Her reaction seemed to be skipping surprise and going straight to anger. Those moss-green eyes flashed and narrowed, the corners of her mouth turned downward. She looked pissed.

“Rick decided to give that psychopath someone from our group… without telling us?”

His gut thudded as he looked at her. She didn’t even realise that he’d known, too. Fiadh just assumed that he was as in the dark as she had been. This time, he did gulp.

“I knew. I knew an’ Hershel an’ Merle.”

There, there was the shock. “You knew.”

“Yeah. Look, Fee, what Rick says goes. He was tryin’ to look out for the group. He didn’t wanna tell Glenn, he didn’t think Glenn was ready to accept any kinda idea of peace with The Governor. He didn’t wanna tell you, ‘cause…” He broke off for a moment, eyes sliding to the side as he remembered the conversation. “Because he didn’t know ya well enough to know how you’d react.”

In that moment, he knew exactly how she would have reacted. He’d known then, too, if he was honest with himself.

She blinked several times, as though trying to shake herself from a deep, unpleasant thought. “I would have told Michonne,” she stated without any inflection, “And then I would have left with her.”

She started to step around him, seemingly done with the conversation. She was going in the direction of the road, so Daryl followed. But the ache in his stomach only grew and he couldn’t stop himself from spilling more of his guts.

“Rick changed his mind. Said he wasn’t gonna go through with it.” He followed after her, his voice raising a little with each step. “But Merle, Merle figured Rick was gonna puss out. So he went ahead with it alone. Thinks he ain’t like us. That we’ve made ‘im into the bad guy.”

Fiadh didn’t seem to want to engage in that line of conversation. “Was there an exchange arranged?” She asked, her tone all business. She didn’t once look at him.

“Noon. The meetin’ spot off Owens’.”

She nodded and stepped out of the woods. Half a dozen steps later and her foot hit the tarmac of the road. “Time to run. If Merle makes it there, neither of them make it back out.” Without so much as a word or a glance, she took off, setting a decent pace.

Daryl fixed the strap of his crossbow and started to run, his concern for his brother returning with force. “We’ll cut back through the woods at 27. There are houses close by, he might try for a car.” Silence answered him. They did nothing but run for the next hour… Until they saw Michonne.

“Hey!” Daryl yelled at the woman, just as she stabbed a disembodied head with her sword. He’d felt like they’d been running forever, but as soon as he’d started down the sloping knoll, his second, third and fourth winds kicked in. Fiadh slipped out of cover right behind him, her pistol raised. She lowered it as soon as she identified Michonne.

There was no sign of Merle.

“Where’s my brother?” He demanded, approaching quickly. Michonne stood, her gaze wary. “You kill ‘im?”

The question flew through the air. Daryl planted his feet, as though trying to prepare himself for the blow that the answer might contain. Inside, a conflict raged. Anger toward Michonne; she was on her own, she’d slipped Merle and had probably killed him in the process. And understanding. What else was she supposed to do? He’d have done the same thing in her shoes.

Michonne shook her head. Daryl’s raging pulse, echoing in his own ears, calmed some.

“He let me go,” she said.

“Don’t let anyone come after me,” he snarled, face twisted as he passed her. This would be the final straw - the nail in Merle’s coffin. If Daryl found him alive, they’d have to leave for good. Not even the fairy bringing up the rear would fight their corner for them after this. Especially after this.

He pressed on, but he could still make out her voice from behind. “Are you hurt?” She asked Michonne.

No vocal response came, and Daryl had to force himself to keep his eyes forward. To keep moving forward, to not look back and check to see if Michonne had shaken her head.

“Keep up or go back!” He yelled back at Fiadh.

“I’ll see you back at the prison,” she told Michonne, ignoring Daryl’s outburst. Soft steps, swishing through the grass, caught up to him seconds later.

She hadn’t even broken a sweat. She really was very annoying. He knew he was letting the minor irritation distract him. He was trying to quiet the dark thoughts in the back of his mind. If he listened to them, he thought he might just stop for good.

They continued to run in silence, neither of them needing to speak to confirm the direction they should be heading in. There was nowhere else for Merle to go.

Daryl didn’t slow until he was almost upon the abandoned feed store. The familiar sight of the silos greeted them, along with the sounds of the dead. He held out a hand, palm aimed toward the ground, signalling for Fiadh to get into formation behind him.

They were stepping into a sea of bodies. Some had been torn open, intestines and guts spilling out and sparkling bright red in the low afternoon sun. They were everywhere.

“Ambush?” Came the hushed voice behind him.

“Looks like.” He loosed an arrow from his crossbow at a feasting walker. As he stepped over a ruined body he tugged another arrow out the bundle on his back. The sound of Fiadh’s knife slicing into another one was the last sound that registered with him.

He locked eyes with his brother.

His eyes met Merle’s. Except they weren’t Merle’s anymore. There was no Merle behind them. The deadened, grey gaze of his big brother fixed upon him, blood dripping from his chin, flesh falling from between his lips. As he rose, Daryl’s legs gave out.

The meeting point was littered with dead. There hadn’t been anywhere near this kind of walker traffic the last time they’d been by, so Fiadh could only deduce that they’d been added later. The half-consumed bodies on the ground were fresh, and she even recognised one long-haired bloke as belonging to The Governor’s forces.

There’d been a fight. The Governor had been there, waiting for them, with what looked like a large host of armed men. They’d been overrun, and chased off, best she could work out. There was no doubt it had something to do with Merle.

She intended on casting about, searching for the errant Dixon, but the strange sound of Daryl’s strangled sob told her she would not have to look far.

She watched Daryl’s back, eyes first on the winged jacket. His shoulders slumped forward and his hands fell to his knees as he teetered dangerously on his feet. She took a step forward.

That’s when she caught sight of Merle and all doubt was erased.

He was just as big in death. Just as impressive. And just as he had in life, he was reaching for his baby brother. He stumbled over the body he’d just been tearing apart, dead eyes all for Daryl.

Fiadh’s chest tightened. Her wide eyes stung as beads of sweat rolled down into them. Daryl pushed back at his brother, his body wracking with pain and tears. The sounds of someone who saw the end of the world and didn’t know whether to mourn it or be angry at it.

She stepped closer again, fearful for a fleeting moment that Daryl would let it all overcome him. But she needn’t have worried… He chose anger.

He sprung at the ghost of his brother made flesh, and hammered his knife into his face. Once, twice, over and over, until he fell back, defeated. Tears streamed down his face as his back hit the ground. He righted himself, she thought purely on auto-pilot, but gave up halfway through and fell backwards once again.

In a flash, she was behind him. Fiadh fell to her knees and pressed herself into his back, an arm wrapping around his chest. She let her knife fall next to her, and added her other arm to the hold. She did nothing else but stay there, squeezing just a little pressure, while Daryl broke.

“Tá sé ceart go leor, a chroí,” she murmured after a minute or so. Daryl had begun to sway from side to side a little, but the sobs were subsiding. He was still staring at what was left of Merle, though he had stayed in her hold. Not fighting it, but not acknowledging it, either. The man was somewhere else.

“Tá sé ceart go leor.” She kept up the gentle litany. “Whisht, anois. Roghnaigh sé thú. Whisht, croí. Roghnaigh sé thú.”

Tar ar ais.

The sound of the snarl broke the spell. Fiadh looked up and spotted a couple of walkers, shuffling toward them, drawn, no doubt, by the smells of fresh kills and the sounds of the mourners.

“Daryl,” she whispered, forearm tightening around him, “We need to move.”

He gave no response.

Tar ar ais chugam.

She unwrapped herself from around him and stood, hand reaching for her knife. She began stepping to the side, pulling the undead pair away from the Dixons. Once she had sufficient space, she loosed a quick push-kick toward one, coming into contact with its chest and pushing it back for just a second. Long enough to separate the two. Long enough to allow her to pounce on the other one and sink her knife into it.

She bounced back on her heels and righted her stance swiftly. The first walker, having recovered, was attempting to fling itself at her. Fiadh slid to the side, strafing away, then spun and attacked it from behind as it stumbled through the inevitability of gravity. With her knee raised, she followed its journey to the ground. She pinned it there beneath her, knee pressed into its back, and severed its brainstem.

Suddenly, the snarling, shuffling and growling was in surround sound. Fiadh rose quickly and turned on the spot once she regained her footing. They were coming in from all sides. She started to move again, hoping that switching her position as much as possible would stagger their advance. Ideally she could have used the silos to break up the waves, but she couldn’t leave Daryl.

Fiadh turned and crouched, one knee bending as her other leg straightened, extended fully and swept around, knocking one of the ambling undead clean off their feet. She pushed back up off her fingertips and spun immediately into a fully turned roundhouse. Her heel came into direct contact with another approaching head, knocking it off its feet and over. She followed through with a stomp, cracking its skull against the ground.

Hands reached for her. Gnarled fingers searching to clutch and pull. Her pistol was in her hand and she squeezed the trigger, downing one. She turned and shot again. And then a third round. There were too many.

Fiadh had forgotten about the walker she’d swept to the ground. Its broken nails scratched at her boots, tugging on her laces as it dragged itself up her leg. She tried to step back and shake it free at the same time, but it was already grabbing her right knee and she was losing her balance.

She went over, her back bouncing painfully against the stony ground. The thing was still climbing her, its filthy hands trying to get enough purchase on the material of her leggings, and then her tight leather jacket, looking for a way in at the soft skin beneath.

She clawed for her gun, but it had been knocked too far out of her hand with the fall. She let out a roar; frustration and anger and desperation all mixing together to produce the guttural call, and she stretched and stretched with one arm for her gun, while the other hand thumped downward on the top of the walker’s head as it reached her midriff.

Its face was cavernous. It smelled like death. Its maw was cracked open wide, hungry.

And then that maw fell forward, forehead bouncing off her chest. There was a green-tipped fletchling sticking out the back of its head. A foot roughly lashed out, kicking the walker clean off her.

Daryl reached down a hand. Fiadh looked up at him, chest heaving with shallow breaths. She raised an arm and grabbed him. His fingers wrapped around her wrist and he tugged her up. He kept a hold of her for a moment while she got her bearings.

“Let’s go home,” he said gruffly.

It was late afternoon by the time they found themselves trudging up the driveway to the prison. Their pace on the return trip had not been as punishing as it had been on the way out, but somehow Fiadh still felt exhausted. They had started up the hill, headed for one of the hidden breaks in the fence, when Daryl finally spoke up again.

“That shit ya were sayin’ earlier, the Gaelic or whatever…”

Fiadh glanced over to the side at him. “Gaeilge,” she corrected, the response automatic. Then, realising that it wasn’t really the best time for a lecture, added softly, “Gaeilge is what we call it. Irish.”

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to know that, or if she was just buying time. She’d said a few things to him that she probably wouldn’t repeat in English in the cold light of day.

“Gaeilge,” he amended. “What is row-knee-shay-who. Ya kept sayin’ it.”

She stopped walking then and turned properly, staring at him with surprise. The pronunciation had been murdered, of course, but he’d remembered enough of it to repeat it, and she’d understood it perfectly.

“You’ve a good ear.”

He snorted. She started walking again, covering the short distance between them before it could grow.

“Roghnaigh sé thú.” She’d stopped looking at him and fixed her focus on the point in the fence that they’d be using.

“He chose you.”

She didn’t need to be looking at him to know that both she and Daryl were both remembering that same moment, all of those weeks ago, when they’d stood in the woods and he’d chosen Merle over the group. She’d asked if Merle would choose him in return. They’d both known that he wouldn’t.

But in the end, he did.

Daryl untied the wire holding the tear in the fence together, and then pulled it back for her. She stepped through and came face to face with Rick Grimes.

She scowled at him. “I’ve a fuckin’ bone to pick with you, pal.”

Chapter Text

Rick’s gaze was searching. He looked at Fiadh, barely taking in her words, and then at Daryl as he came up behind her. He ducked his head, his eyes seeking from beneath sweaty curls.

“Merle?” He asked when nobody said anything else, his voice hoarse.

Daryl shook his head.

Rick’s fingers squeezed the bridge of his nose. His weight shifted from foot to foot, his breaths coming quickly. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

Daryl remained silent, but Fiadh, she did not.

“It’s on you,” she levelled at him.

Rick’s eyes were sharp as they slid immediately to meet hers. His jaw clenched and she could tell he was biting back a response. The fingers of his right hand, hovering near his hip, curled in on themselves, almost making a fist. He was holding back.

“Naw. Fiadh, that ain’t right. The call was Rick’s to make, an’ Merle made his own call ‘fore anythin’ was even finalised,” Daryl said into the silence. But there was no real force to it; he just sounded tired, done. A wave of guilt crashed over her as she realised she was grinding her axe when he’d just lost his brother.

Some of the wind in her sails blew away.

But she wasn’t done. “Maybe.” She wet her lips, turning a concerned expression from Daryl and pinning another on Rick. “But you don’t get to decide who amongst us lives or dies, Rick Grimes. You try that again and me and you are gonna have a big fucking problem.”

Fiadh could feel the nervous energy rolling off Daryl as he moved to stand between the two of them, watching Rick closely, waiting for the kickback. His hand reached for Fiadh’s shoulder. “C’mon inside. We need to get ready.” And then to both of them, he added, “We all do. The Governor’s comin’.”

She had more to say. She had only said a portion of her piece. She’d been ruminating on it ever since Daryl had told her in the woods that they’d been discussing handing Michonne over to the psychopath.

But Daryl had a point. It was with some reluctance that she stepped away.

“She’s right.”

They both turned to look at Rick, surprise written all over their faces. The former officer’s earnest blue eyes took them both in and he continued.

“She’s right. I shouldn’t get to decide these things alone anymore. And I won’t. From now on, every big decision gets made together. As a group. We vote. That’s what we need now - that’s our future. I’ve already told the others.” He looked meaningfully at Fiadh. “Including Michonne. We’ve been voting on whether to leave the prison, or stay and fight. We’ve been waiting on you two to break the tie.”

She was a little speechless. Her mouth moved to form an ‘o’ shape, while the two men began to walk toward the prison. Rick muttered something to Daryl that she didn’t quite catch, and he placed a hand between the other man’s shoulder blades. Daryl returned the gesture, and the two of them ducked inside.

Fiadh took a moment to collect herself. She glared up at the sky above, heavy with grey clouds, and forced herself to breathe normally. She wanted to sit. She wanted to drink. She wanted to lay down and cry. But she knew that if she took a minute to stop, she might not get back up again.

She schooled her expression into something resembling semi-normality and strode purposefully into C Block, where the faces of the rest of the group greeted her.

My group, she corrected herself. She stood on the bottom step and just watched them for a few moments.

Carol was already by Daryl’s side, her hand on his forearm in an attempt to offer comfort. Carl’s face was thoughtful as he watched from a seat at the table. Hershel had seen Fiadh, and he set his crutches into motion, bound for her.

“I know you must be disappointed,” he said to her, speaking in that understated, gentle way of his.

“I am.”

“If you’ll allow it, I’d like to talk to you later. Explain how it was before, how we found ourselves here... Maybe give you a little context.”

Fiadh stepped down off the last stair so that they were on even ground. She looked at him, taking in those bushy, white brows, the crow’s feet around the intelligent eyes, the light damage to the skin that days working in the Georgian sun had left behind on his face.

“Of course,” she said.

Hershel’s small sigh held a tone of slight relief. He patted her arm, then looked toward Daryl. “How is he?”

Fiadh watched as Daryl shared a few words with the others. He was quickly bringing them up to speed about what they’d found at the meeting point. Fiadh enjoyed a bet; always had. If she had anything to bet with, she’d have put money down on Daryl being the type to want to deal with this kind of thing alone, but the longer she watched, the more she thought that maybe she’d be wrong.

He seemed to need this.

“Better than expected, I think,” she said to Hershel. “But we never really know until everyone’s gone home and we’re left in deafening silence to clean up what’s left of the wake, do we?” She pursed her mouth before adding, her tone a little softer, “I'll check back later.”

She hadn’t realised his hand was still on her arm until it tightened. She looked at him, brows raised.

“I’m glad we have you,” he said, a small smile making his moustache wiggle.

The line between Fiadh’s eyebrows made a flash appearance, reflecting her brief confusion. But after a moment, she returned the smile. “I’m glad I have you.”

“Alright, alright, hey.” Rick raised his hands, looking to get everyone’s attention. Once the voices had faded he drew their collective attention to the issue at hand.

Old habits might die hard, Fiadh mused as she watched him take the floor.

“Now that Fiadh and Daryl are back, we should finish our vote. All those in favour of leaving the prison and hitting the road, raise your hands.”

Hershel’s arm raised beside her, followed by Carol’s, Beth’s and then Maggie’s. But Maggie’s hand glinted, and much like a crow, Fiadh’s attention was drawn toward the shiny thing on it.

But she didn’t have the opportunity to say anything, because Rick was speaking again. “All those in favour of staying at the prison and defending it, raise your hands.”

Carl’s hand shot up immediately, then Glenn’s, Michonne’s, and Rick’s crawled upward at a more sedate pace. For the first time since they’d stepped back inside the prison, Fiadh and Daryl’s eyes met. For a second, nothing happened. Nobody moved or breathed.

And then they both raised their hands in perfect unison.

Fiadh knew that Hershel would feel let down, but she couldn’t have made any other choice. The bridges between The Governor and her people; those from before and those she was standing with right now, had been incinerated. And she didn’t want to run from it, not this time.

“Alright, it’s settled,” Rick was saying, though Fiadh was already walking toward Maggie. “Y’all know your jobs. Let’s get to it.”

Fiadh’s eyes were wide as she reached out and took a hold of Maggie’s left hand, which she’d been using to fan herself. Even though it was only about 50 degrees in the place. “Whaaat!” She breathed, looking down at the rock on her finger. Maggie’s smile was wide. “When!?”

“Today,” Maggie said. “It’s official.”

“We’re married.” Glenn had appeared next to her, a look of unbridled joy on his face. Fiadh was marvelling at it, and at the way they looked at each other. Even in the midst of all of this madness, they’d found some weird kind of peace together.

Her chest tightened a little.

“This is amazing. Congratulations.” If she sounded a little choked, it was only because she was tired and it had been a very emotional day. It had nothing to do with romance.

Maggie drew her into a hug and when they pulled apart, Fiadh was shaking her head at Glenn. “Dude, that must have been one fancy walker you robbed.”

“Now a fancy, fingerless walker.”

She snorted. They’d descended into crass, dark humour. The romance was over, it was back to business as usual.

“Come on,” Glenn said to her then, gesturing toward the cells. “I’ve an idea for the tombs and I need your help.”

It had taken Fiadh a bit longer than she’d expected to pack everything up. She might have only been in the prison for a few weeks, but she’d already started to spread herself and her things around. She’d managed to thoroughly make the cell her own, and apparently she’d collected a lot more crap during her short stay. She’d arrived with a concussion and a bag, she was leaving with a small armoury and three backpacks.

She slid her leather jacket off her shoulders, folded it and then stuffed it in the top of her favourite pack. She was removing it despite the autumnal chill in the air because it wouldn’t help her where she was going. Leather could be far too noisy.

Once she’d zipped the pack up, concealing the jacket, she began to stuff her long, plaited hair up into the black woolly beanie on her head. That part of her at least would stay warm. Next came the weapons. The Ruger was strapped to her back, Wyatt’s knife was in a sheath wrapped around her thigh and a handgun was snug in its holster around her hips. Those, too, would have to be removed and repositioned before she took her place in the tombs, but she’d hang on to them for as long as she could. Compared to the jacket, she felt even less dressed without her weapons these days.

Her boots made louder taps than usual as Fiadh walked down the stairs, loaded up with all of her gear. She stopped outside Hershel’s cell, glancing in to check on his progress.

“You got space?” He asked her, looking up from one of his medical supply pouches.

“Load me up,” she said, stepping inside and then crouching a little. After a moment’s thought, Hershel obliged, hanging two of the smaller bags around her neck. “They go in the car.”

“Roger,” she said, headed back toward the Block’s exit. His eyes followed her, and she knew he was thinking about when they’d get the chance to have that talk. This wasn’t the time, they both knew, but the question of whether or not they’d be around to have said talk later also hung in the air.

She ignored it and stepped outside, the bite in the air hitting the exposed skin on her arms and shoulders. The worsening temperature was definitely something that would factor into any future decisions. The prison might be grey and miserable, but it was shelter.

Obediently, she stacked the bags in the trunk of the car, next to where Beth and Carl were piling Judith’s things. Carl stomped away without saying a word, and Fiadh and Beth exchanged a quick, concerned glance.

The kid had wanted to be with them down in the tombs. And no matter how many times she, or Rick, or anyone else, had told him that guarding his baby sister was an equally as important, adult job, it had no impact on his temper.

“He’s still a kid,” she overheard Rick say to Glenn, “It’s easy to forget.”

Fiadh had her own thoughts on that. She passed the others by quietly though, keeping those thoughts to herself. They still had to get the vehicles hidden before they could take up their own positions, so she slid into the driver’s seat of one of the cars, ready to join the parade out of the main courtyard.

Daryl had already hidden his motorbike in the southwest area of the prison; a point invisible from the road and from most of the surrounding woodlands. Fiadh pulled the car up next to the bike and killed the engine. She stepped out just in time to see Daryl pull on his poncho, the very same one she’d thrown up on. He caught her looking at it once he’d pulled it over his head and raised his brows.

She merely shook her head, declining to comment. It was probably out of character for her, but Fiadh was listening out for others. Or rather, the lack of sound of the others, which would let her know that they’d reached their spots. Not for the first time, she marvelled at how difficult everything was without phones. Or two-way radios. Or even flare guns or smoke signals.

Hershel, Beth, Carl and the baby were hiding out some distance away, and would hopefully remain unnoticed. But just in case everything went wrong, they had a car and they were armed. Maggie and Glenn had already gone to take up their hiding places, dressed in the riot gear the group had found back when they’d first arrived at the prison. Carol would be standing by in the small, fenced-in courtyard of Tower 2, waiting for her cue, and Fiadh herself, Daryl, Rick and Michonne were headed into the labyrinthine tunnels of the prison.

Rick and Michonne arrived next, together, and looking more comfortable than Fiadh might have expected. If there had been any animosity to begin with, it had clearly been dealt with. She found herself studying the warrior woman closely, trying to clamp down on the unsettled feeling in her gut.

Fiadh had long realised that when she felt affronted by something, she projected. She just assumed that Michonne would feel as let down by Rick as she had, even more so, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Michonne understood; she rationalised that Rick had to think about it, for the good of the group, but was thankful that he hadn’t gone through with it.

Thankful. Fiadh understood some of the logic, but not all of it.

Or maybe she just wasn’t as able to forget.

She fell into step with the others, her jaw clenched as she worked through her own feelings. The added pressure of what she was about to do wasn’t helping with her emotional state, either. But silence had befallen all of them as they walked together through the passageways and down into the bowels of the building. No words were spoken until they reached their split point.

“Okay, remember, the grenades will be the signal,” Rick began, his voice low and raspy. “Once Fiadh drops them, I trigger the alarm and Daryl and Michonne, you two will open the two choke points, letting the walkers out. We lay down whatever fire we need to.”

He looked at each of them, his expression inscrutable in the dim light of the tunnel. “We got this. It will work.” He gave Daryl’s arm a quick slap, and then the already small group got smaller.

They wouldn’t be too far away from each other, she knew that. Through trying to map the prison with Carl, using the chalk to draw the lower levels on the floors of the cells, she had a much better familiarity with the place than she had before, and she’d fixed in her mind everyone’s positions. Still, it only seemed to help a little, and by the time she and Daryl came to a stop just beneath her spot her stomach felt like lead.

She tugged off the Ruger and handed it to him. He lowered it to the ground, along with his crossbow and then straightened up. He rolled his shoulders before clasping his hands in front of him, palms upward, interlocking the fingers.

“Goin’ up?” He asked, and she thought that the humour in his voice might be for her benefit.

She looked at his hands, then up at the dark ceiling above. She flashed her light up there one more time, reminding herself of where she was going. And what she was doing. Then, with a sigh, she snapped the torch to her belt.

“This way,” she muttered to him, her hands on his upper arms as she gently coaxed him into a new position. Fiadh peered upwards again, eyes moving across the galvanised metal walkway above. “That’ll do.”

She moved her hands to his shoulders and stepped up into his hands with one foot, so that he could boost her the short distance upwards. She caught the side of the grating easily and started to pull herself up. With Daryl’s help from below, she managed the manoeuvre with limited complaints from her muscles, or from her mouth by way of curse words. One hand over the other, fingers poking into the gaps in the walkway, she found her purchase. Once she did that, she brought her legs up and over the side without much hassle.

There was about four feet or so between the surface of the walkway and the vents and clusters of piping above her, so Fiadh’s only option was to crouch. She got to her feet, her knees bent and fingers brushing the metal beneath her. “Grenades,” she whispered.

Daryl unbuckled the second of his two belts and positioned himself beneath her. Just as he had done with the rope at the tower, he tossed it upward, underarm, with a slight spring. And just as before, she caught it easily. She turned and started crab-walking toward her hiding spot.

The vent was small, even by her standards. ‘Not man-sized, but Fiadh-sized’ had been what Glenn said of it. Up this close, she wasn’t even sure she’d fit in it, either. But it had been a good idea, and she’d said she’d try it - against all of her own better judgement. That was saying a lot, coming from the woman who had wanted to jump off a guard tower. Its saving grace really was that technically, when inside, she should be invisible to anyone below.

She placed her pistol, the belt of grenades and her torch inside the vent in front of her. Then she took a deep, steadying breath, pushed her things further inside, and stuck her head in. Her shoulders followed without much issue and initially she thought that perhaps this was going to be easier than she thought. Of course, her hips had another idea.

“Ugh, curse these child-bearing monstrosities,” she muttered dramatically to herself.

Daryl said something from below, but it was too muffled for her to make out words.

“WHAT!?” Her voice bounced around the ventilation shaft, and she cringed at the sound.

“Are you okay?” He repeated, louder this time.

She kept wriggling into the vent. Once her feet were over the line and she was completely horizontal and entombed, she reached for the torch and snapped it on.

“Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs,” she mimicked, just as a certain scene from her favourite Christmas movie popped into her head.

“Yeah, okay, John McClane. You just holler when you’re in position.”

Before she could respond, a mighty roar of sound exploded outside. Every part of Fiadh’s body clenched for a few moments as she fought through the sudden panic building up inside. Outside, The Governor was attacking, and judging by the commotion, he was attacking with spectacular force. And there she was, trapped like one of those microwaveable dinners.

“Come on, come on,” she repeated softly to herself. Digging in her elbows, she began inching her way forward again, one hand pushing the grenades and her gun in front of her.

“Fiadh?” Daryl’s voice was raised and she could catch an edge to it.

“Nearly!” She called back, just as an almighty crash filtered through to the cavernous bottom levels. “Go Daryl, get to your spot.”

Another inch, then another. She was almost there, she could feel the meagre, sporadic bursts of air. The crashes and gunfire from outside had stopped, and suddenly all she could hear was herself as she crawled - nay, slithered - through the vent. And then she reached it: the grate. She twisted in place until she was leaning on her shoulder, and then Fiadh took her heavy torch and whalloped it against the ventilation grill. It dislodged first time, clattering to the floor below.

She peered out and saw Daryl immediately. He was standing beneath her, staring up, having followed her progress through the shaft above.

“Go!” She hissed at him, eyes wide with sudden anxiety that he was going to miss his cue, or even worse, going to be spotted. He bent down and picked up the rusted grate, then started to move backward. By the time the sound of C Block’s door creaking open reached her ears, he was out of sight.

Then she was left alone with her thoughts and the sensation of the walls of this narrow trap closing in on her. Fiadh made herself suck in a breath. She held it for ten seconds, while the noises of the prison echoed around her. Some of them were ambient; the place was creepy at the best of times. Others, she knew, were from them. While the empty cells and cleaned out stores would suggest that they’d abandoned the place, the noises coming from deeper within might paint a different kind of picture for The Governor. He might think they were trying to trick him. It was all a lure.

She loosed the breath, busying her mind by thinking about where the others were, and what they would be doing. Rick would be ready to trigger the alarm. Daryl and Michonne would be ready to open their doors and release the walkers they’d rounded up earlier. Carol should at that stage be running toward the Woodbury vehicles, intent on jamming their mounted guns while everyone was inside. Carl and Hershel, with Beth and baby Judith, should all be beyond them now, waiting under the cover of the woods for a sign to stay or flee.

She heard a footstep. Quickly, with uncharacteristically sharp movements, she snapped her torchlight off. The vent fell into complete darkness which, like the walls pressing into her in all directions, felt like a blanket weighted with chains.

Another footstep, and another. A hushed question, a stronger voice responding. They were coming down the corridor, exactly as expected. Her trembling fingers reached for the grenades and she held them against her chest, the ridges of the dangerous weapons digging into her.

A beam of light pierced through the blackness of the corridor. Fiadh watched as it came closer, growing in size when another was added to it. She remained completely still until she could see the faces of the people below. She saw his face.

She pulled the pin of the first grenade and dropped it at his feet. It clanged and then erupted with smoke. The second one followed immediately. And as with all well-practised orchestras, the rest of the instruments came in on the exact right count.

The red lights on the walls flashed as the siren wailed. The people below began to shout and scream, confused and scared in the darkness. Fiadh’s pale arm snaked out of the vent and she tossed another grenade, aiming a little further down the line.

“Hold your fire!” Someone was yelling. “Hold your ground!”

And then came the dead, silent for once beneath the cacophony of gunfire, screaming and sirens. There was only one way back out, one way that would save them from the smoke grenades and walkers, and that way would lead the Woodbury army right into the path of Glenn, Maggie and their automatic weapons.

“Hold your ground!” Not everyone was running. She dropped her last grenade to the furore below.

Fiadh recognised him. The Governor was trying to rally his troops, but amidst the madness, nobody was listening to him. He raised his gun, his eyes sweeping the walkway above them. He had figured it out. He squeezed off a few shots.

Each of those moments felt like separate lifetimes. She had stilled; her breath, even her pulse, she was sure, had stopped altogether as she waited for the realisation that she’d been gunned down to hit her. The still-functioning, rational part of her brain told her that if she had been, she’d likely never have that realisation. Those rounds would have taken her out before she’d even registered the noise of the shot.

She was still alive. Wild eyes flashed away, further into the vent where half a dozen holes were letting in the flashing red alarm lights and the pure white of the mounted lamp on The Governor’s rifle. Fiadh reached for her pistol and her clammy right hand wrapped around it.

The Governor pointed his gun upward again, his one eye searching for a target. But the others below were scrambling, fleeing for the exit. They bumped his shoulder, pushed him to the side in their haste. And then Martínez, his gaze also on the walkway above, was by his side and attempting to usher him away.

For the fleetest of moments, she was sure that Martínez saw her. But just as quickly, he was looking back down the corridor, after the rest of his people.

With one final shout, The Governor followed them.

It was some time before Fiadh could comfortably breathe again. The sirens continued and the dead snarled beneath her, but she was still alive. She snapped her torch back on and started wriggling again, but she didn’t go back the way she’d come. She needed to move forward, pass over the T-junction and get to the other side, where there would be less walkers.

Somehow, this last leg was worse than the first. Perhaps it was because she didn’t feel the weak kiss of air like before, or that the next ventilation grill was twice the distance away. Most likely though, to her mind, she’d just spent far too long in a space she had no business being in. After a while the wail of the alarm sirens stopped, and all she could hear was the sound of her own breath. She pushed herself onward until she glanced that chink of light ahead that let her know she was close.

The vent began to widen, too, and she knew then that she had emerged over the passageway that ran parallel to the one they’d used to trap The Governor. There was enough space for her to exit from the vent, feet first.

She touched down gently and peered over the side of the walkway. Daryl and Michonne stood beneath her, the latter slicing through the skull of a walker. Rick appeared from behind the corner, moving quickly and quietly.

“'Ay. C’mon,” Daryl said, waving her down.

“The gunfire’s stopped,” Rick told them as he came to a halt next to the trio. “We need to be quick. The rest of the walkers will double back around when they realise they can’t get out.” Once the Woodbury force had been herded out of the prison, it would be on Carol then to make sure that the gate into C Block was closed again, forcing the walkers back into the tombs and away from their living space.

“I got this one,” Rick muttered, his knife in his hand as he strode toward another straggler and dispatched it hurriedly.

Fiadh, meanwhile, was lowering herself off the side of the walkway. Her fingers once again gripped the metal lattice as she backed up over the side. One leg came over, and straightened, followed by the other. Then her heart fluttered in her chest when her palm, once flush against the walkway, started to slip.

Something wrapped itself around her knees, pinning them together, and she didn’t fall. “I got you,” came the voice from below.

Fiadh glanced down, eyes meeting Daryl’s as he stared up. “S’okay, I gotcha,” he repeated, and planted his feet, “Let go.”

She released her hold, cautious at first, but Daryl’s grip held. He released some of the pressure, letting her body slide down his, until her upper thighs hit his forearms. She placed her hands on his shoulders and she might have cracked some sort of joke about the position they were in had she not been thoroughly freaked out.

“I did not enjoy that,” she told him, her voice coming out hoarse, her eyes huge in her very pale face.

“Well, no shit,” he responded, as if to say, ‘who would?’ But his hold on her tightened a little. He bent his knees, crouching so she’d have less of a jump down. By the time he released his vice-like hold, her feet were almost touching the ground.

“I won’t be doing that again.” She’d slid the rest of the way, still holding on to his shoulders.

“Good.”

Fiadh was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, and suddenly acutely aware of how close he was. Once he’d released his grip on her, his hands had moved around to her waist and had stayed there while he waited for her to reorient herself.

“We gotta go,” he told her gently.

She was still staring at him when she nodded. Slowly, she removed her hands from his shoulders, realising only then that she’d grabbed fistfuls of his poncho. “Sorry,” she muttered as she uselessly tried to straighten out his clothes.

Rick and Michonne were backing up toward them, having successfully cleared a path. They needed to check on Glenn and Maggie, they needed to make sure the others in the woods were okay. That was what shook her from her strange little slump, and she allowed Daryl to push her toward the exit. As soon as they got outside into the late evening light, she broke out into a run toward the gate.

Chapter Text

They converged in the courtyard, in front of the broken gate. Fiadh was surprised to see that it was still attached; the external gate had fared a lot worse. Woodbury had army vehicles and trucks and had clearly used them to batter their way inside.

All but the woods group were accounted for. She took a moment to spin in a circle while the others caught their breath and checked in, making a note of the damage as she did so. She winced when she saw the still-smoking Tower 2.

“We did it,” Rick said, scanning the horizon for signs of The Governor’s force, “We drove them out.”

“We should go after them,” Michonne said, and Fiadh nodded.

Daryl voiced his agreement immediately. “We should finish it.”

“It is finished.” Maggie’s was the dissenting voice, her hand clutching the riot helmet. “Didn’t you see them hightail it out of here?”

“They could regroup,” Michonne said.

“He will regroup,” Fiadh echoed, her eyes squinting as they swept the trampled field. “We had the luxury of knowing that they were coming today, we won’t have that in the future.” Surviving day to day was one thing, doing it under the constant hammer was another. They’d fall apart within weeks.

“We can’t take the chance. He’s not gonna stop.” Glenn sounded certain, but that certainty was based on their experience with The Governor.

“They’re right,” Carol said, her words coming out in pants, “We can’t keep living like this.”

“So we take the fight back to Woodbury? We barely made it back last time.”

“We don’t care,” Daryl told Maggie, his gaze sliding off her to meet Rick’s.

There was a firm set to Rick’s jaw, which Fiadh had begun to recognise as his 'mind made up pose'. “Yeah,” was his short response, before beginning to move again.

“Let’s check on the others.”

All Fiadh really felt like she needed to do was to put eyes on everyone. Once it was established that all were accounted for, she intended to busy herself preparing to leave again. Rick and Carl seemed to be having one of their “chats”, but Fiadh found herself unable to summon enough energy to care.

The group scattered. Fiadh stepped back outside again, leaving the heated words behind her, seeking fresh air and distance. She walked to one of the cars, keen on recovering her jacket, and opened the trunk. Just as she leaned in, a wave of dizziness overcame her. Her hand gripped the edge of the trunk lid and her eyes fluttered closed. All she could do was wait for it to pass. She pressed her forehead to her knuckles.

“Hey.” The familiar voice came from her right. “You okay?”

She inhaled through her nose and opened her eyes. Her stomach was roiling but the dizziness was at least fading. “Yeah,” she blew out, turning her head slowly to look at Daryl as he crossed his arms and leaned against the car. “Just been a long day.”

It felt like a lifetime since she’d awoken. Since she’d given Merle those miniature bottles of Jameson, since she and Daryl had gone running through the woods after him, since she’d trapped herself inside a vent and almost gotten shot.

“‘Bout to be a long night, too.”

She straightened up then, giving him a knowing look. Fiadh wasn’t about to allow herself to be benched. “I’ll be fine. Nothing is going to stop me from finishing this.”

“Alright.”

Locating her pack, she unzipped the top and pulled out her leather jacket. She started pulling it on, shoving one arm inside. Realising he was watching her, she paused. “Are you okay?” Fiadh asked, firing the question back at him.

She shrugged the jacket on the rest of the way, her eyes on his jaw as he bit the inside of his cheek. He shifted his weight a little, and then shrugged. “Gotta be.”

The zipper being pulled up was the only sound between them for a moment. Fiadh smoothed down the short, black jacket, still studying him. The frown line between her brows flashed.

“Fight now, fall apart later?” She said finally, making her own personal mantra into a question.

“Sum’ like that.”

He unlooped the strap of her Ruger from his shoulder and was handing it to her. Their attention was then drawn toward one of the trucks, which Rick and Michonne were loading up with guns and gear. They’d need another car to transport all of them.

Fiadh cocked her head toward the truck and the gathering group as Glenn and Maggie appeared. She slammed the trunk shut and she and Daryl started moving in their direction.

“We’re staying,” Glenn was saying to Rick. Fiadh’s brows raised as she looked between the newlyweds. “We don’t know where The Governor is. If he comes back, we’ll hold him off.”

“Just the four of us?” Daryl asked, glancing at Michonne, Fiadh and lastly, Rick. “Alright.”

“I appreciate you stayin’,” Rick said to the pair, already moving toward the truck.

This time there would be no protracted goodbyes. With a thin-lipped smile, Fiadh backed away from Glenn and Maggie, her hand raised in a small wave. Michonne and Rick were already in the truck, and with the gear, there’d be no room for Fiadh, so she started to jog back toward the packed car.

“Can take ya on the bike,” Daryl called over to her. She slowed and turned, brows raising higher when she noted he was already detaching the saddlebags.

Fiadh stopped, not moving or saying anything.

Once the extra weight was removed from the motorcycle, he looked up. “C’mon. Daylight’s burnin’.”

The truck’s engine gunned to life. Fiadh stared at Daryl and the mechanical deathtrap, her teeth biting into her lower lip. Her feet were moving before she’d really registered what she was about to do.

Daryl got on, then kicked the stand and righted the bike. She stopped just short of it and frowned.

“You ain’t never ride pillion before?” He asked, looking at her with surprise.

She shook her head. In truth, she’d never ridden before at all, in any capacity.

“S’okay. Climb on behind me. Hold on real tight. Don’t make any sudden movements or do anythin’ that could throw off the balance.”

She nodded slowly. The balance part at least she should be okay with. She threw her leg over, one of her hands on his shoulder. Once aboard, she adjusted her position minutely. Even though the bike was deceptively low to the ground, her toes still only brushed the concrete.

Daryl fixed his crossbow to the holder on the bike’s frame, then reached back up to turn the ignition key. The thing between their legs shuddered and growled to life. Then its rider reached behind him and grabbed a hold of her wrist. Before she could protest, he’d pressed her arm into his stomach, encouraging her to wrap it properly around his waist.

Getting the message, she brought her other arm around him too, until she was effectively loosely hugging him from behind. It was fine until they lurched forward and started moving.

Not ready for it yet, Fiadh let out a squeak and jumped a little, her arms tightening reflexively. She thought she caught sight of his smirk in the bike's mirror, and she narrowed her eyes in response to his amused reflection.

Arsehole.

But she clung fast, her arms tensed and flexed, one hand sprawled against his stomach, the other wrapped around her own wrist, almost every part of her pressed into him. It wasn’t until they’d reached the road that she began to relax.

Bit by bit, she forgot about the fact that they were hurtling along atop an unshielded, unprotected gasoline machine. What had made the thing seem so scary, was actually what she found herself enjoying the most. The cool air whipped around them, bringing with it all of the scents and sounds that one would miss inside an enclosed car. She found herself looking at her surroundings more on the back of the bike than she ever would have as a passenger in any other vehicle.

They were more in tune with what they were doing. There was a heightened alertness; more of a requirement to watch and concentrate. She could feel the road and feel how Daryl was responsible, along with the machine itself, for how they traversed it. Rider and bike were dependent on each other to work.

She didn’t know when she’d released the deathgrip, but by the time they were slowing to a stop, Fiadh had been leaning back, enjoying the ride and the views. She’d even wrapped her hands up underneath Daryl’s poncho to keep them warm, though she started to disentangle them as soon as she’d caught sight of the obstruction in the road.

She recognised one of the Woodbury trucks instantly. What was more concerning though, were the bodies strewn across the road, and the dead eating them. Fiadh held up a fist, indicating to the truck carrying Rick and Michonne behind them that they were about to stop.

The motorcycle had just about rolled to a halt when she hopped off the back of it. Daryl was kicking the stand into position and dismounting himself behind her, while the others were hot on her heels. Fiadh plunged her knife into the head of a walker on its knees. It hadn’t even bothered to look up from its meal.

An arrow shot passed her, the familiar telltale whiz sound barely even drawing her attention. To her side, Michonne had raised her katana, and was slicing through the last of the ambling dead. The four of them advanced quickly, all eyes sharp and alert, all silently intent on getting to the front of the blockage on the road.

Rick moved ahead of them, knife raised and aimed for the skull of the lead driver. Fiadh and Daryl slowed, standing near the big transporter, looking for a body they could identify. There was no sign of The Governor.

Or Martínez, she added silently to herself. It was clear that the people on the ground had been shot… But by whom?

The sound of a thump coming from the truck had both she and Rick raising their guns immediately. Daryl had stepped out of the way, his head turned back around toward the cockpit. A dark-haired woman had appeared in the driver’s window, palms pressed against the glass.

Daryl recovered from the jumpscare quickly, and reached up to grab the door handle. He waited until everyone was in a decent defensive position before he opened it, releasing the woman inside. She half flung herself, was half pushed by Daryl, onto the asphalt below. She put her hands back up immediately.

“I surrender! I’m unarmed! Please, don’t shoot.”

Fiadh was the closest. While Rick and Daryl kept their weapons pointed at the woman, Fiadh dropped her Ruger and stepped forward to make sure the woman was as unarmed as she said she was.

“Your name,” Rick ordered.

“Karen.”

Fiadh’s hands were patting Karen down. Once the torso was clear, she began on the legs, one at a time.

“What happened here, Karen?”

“The Governor, he…” Karen struggled. “He killed everyone.”

Fiadh’s hands stopped for a moment.

“He did this!?” Rick asked, his arm lowering slightly with his disbelief. “Why?”

Hurriedly, Fiadh finished her inspection. Apart from a knife in a sheath around the woman’s thigh, which Fiadh had pulled and then tossed, she was clean. Fiadh straightened and stepped back. “She’s good.” She didn’t bother picking the Ruger back up again. There was something about the way Karen was standing, and how her face held such heartbreak, that reassured her of their safety.

“Because we ran,” Karen said. Her wide eyes looked out over the field next to the road. She turned a little on the spot, her hands lowering inch by inch. “We refused to go back to the prison. We said we wouldn’t kill any more people.”

Fiadh’s mouth went dry. “What happened then?”

Karen turned those sorrowful brown eyes toward her. “He gunned us down where we stood.”

“Everyone ‘cept you,” Daryl pointed out.

“Tommy fell on me. Dead,” Karen explained. She was looking at the dead again. “I hid underneath him until they were gone.”

“They?” Fiadh asked.

“The Governor. And Martínez, I think. Maybe Shumpert, too. Everyone else…” She gestured to the bodies.

“Andrea?” Michonne piped up for the first time, striding toward Karen, her sword still raised.

Karen blinked several times. “She wasn’t with you?”

“No,” Rick said, “Why would she be?”

“We were told she’d escaped, betrayed us. Hopped the wall to run to the prison.”

“She never made it to the prison,” Fiadh told her, before meeting Michonne’s eye. “She could still be in Woodbury.” If she’s still even alive…

“Alright,” Rick said with a nod, his gun back by his side. “We need to clear the bodies from the road and get back underway.”

Struck by how normal that horrific sentence sounded to her ears, Fiadh got to pulling the dead from their path without another word.

The sun had long set by the time they reached Woodbury. The night was as cool as the day had promised, and the sky above was inky-black, devoid of any twinkling stars. They moved in single-file formation toward the settlement’s wall, weapons all raised and eyes sharp for movement. All was quiet until Rick reached one of the abandoned cars on the street.

A single bullet shattered the wing mirror and Rick returned fire immediately, opening up at the watcher on the wall. Daryl and Fiadh followed suit while Michonne and Karen fell forward into cover behind the dilapidated vehicle, everyone making the most of the guard’s pause to reload.

Fiadh ducked down, her back up against the car door. Her teeth ground together as the gunfire started up again. Her hands tightened around the Ruger in response to the sound of shattering glass above when one of the bullets smashed through what was left of a window. She was about to turn and resume fire when Karen started shouting.

“Tyreese!” She yelled into the brief pause of the barrage, “It’s me! Don’t -!”

“Get down!” Rick roared at her, his arm shooting across her body to keep her in place.

But it had gotten some attention. “Karen!” A booming voice came in response. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Karen slipped backwards, away from Rick’s hold, and stood up. With her arms raised up, she sidestepped out from the cover of the car and into the line of fire.

“Shit,” Fiadh muttered as she turned, aiming her gun back at the wall.

“Where’s The Governor?”

“He fired on everyone. He killed them all.”

At first, only silence met Karen’s declaration. Fiadh couldn’t say she was surprised; if she hadn’t seen the remains of The Governor’s wrath herself she might not have believed it, either. Tyreese, she remembered, had been with the group Carl had found in the prison. The same group that Rick had chased off.

“Why are you with them?” Tyreese shouted back.

Daryl moved away from the car, his intense stare on Rick. He was watching for the other man’s next move, he was anticipating it. He shook his head vehemently - NO. With a free hand, Daryl reached out and grabbed a hold of Fiadh’s leather jacket. She got the message: don’t move.

“They saved me!”

When there was no response, Rick offered one of his own. “We’re comin’ out!”

“No!” Daryl panted, head shaking again. Then he spat a couple of curses of his own, and swung his gun around to aim at the wall, ready to cover Rick.

“We’re comin’ out,” Rick repeated, this time rising to his full height, his arms raised. Once he got clear of the hood of the car, Daryl emerged from behind the trunk, walking parallel to him. Karen walked next to Rick, while Fiadh and Michonne followed.

Everyone raised a hand or pointed their weapons toward the sky. Fiadh’s heart was hammering in her chest, her breath coming out quickly and making mist in the cold air. This was a leap of faith. This was them betting on Tyreese, or anyone else in there for that matter, not murdering them as they approached.

One of the huge doors opened, and the man stepped out, his sister Sasha next to him. Neither of them had their rifles raised. Rick lowered his hands and came to a stop in front of them.

“What are you doing here?” Tyreese asked, his tone flat.

“We were coming to finish this,” Rick said, having taken a moment, presumably to decide on how honest he was going to be. Clearly, he chose very. “Until we saw what The Governor did.”

“He… He killed them?”

Rick’s expression was haunted. He nodded once, and then softly, simply responded, “Yeah.”

Tyreese’s eyes slid over them all, his own face gradually reflecting the harsh truth that he saw in theirs. He was stunned.

“Karen told us Andrea hopped the wall, going for the prison,” Rick continued, “She never made it. She might be here.”

“There are a couple of prefabricated buildings off one of the alleys, near the warehouses,” Fiadh said, her eyes flitting between Tyreese and Sasha. “If she’s being held, it’ll be there.”

The siblings shared a look, and then stepped backwards. “I’ll go with you.” Tyreese waved them in. Once the pair had begun to move back inside Woodbury, Fiadh lowered her gun and quickly followed.

They walked through the streets, their footsteps echoing ominously. “Where is everyone?” Fiadh asked, looking around for the sight of candles or lamplight in the windows of the buildings lining the main avenue.

“The Governor put a gun in the hands of anyone who could carry one,” Tyreese answered her, slowing a little so he could walk next to her. “But there are others who stayed. They’re out of sight.”

Fiadh glanced at the big man, noting that he didn’t mention any location. Not that she blamed him, this was all turning out to be a very weird and kind of confusing night.

“You two can carry guns,” she pointed out instead, head cocked toward him and Sasha.

“We weren’t onboard with killing people. We offered to stay back and guard the others instead. Said we’d leave after if we needed to.”

Brow arched, Fiadh’s stare turned back toward Tyreese. “I’m surprised he let you do that.”

“Honestly…” Sasha piped up behind them. “So was I.” She and Karen split off from the group then, bound for wherever the remaining Woodbury residents were.

They fell silent again for the rest of the short distance to the prefabs. The next voice was Rick’s as they stepped into the iron-sheeted corridor. “This is where he had Glenn and Maggie.”

“The Governor held people here?” Tyreese asked, his voice betraying his shock again. Following behind Rick and Daryl, Fiadh held her tongue. Tyreese was either a very sweet, trusting kind of guy, or decidedly gullible. The fact that he was still surprised at the depths of The Governor’s depravity, even after finding out that he’d gunned all of his people down, told Fiadh that he was a different sort of soul.

The sort she felt a need to look out for. The sort that had no business surviving in this new world.

“He did more than hold ‘em,” Daryl said.

One by one they turned the corner and faced the closed door to one of the holding areas. A large pool of dark liquid was slowly inching its way from beneath it, across the filthy floor.

The dread clenched in Fiadh’s stomach, its claws grabbing a hold of her and squeezing. Her nostrils flared, she lowered her gun and hung back a little as Rick, Daryl and Michonne approached the door. They were all breathing heavily, all fearful, but their need to know would always win out.

“Will you open it?” Michonne asked Rick. The scrape of her sword against its sheath was smooth as she pulled it out. She planted her feet and readied herself.

Rick’s fingers closed around the bolt on the door. Softly, he counted down. “One, two…” And then the door swung open, revealing the body of a walker in the middle of the floor, prone in front of a chair. It was the first thing that drew the eye. The second was the bare foot - feminine in shape and sticking out from behind the door frame.

“Andrea!” Michonne gasped, rushing in through the door and falling on her knees next to the barely conscious blonde woman.

Fiadh remained in the doorway. The pang she felt when she recognised the turned man on the floor was cursory. Milty. But the rest of her attention was all for Andrea.

“I tried to stop them,” she said as Rick lowered himself in front of her.

“You’re burning up.” Michonne was next to her, realising what had befallen Andrea a little later than the others.

Fiadh’s sad eyes took in the blood. Andrea was covered in it. The sweat glistened on her forehead, her hair stuck to the sides of her cheeks and neck. The angry wounds encircling her wrists told of how hard she'd fought against her captivity. She was barely able to sit up without assistance. Fiadh swallowed, trying to get rid of the rising lump in her throat when Andrea pulled her jacket collar to the side, revealing the nasty bite.

Rick looked away from the sight as Andrea groaned. “Judith, Carl, the rest of them…”

“Us,” Rick corrected, turning to meet her still sharp blue eyes. “The rest of us.”

“Are they alive?”

“Yeah, they’re alive.”

By her side, Fiadh’s fingers flexed and they closed the short distance between her and Daryl, reaching for his poncho. Her hand grazed the material and she gave the briefest of tugs. She didn’t know why she’d felt the sudden need to do it, only that she’d wanted to - that she was seeking it. Or perhaps seeking to give it.

Flashes of Merle sparked in her mind’s eye, memories of earlier invading. Daryl’s brother chewing on someone’s flesh. His dead gaze as he stumbled after his own flesh and blood.

Andrea managed to smile, despite everything. She turned to Michonne and looked at the warrior woman with such fondness that it shook the pervading images from Fiadh’s head. “It’s good you found them,” Andrea said to Michonne, who nodded, dislodging the gathering tears from her eyes. “No one can make it alone now.”

“They never could,” Daryl whispered.

“I just didn’t want anyone to die.” As if buoyed by her own will of steel, Andrea straightened up against the wall, determination setting her jaw. “I can do it myself.”

“No!” Michonne’s tears were freely falling, making tracks in the dust on her face.

“No, I have to. While I still can.”

For a moment, Fiadh glanced away, trying to keep her own composure. Another memory hit her; the two of them in that field beyond the feed barn, clearing out stray walkers.

“You know, in another life, if the circumstances had been different, I think we would have been friends.”

Fiadh would grieve not getting the chance. She would grieve for the others, who would never get the chance to see how much Andrea could do, how much she could offer.

“Please?” Andrea was pinning Rick down with her stare. “I know how the safety works.”

He pulled out his pistol and pressed it into her palm, keeping his hand on hers for a long, drawn out moment. Fiadh felt all kinds of wrong then - just standing there and watching and intruding on this intimate scene. She swallowed and rested her own hand on Andrea’s shoulder.

“Under different circumstances,” she said to the blonde, icy-eyed woman.

Recognition shimmered in Andrea’s face. “In another life.”

“I hope the next one.” Fiadh’s voice caught. She stood and stepped outside, turning her back to the room. With a hand that was not gentle, she swiped at her wet cheeks.

“I tried…” She heard Andrea’s final whisper coming from behind her.

Rick and Daryl followed Fiadh into the corridor, leaving the final moments for Michonne. When the gunshot came, nobody flinched.

Chapter Text

The sun rose, illuminating a path for the people of Woodbury. It led out of the town and away from its history, toward a new hope of community with the small, but deceptively strong group from the prison. Rick promised safety to Tyreese and Sasha first, and following a brief discussion with Daryl, Michonne and Fiadh, the offer was extended to the rest of the remaining Woodbury residents.

In Fiadh’s mind, it marked a turning point. Not just for Rick, but for all of them.

There were deeper, greater questions to be asked and considered, of course, but during that night and for many of the dawn hours, they occupied themselves with gathering necessary supplies for the two dozen new mouths to feed. More permanent solutions would be found by less exhausted minds.

And there was Andrea, who was carefully covered and placed into the back of Rick’s truck, so that they could take her with them and lay her to rest with Lori and T-Dog: her people, in Daryl’s words.

Fiadh was directing a short line of former Woodbury inhabitants onto the reinforced bus, taking hold of a crate of fresh produce so an older lady could step up into the vehicle without issue. Once the lady was onboard, she passed it back, enjoying the citrusy smell that wafted upward from beneath the cloth covering. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that it was waiting. Her next three - no four - thoughts centred around delicious fresh fruit, though the last one was tinted with far too much pragmatism for that hour of the morning. There had been talk of transplanting some of the Woodbury crops, and Rick had said that with these numbers, they’d have to start producing for themselves.

She glanced down the line, wondering which of the people they were taking in might be of assistance in that regard. Everyone would have to contribute, somehow, if this was all going to work.

Her mind railed against this new mental work by gifting her a piercing headache. Fiadh’s face was scrunched up a little, squinting against the brightening morning as the onslaught thumped behind her eyes.

“You fixin’ to ride that bus?”

Daryl appeared at her shoulder. With his distinct voice she didn’t even have to look around to identify the owner.

“Jaysis, no,” came the quick reply. The lines of her scrunched face deepened further. Perhaps he thought the prospect of travelling on that bus was the reason behind her grimace.

Daryl grunted at her tone. Then, after a pause of a second or two, offered something in a way that Fiadh was beginning to recognise and appreciate as something very specific to Daryl. “Bike ain’t far. You comin’?”

Fiadh waved the next person on and turned to look at Daryl properly. The idea of riding back to the prison was a really nice one; with the fresh morning breeze getting into her and refreshing her mind… and spirit. But something else was calling to her with an equal power.

“Got to go see about a truck.”

She looked behind him, over his shoulder and toward the laneway that ran parallel to the café on Main Street. Parked securely in there was Frankie T’s truck. She’d been throwing it loving, furtive glances for the last hour.

Daryl followed her gaze and once it alighted on the old blue Ford he huffed out a breath in amusement. “Been wonderin’ what had ya lookin’ all moon-eyed.” Fiadh smiled, her headache beginning to recede. Daryl shook his head. “Go on. I’ll take over here.”

He didn’t have to offer twice. She pounced on the early exit opportunity, and her legs were moving before her mouth. “You’re the best!” She declared, walking backwards for a moment as she thanked him. “See you at home!”

“Yeah,” he muttered as he rolled his eyes.

Fiadh turned, bound straight for her truck. Anyone watching might have noted the very slight spring in her step. But as she closed in on the alleyway, other, more pesky, rational thoughts began to occur. What if they’d broken it? What if they’d started cannibalising Frankie T’s innards? What if… they’d emptied the dash?

Her fingers brushed the door handle and then she tugged. It opened immediately, it was unlocked. First step, complete. She slid into the driver’s seat, her eyes catching on the keys swinging from the ignition. Second step, success. She grabbed them and turned. And waited.

The truck never wanted to come to life first time. It was like Fiadh herself in the morning; sometimes it took a moment or two to warm up.

The engine chugged and spluttered. “Come on, you poxy old fucker…” She muttered to it, her coaxing voice at odds with the mean words. She turned the key again, sending a silent prayer upward through clenched jaw, not stopping until the truck rumbled cantankerously to life.

“Yes!” She pumped her fist upward in victory.

Fiadh closed the door and turned her attention finally on that little hidden compartment next to the radio. Biting down hard on her bottom lip - hard enough to bruise - her shaking fingers reached out toward it, her breath held. The click of the button was sharp and pronounced to her, so focused was she on that storage area within the dashboard.

It popped open, revealing her charger.

There it was, all tangled and glorious. A dirty off-white, untouched and ready to bestow upon her the gift of music once again.

Fiadh sighed and closed her eyes, her head leaning back against the seat. In the face of everything that she had lost that day, she had gotten something back. Something small, inconsequential, probably largely symbolic, but still. It was something.

She could take a win.

Shaking herself from the self-indulgent reverie, she shoved her hand back inside the compartment. It was all still there; maps, her cracked but super-cool Ray-Bans, the CD storage wallet.

She unzipped the black case and pulled out a single CD. It was an unusual matte feel to the touch, and it was completely black. She pushed it into the waiting slot in the middle console, an expectant look on her face.

Just as AC/DC burst through the speakers and filled Frankie T’s truck, she slid her shades on, the simple actions coaxing a small smile.

Before she took off and joined the procession to the prison, she smacked her hand against the lock button, securing herself inside the truck.

“No more rookie mistakes.”

Daryl had not enjoyed their first day as one group. There were people everywhere. They were in C Block, unrolling blankets and sleeping bags outside cells and in the communal area, where he used to eat at the table. They were asking him questions. At first, he tried to give an answer of some kind, but by the end of the afternoon he had just started pointing at Carol.

He’d been contemplating walking straight out and into the woods when he found himself waylaid in the courtyard by some of the others instead.

Rick and Hershel had been chatting in low tones to each other for hours, and waving their hands about all animated-like. Glenn had been talking about a plan for the south wall, and now all three approached from their respective corners.

“We’re going to call a big meeting,” Hershel told him, resting on his crutch as they came to a stop, meeting in the middle. “Talk some things out, and discuss electing a council.”

“Hash out our next moves. Talk about future things,” Rick added.

“Where?” Glenn asked, a doubtful look cast toward C Block.

“Outside,” Hershel responded, understanding Glenn’s expression. “There’ll be more space. More air. We want to gather everyone soon, before it gets too dark.”

“We should make sure all of our people are here for it.” Rick winced a bit at his choice of words, but Daryl got what he was saying well enough. Yeah, they were one group now, but these people weren’t their people. Not yet.

“Maggie’s inside with Carol, making a list of everything that was brought over from Woodbury on the bus. Beth’s got Judith,” Glenn provided.

Rick nodded. “Michonne’s with Carl. Anyone seen Fiadh?” He looked pointedly at Daryl, who just shrugged. Why should he know?

“Ain’t seen ‘er all day,” he grumbled.

“I think she’s in her cell.” Glenn’s easy grin appeared then as he continued, “She said, and I quote, ‘I’m going to go and sleep eight hours for every day I’ve known you feckers.’”

“That’s a lot of sleep,” Hershel pointed out. The corners of his eyes were crinkled with amusement.

“She should be here for it.” Rick’s hand rested at his hip.

“I’ll get ‘er,” Daryl said with a sigh. If there was one thing he’d learned about Fiadh Kelly it was that she really didn’t like not knowing things. The whole Merle and Michonne mess had taught him as much.

“Alright,” Rick nodded, “We gather in ten.”

Daryl and Glenn went back into the madness of the Block, both bound for different people. Normally Daryl would take the stairs up to the second floor cells two at a time, but random newbies blocked his way, sitting as they were on the available surfaces. He bit back an irritated growl and stepped around a trio of lost-looking women.

Luckily nobody had tried to lay claim to the other empty cells yet. He supposed they would wait to be assigned somewhere by Carol, who was taking charge of that kind of thing. So far he and Fiadh were the only ones who had settled on C Block’s second floor.

She’d pulled her cell door over, but hadn’t secured it closed, so he slid it open and stepped inside. Strains of music that he couldn’t quite place reached his ears, pulling his attention from her sleeping form to the iPhone on the bed, within grabbing distance. The white earphones had popped from her ears, likely dislodged during a toss or turn of sleep.

She slept weird. She was curled up on herself, like a cold cat. Her knees were even almost touching her forehead. Her hair was loose from its usual plait and fanned out behind her, colourful against the dingy sheets. Her cheeks were pale but her breath came evenly and as Daryl stopped to take in the scene, he felt a twinge of regret at having to wake her.

Something heavy thudded in his gut. It was like that feeling you get after you jump from a height, or come down the other side of a steep hill on your bike. “Hey,” he said softly, trying to ignore it.

Fiadh didn’t stir, so he raised his voice and tried again, stepping closer to her bed. “Hey, Fiadh. Wake up.”

She was dead to the world. He leaned over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Wake -”

Before he could get the rest of the words out of his mouth, she had his wrist in an iron grip, and in a flash a knife appeared in her hand. She used her grip on him to pull herself up, while simultaneously bringing him into her sphere of reach, knife arcing right for his neck.

His free hand shot out and the sound of his palm slapping against her forearm echoed off the walls of the small space. Muscles flexed, he gripped her in turn, pushing against her arm. It took more strength than he’d thought it would - her survival mode had been triggered and her adrenaline must have spiked - but it didn’t take long for him to secure her arm against the bed. They both stared at each other, her eyes wide and unseeing for those few tense seconds, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

“Hey. Hey. It’s me.”

Recognition dawned on her and she released the knife. She continued to stare up at him, for long enough for him to become acutely aware of how close they were and how neither of them had stopped holding the others wrists.

“Shit,” she hissed, her fingers finally relaxing their grip on him. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Daryl frowned. He thought maybe he should be the one saying sorry. He should really have known better. He should have just shouted at her from behind the cell door to wake her up like he did with everyone else.

Then suddenly she was moving again, pushing back against him so she could sit up, a wary look on her face. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

He could feel the blush, moving upward from his neck. He felt stupid. “Nothin’, ain’t nothin’ wrong.” When the panicked look on her face didn’t go away, he continued quickly. “Promise.” He stepped back, releasing his own hold but he did reach down and offer a hand.

She looked at it for more than a moment, but eventually took it and let him pull her up from the bed. “We’re ‘bout to have a big meetin’. In the courtyard.”

Fiadh was staring at him blankly. She’d looked ready to cut his throat only seconds before, but somehow, she hadn’t quite woken up completely yet. She narrowed her eyes and asked, “What day is it?”

“Same day.”

“Oh. No wonder I tried to kill you,” she grumbled in a sulky tone.

“You’re very cranky when ya don’t sleep,” he observed.

“I’m not a morning person.”

“Ain’t mornin’.”

She rolled her eyes and swatted at him, the back of her hand glancing off his chest. “Shut up, ya stupid elf.”

Fiadh stepped around him and headed for the cell door, her footfall a lot stompier than usual. He wondered how much of the attitude was because she didn’t want to be awake, and how much was because she’d come so close to slicing him up. She ran her hands through her long, messed-up hair, but otherwise did nothing to it. It fell in waves down her back, and almost succeeded in distracting him from her words.

“Elf?” He repeated, following her.

She ignored him. “Who wakes someone up in the middle of a nap and doesn’t even bring them a coffee?” Fiadh asked aloud, ranting to nobody in particular as she started down the stairs.

“Who pulls a knife on someone just for interruptin’ their precious beauty sleep? Not that ya don’t need it.”

The people sitting on the stairs and lounging against the Block walls below were looking up at the pair of them, expressions ranging from concerned to mildly amused.

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you!” She shot back at him, glancing over her shoulder.

“Psh.” He waved a dismissive hand as he stepped down onto the floor and followed her toward the exit. “I’d like to see ya try, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I will!”

“Maybe ya should!”

“Amadán,” she shot back, turning a little to glare at him as they reached the open air. But the effect of the glare was somewhat dampened by the impish grin she was trying to control.

Daryl had no idea what the word she said meant, but considering the context, it probably wasn’t a nice one. It didn’t sound anything like any of the words she’d used back at the feed store the day before.

“Ginger menace.”

She gasped, her hand flattening against her chest as she looked at him with mock horror. “How dare you!? It’s strawberry blonde.”

“Same difference.”

“Children, children, come on, now,” Hershel mildly admonished them, cutting their banter short. “Take your seats.”

Fiadh held up her hands in surrender to Hershel’s command, and slid her ass up on top of the picnic table. Someone had righted it at some stage during the day, and it was proving to be a clear rallying point. The crowd started to gather around it, some following Glenn outside, others grouping near Carol.

Carl sat next to Fiadh, still avoiding his old man. Daryl leaned up against the steel pole nearby, beneath the basketball hoop. The low din of chatter the group was creating made him uncomfortable and had him glancing toward the hastily repaired inner courtyard fences every five seconds. He shifted a bit uneasily, hoping that this meeting wouldn’t be a long one.

“Good evening, everyone.”

All eyes flew to the white-haired man, voices fading. Hershel smiled at them. “Welcome to our new residents from Woodbury. It is our hope that together, we can build this place up, and make it somewhere we’d be happy to call home. To that end, we are proposing the formation of a council. Rick has stepped aside as our leader and in his place we would like to put a group of people, each with somethin’ to offer to the group, and each involved in any motions or votes for improvement or change that we might encounter.”

Daryl wasn’t watching Hershel anymore, he was looking out over the crowd. Tyreese and his sister Sasha: their expressions held mirrored surprise. Some of the other Woodbury folk raised their eyebrows. Maybe they were struggling to reconcile this version of Rick to what The Governor had painted him as.

“The idea,” Hershel continued, his voice carrying easily, “Would be to elect people with proven track records in areas of importance. Operations, or Security, for example. Together they will represent the needs of the greater group and any decisions made will have to be discussed and agreed upon. I would now like to open the floor to any nominations.”

For the first time, Rick spoke up. “I won’t be a part of this council, but I would like to nominate Hershel. He has put the needs of this group ahead of his own at every juncture. He is fair and wise… Things I have not always been.” A rueful smile changed Rick’s face, but it was gone in a flash as the seriousness slid back into place. “I trust him to be my voice and my vote.”

“Seconded,” Maggie called out from her spot next to Glenn.

“The easiest decision we’ll make today,” Michonne piped up.

“Thank you,” Hershel said, some colour coming through his whiskered cheeks. “I am honoured.” Daryl grunted, amused. This nomination was hardly a surprise to anyone, though the next one was a bit of a surprise to him.

“I would like to nominate Fiadh.” Hershel looked straight at her.

“Seconded,” added Rick, immediately.

Daryl’s brows shot up.

“What? No,” came Fiadh’s equally shocked response, both of her hands raising in surrender again.

“You have given level, honest counsel since you got here,” Hershel explained gently. It reminded Daryl of someone trying to calm a horse about to bolt. “You’ve helped and risked yourself when you didn’t need to. You see the bigger picture. These are the qualities of a good leader.”

Nobody said a word, including Fiadh. She just sat there, frowning, until eventually Carl’s impatience won out and he elbowed her in the side to prompt her into some sort of action.

“I withdraw my candidacy for nomination.”

“The fact that you even know that’s what you’re supposed to say is reason enough for you to do it,” Glenn pointed out.

Fiadh just shook her head. Her jaw was set. Daryl knew her mind wouldn’t change.

“Look, I’ll help and do whatever I need to do. Clear this place out, make it safe, keep it safe, defend it, go on runs, whatever. You are my group, I’m committed to you, know that’s not in doubt.” She paused for a moment, and to Daryl it looked like she was forming her thoughts into words before speaking them. To make sure what she said was right. “But I did have another group.” She glanced down at her hands for a second, then took a breath and met Hershel’s, then Rick’s eyes with her own. “I promised myself I’d look for them. Even if all I find is… grief. I still have to know. I want to be here, and I will be, but I need to be out there, too. For a while, at least.”

“I understand,” Rick murmured. Daryl thought that most of them would.

She nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.” Then she sat back a little and her shoulders lost some stiffness. “I nominate Carol. I can’t think of anyone more perfect for Operations. She’s been running this whole place under everyone’s noses for weeks, anyway.”

“Seconded,” Daryl said, grinning at the sight of a very caught off-guard Carol. The woman’s eyes were like saucers, her jaw slack. But some of the others were nodding their heads in agreement.

“I would like to nominate Sasha, if that’s okay?” Asked Karen, the sole survivor they’d found in The Governor’s massacre on the road. She had her hand raised tentatively.

“Yes, of course!” Hershel responded, his tone pleased. “The process is open to everyone.”

Karen nodded and lowered her hand to immediately stick it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Sasha and Tyreese risked a lot by staying back to guard the others at Woodbury. But they did it because it was the right thing to do, even though they were risking The Governor’s wrath. I felt better knowing they were back there, looking in on everyone.” She glanced around at some of the others, some huddled together in small groups, others standing off-side, still wary. “But it wasn’t just that. I’ve heard that Sasha sat with everyone, keeping them calm. Everyone listened to her because they knew she had their best interests in mind.”

A lady called Jeanette stood. “I second that nomination.” A tall blonde woman followed suit. “Thirded!” Then she looked to the side, looking embarrassed before adding, “If that’s a thing.”

“Thank you,” Hershel said with a nod to Karen, then the other two. He turned to look at Sasha. “Sasha, is this something you would be interested in?”

Sasha looked shell-shocked herself, but after a quick glance at her brother, she squared her shoulders and gave a firm nod. “I think so - yes. I would like to be involved with making plans for this place. I think I’d be an asset.”

“Very well then. We can make further nominations as the need arises. There are pressing tasks we must see to quickly over the coming days, and we will need everyone’s help. Securing the prison, fixing at least one of the towers, collecting and inventorying everything from Woodbury, to name but a few. We’ll also need to send some of you on runs. And Rick and I have been discussing a procedure for bringing new people in. We won’t shut out good people. People who want to work with us. But we do also have to protect ourselves.”

“Rick was right to be cautious,” Fiadh put in, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Out there now, the living are just as dangerous as the dead.”

Nothing had proved that sentiment more true than their war with The Governor. Some of the Woodbury contingent shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s right,” Rick said, “I’ve come up with a system of questions.” At Fiadh’s raised brows and a few doubtful glances from the others, he pressed on. “They’re simple, but they’re designed to give us some information about who we might be dealing with. I’ll ask each of them to show y’all, then I’ll explain why I asked.” He looked back at Fiadh. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Daryl narrowed his eyes, unsure at first what he meant. Then she nodded and said, “Shoot.” He realised Rick was using Fiadh as the first example.

“How many walkers have you killed?”

She blinked several times. “Uh… I don’t know. A lot. I can remember the first walker I killed… And a couple of others, maybe, important moments. But that’s it.”

Rick nodded. “That’s fine.” He then turned to address the gathered crowd to elaborate. “This tells us if the individual is a protector, or the protected. Someone who doesn’t remember how many walkers they have killed is likely to have killed many, and is either very good at surviving, or very good at helping others survive. Knowing your walker kill count, or having a very low one, can mean a wide range of different things. But one of the things we have to consider is if this person feels guilt about killing them, or some sort of unwillingness. This is something your group should be aware of, for everyone’s safety.”

A murmur went through the crowd. Rick held a hand up. “There is no wrong answer to that question. It's just an exercise in information gathering.” He looked at Fiadh again. “The next question is a bit harder. How many people have you killed?”

Fiadh’s back straightened. The corners of her mouth turned downward. “Three.”

“Why.”

They were locked in a stare, neither looking away. Daryl could feel the tension spark between the two of them. He noticed a couple of the Woodbury contingent glaring, with one or two suspicious looks thrown Fiadh’s way. Daryl pushed off the pole and stood up straight.

“The first one’s name was Wyatt.” Her hands clenched into fists at her side as she spoke, her tone completely dead; devoid of its usual lilt. “He and two other men jumped me, tied me up and locked me in a room in a daycare centre. When Wyatt tried to rape me, I stabbed him.”

Some of the glares faded. Eyes slid away from her, faces filled with pity or discomfort. Daryl was grinding his teeth, the memory of him and Maggie finding her in that room resurfacing.

“The second person I killed was at Woodbury. I’ve since learned his name was Luis.” He looked over at her sharply, no idea how she’d found that out. Or why she’d want to. “He’d just shot Oscar and he was about to shoot you, Rick.”

Rick still continued to hold her stare, not once looking away. Another man might have. Daryl could understand the logic behind these questions, and he reckoned Fiadh would too, but she was defensive. She was reliving each of those moments in front of thirty people.

“The third person was part of the Woodbury force that attacked the prison the first time. He was a sniper, I don’t know his name. He climbed to the top of Tower 2 and started shooting. He killed Axel. He would have killed everyone else. Anyone he could get in his scopes. I fought with him and then I pushed him off the tower.”

The silence was deafening. Even the walkers outside the fence seemed to fade away into the distance.

“We live in a world now where we have to do things we don’t wanna do. Things we never would have dreamed of before, things we never needed to.” Rick finally broke the staring match, blue eyes sweeping across the gathering, challenging some of the uncomfortable expressions. “If Fiadh hadn’t done what she did, she wouldn’t be sittin’ here right now. I wouldn’t be standing here. We do what we need to do to defend ourselves and our loved ones. But only when we need to.”

The heavy conversation had taken a bit of a toll on everyone. Not that they’d all been skippin’ around, full of the joys beforehand, Daryl mused, but this was a level below gloomy. Hershel had apparently also caught on because he took the lead once again.

“We look out for each other here. And we all work. We will all have jobs to do. Now, speaking of, I believe Glenn has had some ideas to deal with the issue at the southern wall of the prison. Then we can look at expanding our usable space into another cell block. After Security, housing and feeding everyone will be a priority…”

It had taken some time for her to hear anything but the roaring sound of her pulse in her ears. She was vaguely aware of Glenn outlining his plan to lure the stragglers away from the prison, and of Carol talking about sending a group to Woodbury to strip the place. To Fiadh, it went on forever. In reality, it was shorter than most, considering it was their first time coming together as such a large group.

But she was ready to slip away, ready to be invisible. She managed a fist-bump for Carl, but her awareness closed in after that. Her bubble retracted, pulled in close to her by her sense of self-preservation.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that peace and quiet might be hard to come by, with circumstances being what they were. Escaping to one of the towers might have been the premiere choice before they’d been blown up by Woodbury. So Fiadh just kept walking until she found something suitable. With little more than a grunt, she hoisted herself up onto the top of a single-story wall and stepped onto a corrugated roof, which hung over part of what once might have been a car park. Daryl’s bike was somewhere beneath it, and she could see her truck in the corner.

Her spot was obscured from the courtyard and high enough to make her feel removed. She sat there for a while, breathing in the chilly air and watching the sun set. She marvelled at how different the sky was here, and wondered if the sky ever turned that shade of pink back home in Ireland. She couldn’t remember.

Daryl found her a while later, just as the sun slid behind the trees, Michonne following closely behind him. Fiadh quietly watched them approach.

“You gonna come down?” Daryl eventually asked when she didn’t greet them. His eyes flashed around, taking in the height of the wall, the lack of anything at hand to use to climb and the roof she was perched upon. Maybe he was wondering if he could get up there, too.

“Nope.” She shrugged.

“We want to help,” Michonne said. When Fiadh frowned in response, Michonne explained. “The Governor is still out there. And as long as he’s still out there, he’s a danger to us. To all of us. I want to track him down and make sure that threat is removed for good.”

It definitely caught her attention. Fiadh slid over to the side of the roof, closer to the wall. “That makes sense.”

“It’s the smart play. The three of us, we can be looking for The Governor and your group at the same time. Cover the same ground with two purposes.”

“Two birds, one stone.” Fiadh’s eyes fell on Daryl then, her brow arched in silent question.

He shrugged, the gesture seeming nonchalant but his stare was intense. “I owe ya. For Merle.”

Fiadh sighed, her eyes softening around the edges. “You don’t owe me anything.” She looked between the two. “Neither of you do. But I will take whatever help you want to give.”

“We’ll head out as soon as we can,” Michonne said.

“It’s only been a couple’a weeks,” Daryl said, looking up at the roof, “An' no rain. Might be able to pick up a trail or two.”

“Okay.” There was a tightness in Fiadh’s chest. A ball of too many emotions to identify, all smushed up together within, vying for her attention. “Thanks.”

“So ya gonna come down now, or what?” Daryl asked, sounding impatient.

“Nope,” Fiadh repeated. She lay back on the roof, locking her hands behind her head and crossing her legs at the ankle. “If you want me, you’ll have to come up and get me.”

She was quite happy to stay right where she was, waiting for the stars.

Chapter Text

Fiadh ignored the noises coming from below, steadfastly staring up at the sky. Michonne and Daryl had exchanged some words, interspersed with the odd bang or crash, like someone was throwing stuff around or against the wall. Movement in the corner of her eye broke her staring contest with the setting sun.

Daryl’s head popped over the wall.

Her frown vanished, and she tried not to laugh. He was digging his elbows in, pulling himself over, his face scrunched up with irritation and effort. With a few colourful curses, he managed to bring one of his legs over and he was finally on the roof. He rolled onto his back and glared at her.

“Thanks for the help,” he grunted, eying her accusingly.

“Not a fan of heights?” Fiadh asked, not bothering to keep the amusement from her voice.

He threw her a withering look and she let a chuckle slip. Daryl righted himself into a seated position, furrowed brow looking from Fiadh to the sky; the object of her interest. She continued to stare upward as evidence of the humour melted from her face. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Daryl.”

“Ain’t askin’.”

Her brows shot up, caught off-guard by the directness. But then, she’d been exactly the same, hadn’t she? Fiadh wasn’t sure why she expected the usually taciturn man to be any other way. “Good,” she muttered.

The silence grew between them. After a while, as the sky blackened, Daryl lay back himself, quickly finding a comfortable position next to her. Fiadh turned her head slightly, looking toward him at last. She raised her arm, her finger pointing upward.

“What’s that one called?” She asked.

“The fuck should I know?”

Her arm dropped, and she turned her full attention on him. “You don’t know the constellations?”

“Nah.” Daryl turned his head too, looking at her like she was a bit nutty. This close, she could make out the slightly sunken eyes of sleep deprivation.

“Don’t you use them for tracking and hunting and shit?”

“Nah.”

“Jaysis Daryl, ya could have just pretended and given them names yourself. I would’ve been really impressed.”

“Don’t take much, then.”

She ignored the jab and instead pointed upward again, one of her eyes squinting closed. “That big, bright one is called Daryl Dixon because it’s obnoxious.”

“That’s the North Star, Fiadh.”

“Oh.” She fell silent for a moment, then observed, “See, you do know stuff about the stars.”

He sighed a very put-upon sigh. “Just that one. The sun durin’ the day, yeah, need that. But night’s different.” He pointed a finger upward. “North Star. Polaris.”

“Well, it’s called Daryl Dixon now.” She grinned up at Polaris. The grin widened when he scoffed.

“An’ that one,” he said after a moment, arm reaching across her so he could point toward the east, “S’called Fiadh Kelly.”

She turned her head, following in the direction he was indicating. “Which one?”

“One that’s winkin’.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, spotting the twinkling star quickly. “That one’s trouble.”

“No doubt. Keeps a knife under ‘er pillow.”

“That’s why they’re so far apart,” she pointed out, finger ranging from the eastern quadrant of the night sky, to the north. “Star Daryl Dixon is much smarter than his namesake.” Daryl snorted out a laugh.

Fiadh fell silent again, looking at the stars they’d named so far, and those that they hadn’t. She pursed her lips as she considered them. Daryl shifted next to her, turning his body slightly toward her.

“Ain’t no one gonna judge ya.”

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. Taking a deep breath, she turned toward him. “But the Woodbury peop- “

“They got no clue,” he said quickly, cutting her off. “People down there don't get it. What it’s been like. But they will.”

Fiadh pulled her hands from behind her head and repositioned herself so that she could lie on her side, her head on her upper arm. “It just makes it so real.” Her voice was soft, her eyes thoughtful. “They knew people. They had families. The men I killed had connections to some of those people down there. People who are now sharing the prison with us.”

“Yeah, well, they can blame their fuckin’ Governor for what happened to ‘em.” That intense, focused stare of his was on her face, barely blinking, not once looking away as he tried to hammer his point home. “Not you. You were just protectin’ yours.”

She crumbled a little under the force of his conviction. “Yeah. I know. You’re right. It’s just…” She looked away for a moment, but found her attention sliding back to him almost immediately. “The things we’ve had to do to survive.” She shrugged, losing her grasp on the words she’d been forming in her mind, trying to communicate her meaning.

“Some of us been survivin’ long before the world went to shit.”

Her hand reached out, covering some of the distance between them. But it stopped short at the midpoint, falling atop the concrete roof a few inches from his. Wordlessly, she nodded, understanding then immediately what he was saying. Such simple words, such complicated feelings.

“C’mon,” he said eventually, looking away from her. “No point in catchin’ cold.” He stood, his movements already showing signs of stiffness. It had been a long couple of days. And it was cold. Fiadh hadn’t even noticed the goosebumps on her arms.

Daryl held out a hand. “Don’t wanna be listenin’ to ya complainin’.”

“I do not complain!” She scoffed, clasping his hand. With a sharp tug, he had her on her feet. She stumbled forward a step, her hand flattening against his chest to right herself.

“The oatmeal, havin’ your naps interrupted. When ya say you're bored an’ nobody’ll sing for ya…”

Fiadh grinned, her mood shifting away from the dark place it had been before. She looked up at Daryl, watching as the heat in his cheeks coloured them a dusky pink. “Thanks.”

“What we do,” he mumbled.

And then he stepped back, and the cold air rushed into the space left between them. He firmly took her by the arms and turned her on the spot, so that she was facing part of the prison courtyard.

“Now get down off the fuckin’ roof, Fiadh.”

“Hey, ya wanna take a ride out to Sandy Creek?” Daryl asked her, out of absolutely nowhere, two days later. They’d both been standing in C Block’s communal area, observing the organised chaos. Fiadh turned to look at him so quickly she almost gave herself whiplash. He was standing next to her, trying to look relaxed, but he was anything but. She could see it in the square of his jaw and shoulders, how he shifted his weight constantly. His blue eyes flitted here and there but never rested on anything long enough to really see it. She figured the discomfort was because of the crowded room, filled with people. And stuff.

Carol had set up one of the long catering tables against a wall, and was cataloguing the weapons laid atop it. They’d been methodically picking Woodbury clean since The Governor had disappeared.

But Fiadh had been waiting to get out and do this thing for days, so she didn’t need any further reason to pounce on the opportunity. “Yes. Have we got time?” They’d all been busy that morning, and she was expecting to be assigned to something else after lunch.

He nodded. “Yeah. We got a few hours 'till nightfall.”

“Alrigh’.”

“Meet ya outside,” he said, his voice a grumble. Her eyes watched him weave his way around people, giving them all a wide berth. Once he was out of sight, she returned her attention to Carol’s table, where she’d spied something special - something that continued to call to her.

“What are they?” She asked Carol, pointing at a set of two very sharp… weapons. They were too short to be swords, but too long, too well-crafted to be modern knives. “They look like small jian.”

“I have no idea,” Carol said, marking something down on a notebook with a sharpened pencil. “They came from Woodbury, but nobody here knows who they belonged to. Or what they are. I was going to ask Michonne, but she’s down in the tombs with Carl and a few others.”

At Fiadh’s raised brow, Carol continued, “Carl thinks he saw a library down there the last time he was scouting with Glenn.”

“A library. Whoa. Civilisation, here we come.”

Though her words might have sounded a smidge sardonic, the mission genuinely impressed her. Carol picked up on it and grinned. “Somewhere to have our very important super secret council meetings.”

Fiadh had plucked one of the small swords from the table and was eyeballing the blade. “Our futures are in safe hands,” she quipped, running her own hand down the length of the jian. It was sharp and clean; someone had taken good care of it.

“If you want it, it’s yours,” Carol offered, tapping her pencil against the handle. Fiadh looked up at her. “Take them. I’m pretty sure nobody else will know what to do with… What are they called?”

“Jian.” She spelled the word so Carol could make a note of it. “They’re short swords used in Chinese martial arts. You could get pairs of them, but I’ve never seen any like these. They must have been custom made.”

She’d seen a few in her time, but they’d been souvenirs or decorative pieces with really elaborate designs on the hilts or scabbards. These were clean, simple, the grip made from what looked like brushed bronze. “Did they come with a sheath?”

“No,” Carol shook her head, mouth pursed for a moment. “But I do have a leather holster here that might work with some modifications.” She ducked down behind the table and rummaged in a box. When she reappeared, she had a cross body harness in her hands.

“That’ll work,” Fiadh said, her tone lifting considerably. “Thanks, Boss.”

“I will take payment in the form of those lessons you promised.”

Fiadh snorted with amusement at Carol’s gumption, but she did not argue. She was getting a very good deal. “We can start once I get back.”

“You’re headed out?”

“Going to check out a few spots with Daryl.” Fiadh was sliding the blades into the harness.

“Mhm.” Carol gave her a bit of a loaded look, which had Fiadh frowning. “Well, he could use the distraction,” she plowed on, not really elaborating on the saucy stare. “Hopefully when you get back I’ll have this place a little more organised.”

Fiadh looped her arms through the holster, then tightened the straps and tugged one of the buckles so that both sheaths fell against her shoulder blades. “Whip them into shape, Carol,” she said by way of goodbye, and wandered off with a small wave. She tried to ignore some of the pointed stares and whispers that were being thrown her way.

Since the merge with Woodbury, she’d noticed quite a few of the new inhabitants were avoiding her. Staring at her with a variety of expressions on their faces. Whispering things when she was around; loudly enough for her to know they were talking about her, but not loudly enough to hear exactly what was being said. She could guess, though.

Juliet, the blonde who had nominated Sasha at the first meeting, seemed to be the most hostile. Fiadh could only guess that she'd had some sort of relationship with one of the men she’d killed during the battle with The Governor. And despite the simple fact that there’d been killing and victims on both sides, she was being served up as some kind of target for their prejudice.

At one of the tables, a small bunch of them had gathered. Fiadh purposely stopped right next to them, digging her hand into an open box and grabbing a hold of a couple of protein bars. She didn’t look away from Juliet’s accusing stare; not once, but inside, she was very uncomfortable. Her response was merely a raised brow, a silent question. Then Fiadh squared her shoulders and left, keeping her chin raised and her expression blank.

Daryl was already astride his motorbike by the time Fiadh got out of the prison. She handed him one of the protein bars before she climbed on. They hadn’t had a discussion about what vehicle to take; she was just going with it. Logistically, the bike was a great choice. It needed less fuel and got more bang for its buck. Not to mention, it seemed to be Daryl’s first choice of transportation, and he was the one helping her out.

And truthfully, she kind of liked it.

By the time they got onto the main road she’d loosened her grip, removed one of her arms and was tearing open the protein bar with her teeth. Daryl’s back stiffened. “What ya doin’?” He yelled at her, eyes seeking hers in the rearview.

“Hungry,” she shouted back, and then shrugged. She’d rather be chewing on the bar than over the stuff she thought Juliet and some of the others were saying about her back at the prison. The wind might have caught her words and flung them far from his ears, but she figured he’d get the idea when she took a large bite of the fake chocolate. To soothe his nerves she gave him a pat on the shoulder. It must have worked, because he stopped frowning at her and turned his eyes back to the road.

Fiadh had long finished her lunch by the time Daryl slowed the bike. The road conditions worsened as they turned off the 109 and started down one of the smaller, private dirt tracks. The bumpy ride saw Fiadh reattach herself firmly to the rider, her arms tightly wrapped around his torso, nose and cheek pressed into his leather jacket. Scenery began to change, and the trees got a little denser.

They glided to a stop on the bike, pulling in close to what looked like a cattle gate on the side of the road. Once the engine was killed, Fiadh could hear the sounds of the river close by. She dismounted the bike and pulled a map out of one of the zipped pockets on her leather jacket.

Navigating was not her strong suit, but the area was somewhat familiar. She unfolded the map and angled it toward Daryl, who was unhooking his crossbow from the holder he’d made on his bike. He glanced at the paper for a couple of seconds and then jabbed his finger at a spot. “Here.” She nodded, pursed her lips and then began re-folding the map.

“We cover the bike, cut across this field, an’ then we got maybe an hour’s hike to the campsite,” he said, hands wrapping around the handlebars as he pushed the motorcycle off the road completely, and further into the brush. Fiadh started pulling down some loose branches from an overhanging tree. Though deciduous and with leaves clearly browning and beginning to fall, it still had enough on it to provide decent cover. Decent enough to pass a first inspection, anyway.

Feet met soft grass as the pair of them climbed over the gate to access the field beyond. As they set off, Fiadh was convinced she could smell the wetness in the air. Humidity felt high, with a sort of fine, mist-like vapour settling over the meadow, leaving globules of dew on her boots, despite it still only being late afternoon. The sky above had turned a slate-grey, which reminded her of home, and warned her to expect rain. She didn’t need Daryl’s woodland elf skills to see that.

“Two o’clock,” came the grumbled warning from her side. Fiadh’s eyes darted to her right, spying a pair of the shuffling undead making their way toward them at what could only be described as an excited pace.

“Mine,” she responded softly, her hands reaching over her shoulders to grasp the handles of her new jian. One slid easily from its sheath, though the other met some resistance. She’d have to fix that later.

“New toy?”

Her response was merely a grin. Her entire gait changed, posture a little more hunched as she took small, controlled steps toward her quarry. One was leading the race, slightly ahead of the other. The short swords did not have the reach of Michonne’s katana, so Fiadh knew she would have to get closer and move more.

The first swing came with her left and sliced across the middle of the walker’s face. There was no resistance this time and the very subtle feedback she got from the jian and up through her grip and forearm told her she had sliced through the stem.

She allowed the momentum to take her into a half spin, half follow-through, but her right hand was raised. She brought it down in a curving, diagonal slice, downward force cutting through the length of the second walker’s torso. It stumbled and landed heavily on its knees before face-planting onto the ground. Fiadh hopped back out of the way.

She let out a little squeal. But it wasn’t of fear or surprise, it was a sound of absolute delight. She bent over and stabbed the walker through its temple, ending its race forever. The jian slid into it like a knife through butter.

“Trust you to go all girly ‘bout weapons.”

Daryl was close by, his crossbow drawn but lowered. He’d been ready and waiting.

“I go girly over other stuff,” Fiadh said defensively with a shrug. Then she started wiping her new favourite things in the whole world on the walker’s tartan shirt.

“Don’t believe ya.”

“You should’ve seen the costumes I used to wear,” she said tersely. She gave the knives one last little smile before she tried to put them away again.

That was a lot harder than taking them out had been. She frowned and craned her neck, trying to see exactly where the tip of the blade was going.

“Ya giggle over those costumes?” He asked, stepping closer toward her.

“Well, no.” She reached back to tug on one of the straps, realising she was probably going to have to remove it.

“Hold still.” He covered her hand with his, and then with just a little application of force, guided her into the right position to slip the blade back into its sheath without having to remove it.

“I’ll have to practise,” she said, her tone cheery. Unlike some people, Fiadh actually liked practising. She was looking forward to it. “Aren’t they pretty, though?”

Daryl had switched to her other hand, guiding it back over her shoulder, his wrist brushing her cheek in the process. “Yeah.” He looked down at her, catching her eyes for a moment. The now familiar sensation of heat was rushing to her face; something she had noticed happened from time to time when he was this close, or was looking at her too intently. His expression was inscrutable, but his presence filled up all of the space around her. She could smell the leather of his jacket, a faint trace of cigarette smoke and something she could only describe as earthy. Wood. Dark. A hint of oil, likely from his bike.

It was easy to dismiss the fluttering in her stomach when he cleared his throat and stepped away, freeing her senses from the weird spell.

“Ain’t gonna be ‘round to reload ya every time,” he huffed, his stare sliding away from her and back on the treeline at the edge of the field.

“I’m sure you’ve had worse jobs.” Fiadh rallied quickly, pushing other thoughts from her mind. They’d started walking again and with each step, her blush cleared a little.

“They asked me to be on the council. Hershel an’ the others.”

Fiadh raised a brow at the unusual segue. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to being on the council as a worse job, or if he’d just been waiting for an opportunity to mention it. “Makes sense,” she said, catching up to his longer strides and falling into pace next to him.

“Ya reckon?”

“Of course,” she said immediately, eyes narrowing a little in his direction. “You’re a natural choice. You already do a lot.”

He snorted and shook his head, still avoiding looking at her. From the view she was getting of his profile, Fiadh thought that Daryl looked caught somewhere between pleased and disbelieving at her words. She continued, “You’re about to become a very busy bloke.”

She shouldn’t be disappointed, she should be pleased. And, for the most part, she was happy for Daryl. And especially for the rest of the group, who would benefit from him being around, large and in charge. But it did also mean that he’d have less time for her search. Less time for her…

As though he understood the veiled meaning behind her words, he assuaged one of her worries in his own special, Daryl way. “I can walk an’ chew gum at the same time, Fiadh.”

Her lips pressed together in attempt not to smile with amusement. But he had said he’d help her look for the others. And Fiadh had no reason to doubt Daryl’s promise.

“So, what’s your special council job gonna be?” She asked, deftly redirecting the conversation to safer territory. God forbid she might have to spend much time examining anything else.

“Organisin’ runs, scoutin’, huntin’, that kinda shit.”

“Procurement, then.”

He scoffed.

“Mr. Daryl Dixon, CPM,” she continued, starting to enjoy herself again, “President of Procurement and Provisioning.”

“Stop.”

“Should I start calling you sir?”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

They were both grinning broadly by the time they reached the trees. They stepped beneath the canopy of tight branches and an automatic silence fell between them, banter forgotten in place of light footsteps and sharp eyes.

Chapter Text

The clearing that had once housed Fiadh’s camp was deathly quiet. Even Daryl felt uncomfortable. There was no birdsong and no sign of any breeze, which meant the rustling in the trees was not natural. He glanced at Fiadh. She was standing impossibly still on the outskirts, just her eyes moving.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried to figure out what to say to the pale girl who was staring at ghosts. Then he remembered the reason he was there in the first place and focused on that.

The clearing was a mess. He was able to tell the extent of that mess because there’d been no rain, but the site had seen a lot of action and footfall, even after the attack. He moved around the area, stepping carefully over the remains of what the carrion feeders had left behind.

“Two fresh sets of prints here,” he muttered, then turned to wave Fiadh over. He’d stopped just next to what was left of a small tent. The material in places had been ripped, and one of the poles had snapped and was pointing up into the air. “Few days apart. Someone came through after the attack an’ picked the place clean. Then someone else walked the perimeter, sat for a spell, an’ fucked off.”

He was following the second set of prints and then stopped when he came to the remains of an old fire pit. “Yours.”

Fiadh’s head shot up. “Mine?” She asked, her voice coming out hoarse. She approached for a closer look, a question on her face. “How do you know?”

He threw her a look. “‘Sides from the fact it’s Fiadh-sized?” When she shrugged at the term he’d borrowed from Glenn, he continued, his finger pointing at the curve of the print. “You move different. Most people, they got, like, flat feet, yeah? Most people go heel to toe.” He held out his hand, palm upward and flat. Then, with his other hand, he slapped the heels of his palms together, followed by his fingers, making a sort of improvised walking motion. “Heel to toe.” She nodded, so he carried on. “Where the foot is heaviest, ya get the best definition. Best definition on your track is ‘round the sides.” He brought one hand down on his flat palm again, but this time neither the heel of his palm nor his fingers made the same kind of heavy contact. His hands brushed against each other and curved, like skirting a bowl.

“The outer sole. Because of high arches,” she said.

“An’ over here, where ya turn, the print is heavier at the top. Even with it bein’ a couple weeks, that’s still clear.”

“Ball of the foot.”

He nodded, then turned his hand over and made a slight ‘v’ shape. “An’ they turn out a lil’. Dancer.”

He’d never seen tracks like hers before. He sounded knowledgeable, like he knew exactly what he was talking about. And he did, but it was something he’d only put together over the last few weeks.

“What about these?” She asked, shifting her weight as she bent down further to get a closer look at another set of tracks.

“Came after the attack, clearer than yours, see?” Daryl sidestepped over Fiadh’s print, and lowered himself next to her. “Male, average height, weight.” He started to trace the tracks’ journey through the air, pointing out the trajectory. “Reckon he knew the spot. Came back to check for maybe people, definitely supplies.” There was a methodology to the movements - a certainty.

“So someone else could have gotten away?” She asked quickly, unmistakable hope leaking into her voice.

When she looked at him, his chest tightened. He didn’t want that hope to be dashed. But to the best of his knowledge, that’s what it looked like. Whether the someone else was still alive or not was a different question. So he just nodded.

“And the other ones, you said-”

A crack sounded a short distance away, and Daryl was on his feet with an arrow flying from his crossbow before he’d even taken a breath. The walker who had stumbled upon them dropped to the ground. Next to him, Fiadh inhaled sharply.

She stood, much slower than Daryl had. He looked from her pained expression to the walker he’d just dropped, recognising the look on her face from experience. “Ya knew ‘im.”

“Yeah…” She breathed, swallowing rapidly several times before she started to move towards him. “That’s Frankie T.” When she reached him, she bent down. “I have his truck.” With a tug, Fiadh pulled out the arrow. She rolled it over in her hand a couple of times and then passed it up to him when he stopped next to her.

“Went down durin’ the attack,” Daryl observed, noting the state of decay and the gut shot wound.

“One of the first,” she confirmed, sitting back a little on her heels. “He was sitting right next to me by the fire and fell on me. Probably saved my life.” She was staring at the spot they’d just been, eyes unseeing - remembering.

“C’mon,” he said, dropping his hand for her to take. It wasn’t going to do her any good to hang around this place for longer than needed. “We got a decent set of tracks. Can follow the trail an’ see where that leads us.”

“What about the others?” Fiadh asked. She gripped his hand and he pulled her easily to her feet. Her attention had begun to wander again, gaze searching for something else.

“Place is a mess,” he said, shaking his head. “Been walkers through here, critters… If this don’t work out, we can come back an’ try ‘nother. But makes sense to go with the clearest trail, ‘fore it gets dark.”

He wondered if he should be worried that she wasn’t saying anything. Instead she just stepped aside, waiting for him to take the lead so she could follow. Daryl had anticipated that this would be a hard thing. But something about how she looked was bothering him.

He pushed all that aside and started walking. They’d reached the other side of the clearing when the first roll of thunder sounded faintly in the distance. Both he and Fiadh looked up toward the quickly darkening sky, and then toward each other, an understanding passing between them. He picked up his pace and walked further into the woods.

Fiadh made very little sound behind him, and it might have felt like he was by himself if not for the odd telltale crunch of the dead, brown leaves littered across the ground. It was like the entire forest was holding its breath, waiting for whatever the sky was brewing to unleash on them.

He lost the trail about an hour later. He held up a hand, signalling to stop. “Must’ve crossed the creek,” Daryl muttered to Fiadh, nodding toward the stream that they’d been walking parallel to.

“What makes you say that?” She asked, looking around her like she’d be able to spot the answer.

“Ain’t no more tracks, nothin’ disturbed.” Daryl crouched, stare honed in on a mound of moss that had bunches of small, red flowers sprouting around thick kudzu vines.

“Can we pick it back up across the river?”

“Can try,” he said with a frown as he plucked a couple of the flowers. He opened up a shirt pocket and placed them inside. As he stood, another crack of thunder sounded. This time it was a lot closer. As if on cue, enormous drops of rain started to fall.

Fiadh turned her face upward, blinking against the downpour. “Better try quickly.”

“Ya swim?”

She nodded and started to secure her pack over both shoulders and pulled the laces of her boots roughly, just like he was. Daryl knew that Sandy Creek was a shallow crossing - maybe hip-height at its deepest - but that didn’t mean it was totally safe. With the rain coming down, the current would speed up. Not to mention the risk of slipping on the rocks, or something with even more bite.

He stepped into the rushing water, tentatively at first to make sure there was purchase, and then started to wade. A quick glance to the side told him that Fiadh was doing the same thing, and keeping within arm’s reach of him.

“Holy fuckin’ fuck, it’s bloody baltic,” Fiadh breathed out between clenched teeth. Her accent always seemed to get stronger when she was cussing.

The cold got worse the deeper they went. Daryl’s hair was already plastered to his head and the back of his neck from the rain, and the river water had seeped into his boots. By the time the water level reached his knees, he was muttering a few swears of his own.

Fiadh was upper-thigh when they reached the halfway point, and when she fell.

She let out a quick shout as she dropped backwards; the normally sure-footed Fiadh slapping against the water surface and knocking her backside off the rocky riverbed. She kicked out a foot and scrambled backward, water rushing over her chest. “It's got my foot!” She cried out.

Daryl dived toward her, but she’d fallen out of his reach. A head emerged from the river, hair scraggly and hanging in clumps, greyed face bloated. The body reached for Fiadh, hand outstretched. A memory from the day Merle died flashed in his mind: that walker crawling up her body, the image that had shaken him from his daze back then. The thing that had got him moving again.

But this walker was much smaller. If Daryl had to guess, she’d been just a kid when she’d been bit. Fiadh should have been able to dislodge the walker easily, but she wasn’t doing that.

Fiadh had stopped moving and was staring at the creature. She was muttering, repeating a name over and over, and all at once Daryl knew that she was stuck. Just like he’d been stuck. He drove himself through the river’s current, thigh muscles flexing with the added pressure. He reached out, diving toward the thing, and grabbed a handful of its bedraggled hair. With a harsh tug, he pulled the head back and drove his hunting knife into its temple.

“No, no… Charlie, no…”

Fiadh’s sobs were choked out as she watched all the animation drain from the walker’s body. Her eyes followed it as Daryl tossed it aside, horror written all over her face.

“You bit!?” He shouted at her, reaching down to take a hold of the front of her jacket and pull her above the surface.

“She was j-just a… Just a kid!” Fiadh stuttered, still watching the body as it got swept down the river. One of her hands clasped around Daryl’s wrist as his fist tightened around her jacket. He gave her a sharp shake.

“Fiadh! Are ya bit?” With another tug, he dragged her to her feet and roughly pulled her toward him, his clenched fist the only thing between their chests.

His heart was racing a mile a minute. He thought it was going to burst out of him. She looked up at him and he watched as the tears from her eyes mixed with the rain that fell on her upturned face. “Snap out of it,” he growled.

“No.” Her grip on his wrist tightened, and she began to exert pressure. He released his hold and let her push him away. “I’m not bitten. But she was.” Her jaw clenched and Daryl recognised the signs of her getting a firmer hold of herself.

So firm, her next emotion just seemed to be violence.

With stiff, hunched shoulders, she elbowed right past him and made for the bank on the other side. She pulled one of the not-knives-not-swords from the holster at her back. “Hold up!” Daryl called after her, anger seeping into the command.

“Her brother is out here somewhere,” she said over her shoulder once she’d made it over to the other side. The excess water from the fall in the river glistened and dropped from her blade. “I’m gonna find him.” She raised an arm and felled a walker with an easy flourish. Another one followed and took its place straight away.

He assumed the combination of the thunder and their raised voices in the river was bringing them out. “Wait, slow down!” Daryl shouted again, already making his own way out of the river. Once he was on surer footing, he pulled his crossbow over his shoulder and brought it to aim. “God-fuckin-damnit, woman!” He loosed an arrow, dropping the emerging third walker. She merely stepped over it and into the trees, not even bothering to give it a cursory look.

“‘Ay!” He shouted after, picking up speed so he could keep up. Every part of Daryl was tensed up. “You’re gonna get yourself killed! Ya wanna get fuckin’ bit, Fiadh?”

She whirled on him, the now loose and wet plait flying through the air like a whip. In less than a second, she was in front of him, closing the distance with hand raised and finger pointed. “You don’t fucking get it. I should have looked! I have to look. Either come with me, or fuck off.”

“I don’t get it? Me? You don’t even know!” He stepped right back up to her in response, his chest knocking off her pointed finger. His hands curled into fists. “I spent weeks lookin’ for Carol’s lil’ girl. When everyone else had given up, I was out here, dyin’ alone. Don’t tell me I don’t fuckin’ get it.”

“You don’t,” she repeated. Her eyes held nothing but challenge. The corners of her mouth turned down, her chest heaving from the breath she was trying to catch. “I ran away. Daryl, I ran. You didn’t. I fucked off and left them.” Fiadh choked on a sob, the sound twisting something in his gut.

“Ya were runnin’ away from those Woodbury fuckers. Run or die. Ya ain’t no use to anyone fuckin’ dead, Fiadh.”

“Alrigh’ then, tell me,” she hissed, eyes narrowing, “What would you have done in my place?”

He hesitated. He knew in that moment, too, that she’d backed him into a corner. She was out for blood; his or her own, she’d take either. She scoffed, her intense stare sliding away from him. “Yeah. Thought so.” She turned and stalked off again.

“Were ya always this fuckin’ dense?” He said, anger surging again. “Or is it your giant ego tellin’ ya that every single fuckin’ thing gotta be your responsibility?”

“Ha! You’re one to talk!” Fiadh tossed back, stomping her way over a fallen tree trunk. “Mr. Fucking Saviour Complex! Who needs Jesus!? We can just pray to Daryl Dixon!”

That felt like a slap in the face. Daryl’s eyes flashed, zeroing in on the back of her head as she stepped into a gap in the trees. But there was something else, something off about the scene she was stomping into.

“Fiadh, hold up…”

He wasn’t looking at her any longer. A taut rope, attached to some low branches of a large tree and disappearing behind some greenery, hidden from most eyes, had caught his attention. Automatically, he began scanning for other signs. Another one, parallel to the rope around the tree, about twenty feet away. “Stop!”

She was ignoring him, so he surged forward. “DON’T. MOVE.”

This time she recognised the urgency, but it was too late. A crack sounded in the woods, heard even above the now lashing rain, and the sound of something whooshing quickly through the air followed.

The squeal came from Fiadh as a large net rose up from the dirt, leaves and dust of the woodland floor, and scooped her up in an expertly crafted trap.

Suddenly, Fiadh’s feet were no longer on the ground. She was flying upward, through the air, a distance that felt immense but in reality wasn’t quite so high as it felt. But in those nanoseconds, the terror was genuine; that sense of not knowing which direction was what, or how she was going to land. She had landed inside a huge net, with a bed of leaves beneath her.

Fiadh scrambled, looking for some purchase and finding none. She managed to pull herself up enough to get a proper look around her, her fingers clawing a grip through the net. Everything was wet and slippery, including Fiadh herself, which was not helping.

“What the fuck…” she breathed, realising that she’d walked right into someone’s trap.

“You okay?” Daryl’s hand, slick with rain, covered hers through the net.

“Yeah,” she nodded, pulling herself up a little more, reaching her other hand through the net to grab a hold of him. Her knees scraped against the twigs and leaves that had gathered at the bottom of the scooped net. “What is this thing?”

“Net trap. Used for huntin’ big game.”

“Someone out here means business,” she muttered, reaching for the jian she’d dropped in the process of getting scooped up like a fish. “What’s this made of?”

He was pulling out his own blade. “Nylon,” he said as he folded some of the netting over the edge of his knife and sawed. It wasn’t proving as effective as she’d hoped.

My kingdom for Miss Sue’s Scissors, she quipped to herself. Maybe she should start carrying one.

She started cutting in a straight line, toward the square of net Daryl had been working on. A flash from the corner of her eye caught her attention, as the fading light glimmered off something metallic and moving. “Watch out!” She shouted at Daryl, as an abnormally large dead man wearing a belt with an equally stupidly large silver buckle lunged at him.

Daryl turned, arms up in defence immediately. His knife spun against his palm as he repositioned it in his hand, ready for attack. The walker, off-balance, righted itself and took another go. This time, Daryl was ready for it, but as soon as it crumpled to the earth, another appeared. And another.

“Daryl, go!” She shouted at him, realising then in that moment that they were about to be overrun.

That’s what you got for having a shouting match with someone in the woods in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

Daryl didn’t respond, he just pulled his crossbow into his grip and started firing. The net began to swing as one of the herd shoved itself against it. Fiadh reached around to the back of her belt and pulled out her sidearm. She aimed it through a gap and fired a bullet into the walker clawing at the net.

It dropped, but it had already set a swinging motion. Fiadh struggled to keep her purchase but she fired off another shot, aimed at a walker shuffling for Daryl, who was bent over and reloading his bow. The round hit the thing in the arm, which sent it into a spin of its own. It wasn’t an effective take-down but it gave Daryl enough time to react.

She fired off a few more shots, all the while knowing that each time she did it, it was to save their lives, but that it would only prolong the inevitable. The thunder made the walkers restless, but the gunshots would draw them to a specific place.

“Hold on!” Daryl flung his knife at the trunk of the tree, severing one of the ropes in the complicated trap system. The net - and Fiadh herself with it - dropped to the ground. She rolled to her knees as quickly as she could, gun still drawn and firing at the approaching undead. Daryl was doing the same and between the two of them and the cacophony of bullets they were firing, they were going to bring every walker within five miles down on top of themselves.

But Daryl knew exactly what part of the net to hack at. He located the top; where there was a drawstring rope threaded through the nylon. With a few rushed chops, he managed to create a gap big enough for Fiadh to escape through. She crawled beneath the net, desperate for that crack of freedom. Daryl stood next to it, shooting at the growing numbers with consistent accuracy.

She was halfway out when the netting caught on her second jian, still in its holster. She panted out a string of curses, hands reaching blindly for the strap. Shaking fingers located the buckle and without hesitation, she snapped it open and slipped free of it, and the net.

When Fiadh stood, something tried to get a hold of her jacket. She spun, fists raised, muscles in her thighs coiled and ready, hips automatically easing forward. She launched into a series of punches until she’d managed to create some space for herself to really move, and unleashed an axe kick. Fiadh was swinging into another when an arm wrapped around her waist. “C’mon!” Daryl yelled in her ear, pulling her roughly against his chest. “Back up!”

When she finally looked up to survey the scene in front of them, her breath caught in her chest. They were surrounded on almost all sides by a number she did not have time to count. The herd pressed in on top of them.

Daryl spun her around and pushed his palm into her back, propelling her forward. She did not argue, she just started running, the sounds of his gunshots at their backs. Then the firing stopped, and he caught up to her, his hand returning to her back.

“Ditch, straight ahead,” he said, his voice coming out in strained gasping. Fiadh had no idea how he could see so much in such poor light, in such terrible conditions, but she trusted it completely nonetheless. The two of them ran straight for the ditch, and half-slid, half-stumbled down the side of it.

The muck was already turning to mud, and by the time they reached the bottom of the bank Fiadh was covered in it. But they’d also found some luck. Daryl was roughly pushing a tangled snarl of vines and roots aside, revealing a small space beneath the overhang. Enough room for the two of them to crawl into. He gestured and she nodded, hurriedly crawling behind the natural curtain. She squeezed further down, her back pressed up against the earth. She took Daryl’s crossbow for him, allowing him to crawl inside unhindered. Immediately, he started pulling some of the undergrowth down on top of them and pushed the roots from the tree at the top of the mound back into place with his foot.

The pair of them stared out as they sat, pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes straining through the gaps in their makeshift wall. They collectively held their breaths.

The first thump of a body came about thirty seconds later. A walker had tumbled down the ditch and fallen a short distance away from their muddy alcove. It was rolling on its back, like a turtle in a shell, unable to right itself.

Daryl raised his gun, catching her eye. “Out,” he mouthed slowly, then lowered the gun to the ground next to him. Slowly, with gentle movements, he reached for his knife. She nodded, her face grim, and held up her own gun. With her other hand she held up four fingers. Then paused, and raised her thumb. Five. She had five rounds left.

He backed up as much as he could and bent his knees, bringing them up in front of his chest. There was no room to stand or even kneel. The knife was raised, pointing sideways, but his fist was within reach of the vines hiding them. His other arm stretched out to the side and pressed up against Fiadh’s front, diagonally from her shoulder to waist, pushing her back against the crawl space.

She wasn’t sure if he was doing it to stop her from bolting, or to protect her from what was outside. She found she had no inclination to complain either way, and just brought her gun up, aiming it at the walker on its back. But her other hand wrapped around his biceps and gave it a slight squeeze.

Daryl glanced over at her. They were close enough so that she could see the flecks of green in his eyes, set within a face covered in scratches and mud.

“Sorry,” she mouthed slowly.

Fiadh knew what she had done. How selfish she was being. In her eagerness to make up for her past decisions, she’d put someone else in jeopardy. He was right; she was stupid. She swallowed against the pain building up in her chest, trying to shove it down. She failed.

Daryl shook his head slightly, biting the inside of his check. The fierce mask from before was gone. He didn’t look angry with her, or irritated as she’d come to expect from him. He looked… thoughtful. Like he’d just worked something out. Like she hadn’t doomed them both.

His arm flexed, bending at the elbow, then his hand moved. His knuckles grazed over her chin. She didn’t think her heart could beat any faster than it had been already, but the rush and roar in her ears when his gaze flickered down to her mouth disproved that theory.

They were so close. All she needed to do was lean in. Fiadh’s entire world stilled; quieted, decreased until it was just him and mud and the way he was looking at her, illuminated as lightning flashed outside. “Don’t,” he whispered. His thumb stroked lightly up her jaw, his eyes locked on hers again.

She was sure he was about to duck his head then and close the rest of that damned distance between them, but the crash of thunder directly overhead startled both of them.

Outside their hidden place, the storm had reached them. Not just that, but the thunder was followed by several more heavy thumps as a number of bodies began to fall. Some of them landed on the first walker, others managed to right themselves enough to pull themselves up out of the mud.

Fear took over. All the other strange feelings and sensations that had been zipping around in that very enclosed space were forgotten - pushed aside. Both Daryl and Fiadh turned away from each other and waited.

They were waiting to be discovered.

Fiadh’s grip on her gun tightened, Daryl’s breath hitched, as their unblinking stares saw one of the walkers ineffectively grasp around the bottom of the ditch. Its rotted face was moving, what was left of its nose pointed toward them. At that moment the heavens truly opened, and what Fiadh could only describe as a deluge, something of tropical proportions, emptied on top of them all.

The walker made a gurgling noise and turned away. Slowly, it crawled in the direction of the others, joining their ranks as they moved away. Fiadh and Daryl could no longer be smelled by the undead, it seemed, though neither of them moved from their positions again. They stayed right where they were, shaking from the cold and wet, weapons raised as a hundred walkers marched by them, following the thunder.

Chapter Text

Hours passed. The sun had long set and the storm had shifted westward, drawing a lot of the herd with it. Fiadh could feel the rumble of Daryl’s voice through his chest when he finally spoke, his mouth somewhere above her ear.

“We gotta go.”

Fiadh nodded, the motion flicking drops of water from the ends of her soaked hair. The longer they stayed there, the more risk of exposure. Where they were, everything could potentially be out to kill you, and both she and Daryl were drenched through. She shivered. “Must be shelter somewhere around here…”

“Whoever built that trap had to have a base of operations somewhere near,” he whispered in agreement as he tried to retrieve his arm from her death grip.

Fiadh looked down at their entwined arms. She’d lost feeling in her extremities a while back and had just… forgotten that she’d been hanging on to him for dear life. She relaxed so he could move freely, but her own muscles roared at her in response.

Wincing, she tested her legs. Slowly, she stretched her thigh and almost groaned in pain from the stiffness. Managing to stop herself just in time, it came out as more of a hiss. Fiadh stilled, eyes peering outside through the vines, trying to spot movement. The only thing she could see - and hear - was the steady rainfall.

Once she was certain she and her miserable muscles hadn’t given their position away, she started to move again. Beside her, Daryl was having similar issues. But he gritted his teeth and shifted to his knees, inching toward the outside. He turned to look at her as she followed. “Wait for my signal,” he muttered.

She frowned, confused as to why he was making her wait. She was the one with the gun after all. However, Fiadh had learned her lesson about shouting at him in the woods, and instead just passed her loaded gun over to him. He took it and slid out between two of the thick vine bunches.

Fiadh crawled forward and strained to hear. She picked up the sounds of his steps for a few moments before they stopped. The steady tap-tap of the rain and her breathing were the only other notes in the eerie aftermath of the stormy symphony. Growing impatient, and a little worried, she was about to crawl out and see for herself when Daryl’s hand appeared.

He crouched down and pushed aside some of the vines. Taking it as her all clear, Fiadh stepped back out into the forest. The moment she stood, she thought her legs were going to give out on her. Her feet had gone completely numb; bypassing even the pins-and-needles stage. Daryl took her hand and she steadied herself.

Not fair, she thought to herself as she narrowed her eyes at him in the darkness. She was supposed to be the peak athlete. And he was older than her. She should have recovered way quicker.

Much as the competitive side of her might like to point that out, it really wasn’t the place for that. Instead she quietly followed, her eyes sharp, on the lookout for signs of more walkers or somewhere for them to hole up for the rest of the night. With each step, some of the ease returned to her legs.

She found herself looking back up the ditch as they walked parallel to it. The conditions were poor, meaning it would be a tough, slippery climb back up, but she could see that the elevation was diminishing the further they walked. When they reached a portion she felt would be manageable, she hung back a step.

“Don’t even think ‘bout it,” Daryl whispered, his voice harsh.

Fiadh sighed, but didn’t argue. A few steps later, Daryl spoke again. “We can come back for your toys.” He turned to look at her, slowing his pace.

She just nodded, finding she didn’t need words at that juncture. Sure, she wanted her jian back, she’d only just come to know them, but she wasn’t going to go gallivanting into the woods again, risking herself. Or risking him. She looked away, that feeling of remorse resurfacing again.

Her eyes spied something interesting. “Look,” she whispered, pointing in the direction of a small wooden sign. In the dark she couldn’t see what it said, but it looked like a property marker to her.

“Could be a shed. Or a barn,” he muttered, then started toward it.

“Or a house,” Fiadh added hopefully.

It wasn’t any of those things, but it was exactly what they needed. They walked a winding, faded path, made slippery by the rain, and emerged at a shack. It was dark, with no sign of people or walkers, but the pair of them hadn’t been born into the apocalypse yesterday. Daryl handed her back her gun, and the pair of them split at the front entrance, each taking a direction. They passed each other at the back of the property, and then again at their starting point. Along the way, the perimeter was checked, including potential exits and breaches in the building.

But it didn’t end there. Clearing the interior could sometimes be even more dangerous, with so many more places for an enemy to hide.

Daryl hopped up the steps to the porch and pulled open the screen door. Fiadh moved past him, hand closing around the main door handle. They exchanged a quick glance and an even quicker nod, and then she turned the knob and pushed inside, her back against the door. Daryl overtook her again and stepped inside the cabin proper, and her free hand shot out to wedge between the screen door and the frame, catching it before it could clatter closed.

He took the right; she went left. Foot by foot, metre by metre, they visually cleared the small, two-roomed building. From first impressions, Fiadh thought it tidy. There seemed to be a lot of stuff packed into it, but there was space to move. When Daryl sparked a match and lit a lantern on the small, square kitchen table, she realised it was relatively clean, too.

“Someone’s been livin’ here,” he said aloud.

“Recently?” Fiadh asked, her eyes shifting toward a fireplace, with a neat stack of dried logs next to it.

He picked up an empty can of soup from a countertop and gave it a sniff. “‘Bout a week ago.”

She wandered into the tiny half-bathroom, which contained nothing more than a toilet, sink, and a cupboard, painted in a watery yellow colour that was cracked around the hinges and handle. She opened it up and started pulling out towels.

“My old man had a place like this. Not as clean, but like it,” Daryl said. He was crouching down in front of the fireplace, loading the logs onto the grate. With towels in hand, Fiadh turned to watch him, leaning up against the door frame, waiting for him to continue.

“Used it for fishin’ an’ drinkin’. Drug me out with him a couple times. Same shitty, mouldy-ass chair, same ancient tv.” He paused in his fire-building to gesture toward the tiny sitting area. “Use to flick his cigarettes at me to change the channel for ‘im. Said he lost the clicker.”

Daryl’s eyes were on some point on the floor between chair and TV, seeing something she couldn’t. But it wasn’t beyond the bounds of her imagination.

“Wanna bet…” He muttered then, shaking himself from a memory and striding toward a trunk in the corner of the room. It was a huge, old thing, falling apart from age and damp, but it was still fastened tightly shut. Fiadh, too curious to ignore the mystery of the trunk and Daryl’s interest, joined him as he opened it.

“Ha. Ain’t surprised,” he scoffed when the light revealed careful rows of bottled, clear liquid.

“What is it?” Fiadh asked, frowning.

He looked at her with surprise. “Moonshine.”

“What’s moonshine?” She asked, the line between her brows deepening.

“Homebrew. Hooch. High-proof tub liquor.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Fiadh then, and she grinned. “Poitín.”

“Potch-een?” Daryl repeated, wrapping his mouth around the foreign word with ease.

“Yup. Spuds and water.”

“This ain’t likely to be potatoes. Prob’ly corn,” he said, picking one of the bottles up and unstopping the cork to have a sniff. He then offered it to Fiadh, who leaned in and made the appropriate, pinched up face once the vapours hit her.

“Well, this is a stash and a half. He dead?”

“Huh?” Daryl asked, his turn to frown.

“Your old man.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said quietly, and offered nothing else.

She nodded, and then she pressed a towel into Daryl’s arms. “Get dry. And see if there’s any food.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, his mouth curving ever so slightly into an amused smile.

Ignoring the mocking tone, she unhooked his torch from his belt and flicked it on. “Borrowing this,” she told him belatedly, and headed back toward the bathroom. Once inside, she closed the door, and took a minute to breathe, her eyes fluttering closed.

She could hear him start to move about outside, but she stayed still for another minute or so, trying to gather herself and her thoughts, and trying to motivate herself into movement. Everything hurt, and when she finally started to undress, it just got worse.

With the torch perched precariously on the side of the sink, she began to try to right herself. She unzipped her jacket and cursed quietly to herself as she shrugged it off. Tears of pain pricked her eyes and her mouth fell open in a silent shout when, with one last tug, the wet leather jacket dropped to the floor.

There was something wrong with her back. The ache originated somewhere in the middle, and with every flinch the pain pulsed outward. Sucking in a deep breath, Fiadh started on her leggings. This was a little easier, and she pushed them down her thighs, skin clammy from damp but a lot less damaged than her upper body seemed to be. She kicked them off with her boots.

Lastly, her vest top. She clenched her jaw and decided to just get it over with; to rip the band-aid off. Fiadh could not help the shout of pain that erupted from her when she pulled the tight material up over her head.

“‘Ay. You okay?” Daryl asked, footsteps telling her he was approaching the bathroom. He rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Yep!” She said with false zeal. “Fine!”

“Bullshit.” The door knob began to turn. “I’m comin’ in.”

“No, no Daryl it’s fine, it’s just -”

“Shit.” With the door open, he had a full view of her back. And most of the rest of her too, standing there as she was in a sports bra and bikini briefs. She had one hand wrapped around the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. She couldn’t see him, but she could tell he wasn’t moving.

“How bad?”

“Pretty bad.” Gently, he reached out a hand to push her long, wet hair out of the way. His fingers grazed the back of her neck, pushing the loose locks until they fell over her shoulder. “Gonna be a big, nasty bruise. When?”

“In the river. I fell back on something hard. And pointy.”

“Could be a broken rib or two,” he mused. He picked up the torch and flashed it over her. He leaned down a little, zeroing in on her side. She raised her arm to facilitate.

“Yeah, worst of it’s here.” Daryl flashed the torch from her bruised skin up to her face, studying her.

“Feels like I got hit by a truck,” she said then, looking back down at him.

“Yeah, I bet.” He stood and handed her the torch. “Gonna see if there's any meds.”

Fiadh just mutely nodded, and once he’d left, started to occupy herself with patting herself down with one of the towels. Slowly, gently, she managed to dry off. “Any luck?” She called out as she twisted her hair in her fists, squeezing out the excess water.

“Nah. Potch-een counts as meds though, don’t it?”

“Definitely.”

“Found somethin’ else,” he told her, appearing in the doorway again. Daryl held out something large, dark green and fluffy. She turned and he averted his gaze a little, which prompted a snort from Fiadh. She regretted it instantly, the motion causing a sharp stab of pain racing down her back. Serves you right, she admonished herself.

Her hands took a hold of the big blanket. It was soft to the touch, and heavy. Perfect for winter nights. “A Himalayan duvet,” she breathed, recognising the brand. She wrapped it around herself like it was a cloak, wincing a couple of times, before the heat beneath began to warm her skin and soothe her aches.

“C’mon, fire’s goin’,” he said, his tone carrying an instruction. Daryl gently directed her toward the two-seater sofa he’d pulled around in front of the hearth. The closer Fiadh got, the warmer the air was. Behind her, Daryl had bent over to pick up her discarded, wet clothes.

The fire was indeed going. He’d even placed an oven rack above the flames, with a couple of cans of food heating on top of it. “You’ve been busy,” she observed as she moved in front of the fire. Gathering up the trailing length of the hefty duvet cover, she pulled it up off the floor and sat down on the sofa. She watched him as he started to hang her clothes off the back of a kitchen chair.

“Well, you’re a great woodland elf to have around. I’ll keep you.”

Daryl let out a surprised snort, then walked back toward the fire and peeked inside the warming cans. “Ain’t never bringin’ ya anywhere again. Ya fuckin’ calamity.”

“Lies. I’m the most fun. You have to take me everywhere.”

He threw her a look, then pointed at the bottle of liquor next to her on the sofa. “Drink.”

“Okay, Nurse Daryl.” Part of her brain was telling her that getting drunk on poitín probably wasn’t the smartest thing she could do, but the second part shushed the first one, and she pulled the cork from the bottle. Before she could change her mind, she took a slug. “Oh Jaysis fuck!” She hissed, then groaned when a cough sent another slice of pain through her back and side. “Spicy,” she whispered, horrified. And then took another, tears filling her eyes from the sensation of it stripping all the soft tissue from her throat and oesophagus. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Of course, Daryl found it funny. “You next,” she told him, hand tightening around her grip of her blanket at her chest as she pointed menacingly.

“Nah.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Someone’s gotta stay on watch. An’ you ain’t exactly fightin’ fit.”

“Is that why you haven’t changed?” Fiadh asked, eyeing his clothes. He’d only removed his jacket.

“Can dry out just fine by the fire.”

She stared at him for a few long moments, wondering whether or not she should press. In the end, she decided not to, recognising that maybe there was a limit he had, that she had reached. “Fine.” She pushed the stopper back in the bottle and shoved it down the side of the sofa. “But don’t come crying to me when you die from pneumonia.”

He rolled his eyes at her while he wrapped one of the towels around his hand and picked a can up off the rack. He plopped a big soup spoon inside and then handed it to her. “Put that in your talkin’ hole an’ quit your yappin’.”

“Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, Nurse Daryl. I’d like to speak to your manager.”

“Ya can speak to this,” he deadpanned, and raised his middle finger.

Fiadh started to laugh, but the noise ended with another groan. Daryl looked triumphant, like he’d won, but she ignored him for the smell wafting up from the can. Her stomach growled immediately, awakened and anticipating whatever it was she was spooning up.

She held up the can and squinted at it. “Stew!” She declared, and then set to organising herself and the duvet, which was slipping down off her shoulders. Soon she fell completely quiet; caught up in eating every last morsel and drop of her dinner.

Daryl had taken a seat on the old armchair, which he had angled away from the TV. He watched her as he ate, his brows raised. “Ain’t never seen someone enjoy a can o’ beef stew that much before.”

Fiadh was scraping the sides of the can, scooping up what was left of the gravy. She licked the spoon completely clean and then let out a contented sigh. “Better than oatmeal,” she said dismissively. Then she put the can down and added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s one of the things from home I miss.”

“Stew?”

“Mhm. Well, food in general.” The fingers on one of Fiadh’s hands started to curl around the frayed thread edges of the blanket she was gripping, and her gaze slipped to the side, toward the fire. “Stew was always my fav. Like, a proper Irish stew.” She glanced quickly back over at Daryl to make sure he knew what she meant. “Traditionally it’s s’posed to be made with mutton, but beef works nicely, too. Red wine, half a can of Guinness, garlic, onion, lots of spuds and whatever veggies ya like. But the secret is to leave it on the lowest of heats, overnight. Some freshly baked bread the next day, globs of Kerrygold butter and Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, melts in your mouth.” She grinned. Fiadh was a terrible cook, but there wasn’t a person in Ireland who didn’t know how to rustle up a decent winter-warmer.

“Sold,” he muttered, dropping his own can to the ground. “So’s it just the food? Ya ain’t got family that your missin’, too?”

Fiadh’s gaze grew wary. She looked at him for a few moments, recognising the question for what it was: a probe. It caught her by surprise. There’d almost been an unspoken moratorium on personal questions between them, ever since they’d first met. They talked about issues as they happened. They seemed to check in on each other a lot - she had noticed that, and she liked it. But this was something different, she thought.

“I miss parts of my life back there,” she said eventually, after a drawn-out silence. “And I have a big family. But I don’t miss all of them.” She picked the bottle of booze back up and raised it to her mouth. “I’ve got six siblings,” Fiadh said casually, before taking a swig.

“Six!?” Daryl repeated. It looked like he was taking a moment to wrap his head around that.

“One sister, five brothers.”

“Dang. Your mama liked kids.”

“Nah.” Fiadh took another drink, her mouth curving downwards. “My ma liked men.” She swiped her tongue across her lips, and her hand slid beneath the blanket to touch the lengthy scar on her collarbone. “I left home when I was fifteen,” she said, but didn’t elaborate on that point. That, and everything that went with it, was a different story for a different day. Instead, she began to explain why she had reacted the way she had back at the river.

“My sister Cora was twelve at the time. I promised that I’d come back for her, that I’d take her with me when I went. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t get her. My hands were tied until I turned eighteen. Charlie - Charlotte - reminded me a lot of Cora. Full of questions, lots of attitude, y’know?” A quick smile blossomed and then faded just as quickly when Fiadh thought of the girl at the Sandy Creek camp.

“I couldn’t get back for Cora all those years ago. And I didn’t get back for Charlie. And then I saw her, in the river, and I dunno Daryl, something just kind of snapped. Like I’d been holding all of this shit together with spit and twine and all of a sudden I just couldn’t anymore.”

“‘Course ya can’t,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse, like it was the first time he’d spoken in days. “Ain’t all yours to hold.” He was eerily still, sitting in the old armchair. Every now and then she would see the light from the fire reflected in his eyes as he looked only at her.

“Logically,” she said, tapping the side of her head, “I know it’s not my fault. I know I ran away from those fuckers with their machine guns and I know I had no other choice. But then I kept running. I feel like I’m always running. Shit gets tough, or uncomfortable, off I go. Where’s Fiadh? I dunno, she’s fucked off.” She waved her hand and took another sip from the bottle. She’d long stopped feeling the thud in her back and side.

“Ya didn’t run on us when shit got tough.”

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing at Daryl and his infernal need to always argue with her. “Yeah, well, I ran from Sandy. I could’ve come back. Could’ve checked to see if there was anything I could do.”

“Yeah, but then ya wouldn’t be there to shoot that fucker at Woodbury. Or watch my back when I found Merle. Or help us run The Governor outta the prison.”

Fiadh’s lips came together and she blew, making a raspberry. “Youse could have done all that shit without me.”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging, “But there ain’t no doubt in my mind that if we needed ya, we’d have ya.”

There was something to the simple power of this belief that threatened to break Fiadh’s heart in two. She sucked in a shaky breath and forced down the emergent tears, her nails digging into her palm. She was definitely drunk. “Stop being nice to me,” she told him, her words coming out a little slurred.

“What other way am I gonna be?”

“I don’t know. Grouchy.”

Daryl rolled his eyes at her. He did that a lot around her, she’d noticed. He planted his boots on the ground and stood, his hand reaching into his shirt pocket as he moved to sit next to her on the sofa.

She angled herself a little so that she could face him, keeping her injuries away from the back of the sofa.

“Y’know what this is?” He asked, pulling something red from his pocket and holding it up for her to see.

“A flower,” she declared with a smirk.

“Oh, har har, funny Fairy. ‘Course it’s a fuckin’ flower.” Daryl leaned in, twirling the stem between his index finger and thumb. She leaned in too, giving it her proper attention.

The bloom was a vivid red with an orange throat, opening up like a trumpet. Its small leaves were heart-shaped and a very subtle, fresh scent filled the air as he moved it. “The Red Mornin’ Glory,” he said, his focus on the flower between them, “Or the Redstar. Or the Scarlet Creeper.” That last one, for some reason, made him smirk. “Ain’t native to Georgia, y’know. Come from somewhere else, far away. It found its way here an’ took over. Butterflies an’ hummingbirds come from miles for it. Find it on roadsides, bushes, vines… It’s strong. Adapts to its environment.”

Her first impulse was of course just to tell him it was very pretty, and to quip that he certainly knew more about plants than he did about stars, but then, after a few moments of it working through her moonshine-addled brain, the real meaning behind what he was saying became clear.

Fiadh reached out, her hand brushing over his, to take the single flower he was offering her. She brought it closer to her, the soft petals brushing her nose as she inhaled its subtle fragrance. “Daryl Dixon…”

He ducked his head, fidgeting a little when she said his name.

She looked at him and smiled. “I’m really, really glad you climbed in the window of that daycare.”

She didn’t last much longer; he reckoned maybe ten minutes before her breathing had levelled out and her eyes had closed. Once upon a time he might have been thankful for the silence, but without her teasing and yapping, he was just left with his thoughts.

Daryl’s thoughts were many and very loud. He replayed their fight at the river, then the almost paralysing fear that had stabbed through him when the trap had sprung, and of course, that moment in their hidey-hole. Fiadh hadn’t mentioned it since, and he’d decided he definitely wouldn’t. There didn’t seem to be a point.

She had stuffed the Morning Glory into the strap of her bra and curled up with a smile.

She looked like a burrito on the sofa. Or a caterpillar, cocooned safely in that ridiculous blanket. Quietly, he made his rounds, keen to stay awake but needing his mind to be busy. He did a perimeter check. He found the store of wood in a covered tub outside and replenished their fire. He picked through the rest of the cupboards and he turned her drying clothes. Finally, when there was nothing left to do, Daryl sat back down.

At some stage, her feet ended up on his lap. It was right before his head drooped and his eyes fluttered shut. Sleep had come for him.

The floor creaked. Fiadh was gone.

Daryl was wide awake, his hand reaching for the crossbow propped up against the arm of the sofa. But he was too late.

“Do not move,” came the intruder’s heavily accented order. The cocking of a pistol followed.

Chapter Text

By the time Fiadh had stirred from her sleep, the fire was dying. But in the distance she could make out faint birdsong, letting her know that dawn was almost upon them. She pushed the blanket down and peered over at Daryl, who was asleep at the end of the sofa. Her feet were in his lap, one of his hands loosely encircling one of her ankles.

She sat up slowly, tentatively testing out the damage. Her head protested with a slight thump; that was courtesy of the moonshine. Her back and side were aching, her torso stiff, but she did have movement. Carefully, Fiadh pulled her feet back toward her and then pressed them to the ground. She was being as quiet as she could, not wanting to wake Daryl up. He was a light sleeper at the best of times; that’s if he actually slept, so she was surprised when he didn’t move or make any protest. Emboldened, she pushed some of the blanket onto his lap, transferring some warmth.

It was then that she felt the true chill in the air. She stood, wearing nothing but her underwear, and treaded lightly to the kitchen chair, whereupon Daryl had hung her wet clothes. They were dry to her touch when she reached out, so she pulled her leggings on first, followed by her vest top. Her face twisted in pain, but she kept a lid on any outbursts this time. Lifting her arms above shoulder height seemed to cause the most problems, along with any kind of quick or extensive torso rotation. It wasn’t the best situation.

But then, it wasn’t the worst either.

Eyeing the half-dozen or so food cans that Daryl had lined up on the countertop at some stage during the night, Fiadh thought it would be nice to have something warm for breakfast. She picked up her gun and shoved it down the back of her waistband as she walked toward the back door, not bothering with her jacket or her boots.

She stepped out into the crisp, fresh air, and resisted the urge to suck in a giant lungful of the lovely stuff. She’d just have to settle for a dainty sniff instead, mindful as she was of her bruised ribs.

The covered tub filled with logs was right next to the door, pushed flush against the wall beneath the dirty kitchen window. Fiadh pulled the tarp back and was deliberating over the choicest bits of timber when she heard a series of sounds. Sounds that definitely didn’t belong.

She paused and stilled her body, though her brow furrowed in concentration. It came again, and it was then that she recognised it: several tin cans, rattling together. Someone’s early warning system.

Fiadh slowly pulled the gun from her waist and put her back to the house. Now wide awake and hangover forgotten, all of her senses kicked into gear as she cast about, searching for signs of a walker. She slid the pistol’s safety off.

The next sound she heard was the front door opening, very softly. Last time she checked, zombies couldn’t do that. She gritted her teeth and flattened her back against the wall next to the back door. From inside, she heard a voice.

With both hands holding her gun at an angle away from her body, she inched closer and closer toward the doorway. She peered around and into the cabin, catching sight of a man closing in on the living area, gun raised.

“You raise your arms. You will be turning around.”

She blinked, the decidedly French voice almost knocking her concentration.

Almost.

Despite the blinding pain in her side, she turned and slid smoothly into the cabin, holding to her usual form. Her bare feet made no sound as she moved within, each silent step taking her closer to the danger. Daryl was in the process of turning toward the intruder, his hands raised, when he caught sight of her.

She aimed at the back of the man’s head. “Drop it,” she commanded, her voice low. “Now. Drop the gun to the floor.”

His back tensed, but he made no move to comply. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, a white-hot anger catching fire inside of her, telling her to drop this person where he stood for pointing his gun at Daryl.

“I promise I will put a bullet in your brain if you don’t point that fucking thing somewhere else.” Her grip tightened, her finger was ready to squeeze.

“I think if you were to kill me, you may have done it before, no?”

There was something about the voice. The choice of words. Smug. Fiadh could see only his hair, which was dark and cut tight, and the brown skin of the back of his neck.

And the scarf. It was a football scarf. It was an Arsenal scarf.

“Raphaël?”

“Fifi?” The arm holding the gun dropped. The man was turning. “Est-ce vous…?”

Daryl vaulted over the sofa, flinging himself at Raphaël and effectively body-slamming him to the ground. Fiadh had to hop to the side and out of the way to escape the crashing bodies. Raphaël’s gun was knocked from his grasp, and it slid across the floor. Daryl, already recovered from his tackle, was trying to subdue the man beneath him.

Daryl had a hold of the scarf, and Raphaël was enthusiastically boxing Daryl’s biceps. “Raphaël!” She shouted freely at him, now completely sure of who he was. “Arrête ça. Tout est bon, mec! Daryl, don’t hurt him, he’s a friendly.” Sure, that friendly had just been pointing a gun at Daryl, which was reason enough for him to receive a world of hurt, but Raphaël hadn’t known any better. She bent down to pick up his gun.

When she straightened up, her eyes were pulled immediately to the silhouette in the front doorway.

The sun had begun to rise, and its light streamed past the boy with the dirty blonde curls as he stood there, staring. She looked at him and found she had no words. Fiadh stepped around the two scuffling men, not once taking her eyes off the kid. And when she reached him, she grabbed him and pulled him into a very tight hug.

It took several minutes for Daryl to stop pacing. Not that Fiadh could blame him; anyone would be amped up with the adrenaline after an exchange like that. She was leaning up against the back of the sofa, her arms crossed against her chest. She was giving a very casual impression, but her eyes were sharp and watchful, and her arse cheeks were clenched. Fiadh was ready to move if needed.

She hoped she wouldn’t need to, but Raphaël, well, he hadn’t changed.

“Tell me what happened,” she asked of the Frenchman.

“Arrêtez votre chien—”

“English, Raph.” Fiadh’s tone was as sharp as her stare as she interrupted. It drew his attention from Daryl, who had retrieved his crossbow and seemed ready to use it. “Is there anyone else?”

He rolled his eyes at her order, but he gestured toward the kid, who was still standing in the doorway. “I find him… maybe… five nights.” Raphaël pointed behind him with his thumb, signifying he meant before - in the past. “Doing circles. No others.” He went back to fixing his precious scarf, all while giving Daryl some vicious side-eye.

Fiadh nodded and looked over at the young teen. “Reese,” she began, her expression softening as she indicated toward the other presence in the room, “This is Daryl. He’s my friend.” Then she looked at Daryl himself. “Daryl, this is Reese. Charlie’s brother.”

Daryl was chewing on the inside of his cheek. She knew that he was thinking, knew that he was biting back something he wanted to say. It was likely he’d already figured out who the kid was, but it wasn’t until he got the confirmation from her that he straightened his arm and lowered his crossbow. “Hey,” was all he said in the end.

Reese was looking at Daryl with what Fiadh thought seemed like a mixture of awe and alarm. But he cleared his throat and after a moment, he spoke. “Hey.”

Fiadh couldn’t help it, the corners of her mouth twitched very slightly with amusement at the brevity.

“Et moi? I am, how you say, the chopped liver?”

“And this is Raphaël. Both he and Reese were in my old group. Raph, this is Daryl.”

“Enchanté,” he declared to Daryl, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Despite herself - perhaps it was the relief of finding Reese coming into play - Fiadh snorted a laugh. Daryl turned a sharp, warning glare toward her. She pressed her lips together, stemming any further mirth.

“Y’all been out here alone this whole time?” He asked, looking at Reese first, then Raphaël. “How’d ya escape the Woodbury attack?”

Both Raphaël and Reese looked at Fiadh, though only the former spoke. “... Woodbury?”

She nodded. “There was a town called Woodbury. It was kind of like a stronghold, I guess you could call it. They were a very large group. Some of their people were the ones responsible for what happened to the camp at Sandy Creek.”

Raphaël was frowning as he concentrated on her words, trying to keep up with what she was saying while also performing the mental translation into his second language. Finally, he hit on something. “Were? They are no longer..?”

“We took care of ‘em,” Daryl said.

With dark brows raised, Raphaël began to nod, looking like the picture of satisfaction. Reese was back to staring at Daryl, but his expression was not as easily deciphered.

“Good.”

All eyes turned toward Reese, who shifted a little from one foot to the other. With a glance toward Fiadh, he started to open up. “Me and Charlie were on wash-up with Mrs. Dudek. We were down at the creek when the guns started going off. Mrs. Dudek… she… she just ran away. Left Charlie and me there. We tried to follow her, but we didn’t know what was going on. The guns and the screams were getting so loud, so we hid.”

Fiadh swallowed against the lump building in her throat. The cabin was deathly still, like it and everyone else inside it were holding their breaths, waiting. The only sound was Reese’s voice. The way he was talking, devoid of inflection or even emotion, reminded Fiadh of how Carl sometimes spoke about his mother. Reese spoke like that, with a kind of numb detachment. His eyes were far away, focused on another place.

“We crawled inside a dead tree. It was hollow, and it smelled like the firepit at camp.” He sniffed, as though smelling it all over again. “We were there for a while. Lost track of time. But then it started to get dark, and I- I knew I had to go back there. And see.” He squared his shoulders. “I told Charlie to stay there. I know she’s older than me or whatever, but it’s part of my job to protect her. That’s what our mom had said. ‘Look after each other’. So I told her to stay and I walked back to the camp. There was b-blood everywhere.”

“I saw Dad,” the boy continued, stuttering at times but ruthless in his retelling of the horror story. “He’d been shot a couple times, but I think it was one in his stomach that was the worst. He was still awake when I got there. I tried to help, but I didn’t know what to do. I talked to him for a little while. ‘Bout Mom, and Charlie, and the Bulldogs. Then he was gone, and I knew I had to… had to do it.”

“I did it with my knife, just like we were shown. Then I left him there. It felt so wrong to leave him there, but I had to get back to Charlie…”

Finally, Reese’s eyes refocused, looking right at Fiadh. “But she wasn’t there. She was gone. I looked everywhere for her. I looked all over.”

“I’m so sorry, Reese,” Fiadh whispered, her hands closing into fists. She was so sorry for so much. For not being there, for what he’d had to do for his dad, and for what she was about to tell him about his sister. She cleared her throat and spoke again, getting directly to the point. He didn’t want to know about her sorries, he’d want to know about his sister. “I saw Charlie. She’s gone.”

Reese nodded slowly. Fiadh continued to watch him, though she did not know what she was waiting for. If it was tears or a tantrum, she was about to be disappointed.

“I figured.”

And that was it; just quiet acceptance. Silence reigned for a short while, broken by Raphaël. “I find him near the camp,” Raphaël said. “He was very cold and had the starvation.”

“An’ you?” Daryl asked Raphaël, his tone slightly accusatory to Fiadh’s ears.

“Me? I was doing my traps.” He glanced questioningly at Fiadh. When she shrugged and made no sign of stepping in, Raphaël sneered at Daryl. “I did not go to camp for many days. I am not stupide. I find this cabane, and I stay.”

“That net trap near the creek, s’yours?”

“Oui, she is mine.”

Daryl fell silent again. Fiadh picked up the questions. “So you’ve been staying here since it went down?” She glanced around then, understanding how it was so tidy. Raphaël had always been very orderly.

“It is comfortable, no? Jusqu'à l'arrivée non invitée.”

“Oh trust me, Raph, we’re better guests than most out there,” she said wryly.

“How many fuckin’ languages d’you speak!?” Daryl shot at her out of nowhere, clearly still pissed off.

“Who the fuck cares?” She snapped back, irritation of her own bubbling up. Whatever this issue was between her and Daryl, or Daryl and Raphaël, she didn’t want to get into it. Right then, her priority was Reese, and dealing with the sad bomb he’d just dropped.

“Les Américains,” Raphaël bemoaned, his eyes rolling up toward the ceiling, his hands clasping together in prayer.

“You, whisht,” she warned, pointing at Raphaël. She could feel the tension rolling off Daryl. Attempting to divert everyone’s attention, Fiadh pushed herself away from the sofa and got closer. “We’re living in a prison,” she began, her eyes on her two old camp mates. “It’s a really good group, filled with really good people. We’re planning on staying and improving the conditions.”

“A prison?” Raphaël repeated, making sure that he’d heard right.

“Yes. With concrete walls and defensive towers. We’ve got somewhere for you to sleep, stay warm, and we’ve got supplies. Come with us.”

Finally, Reese stepped away from the door, closer to the others.

“Fiadh.”

She turned the brewing, encouraging smile away from the kid, and glanced over at Daryl.

“Outside.”

He turned on his heel and headed straight through the back door. Fiadh frowned at Daryl’s retreating back, but after only a moment’s hesitation, she held up a hand, motioning for the others to stay put, and followed.

He rounded on her as soon as her bare feet hit earth.

“Your buddy’s a dick,” Daryl grumbled, stepping right up to her when she stopped.

“Yeah,” she said simply.

“How has someone not put a bolt in his head?”

“Well, he is pretty useful. Raph is an engineer. He’s actually really smart.” Fiadh shrugged, though her gaze was wary, her eyes flickering across Daryl’s face and then down toward his puffed-out chest.

“You his li’l cheerleader, huh? Figures.”

Fiadh’s face scrunched up with distaste. “Now who's being a dick?” Fucking men, she swore to herself, suddenly sick of them all and their assumptions.

Daryl blinked, looking taken aback. What it was that had surprised him, she wasn’t sure, but there was a shift in his tone. “Look,” he said, his voice lower, “The kid, I get. I ain’t got no problem with that, Fiadh, I understand it. But him? Don’t trust ‘im.”

“Why not?”

“Ya heard ‘im talk ‘bout stayin’ away for days after.”

“Isn’t that what I did? Stay away from the danger?”

He shook his head, biting down on his bottom lip.

“What, so it’s one rule for me, another for him?” She challenged.

“Ain’t the same thing, Fiadh,” he said, his voice beginning to raise again. “An’ we can’t jus’ go ‘round, bringin’ home ev’ry stray we find.”

“Sure we fuckin’ can. Isn’t that what we did with the poxy Woodberries?” When he didn’t answer straight away, she pressed on, frowning up at him as her cheeks reddened with emotion. “It’s the right thing to do, Daryl! I know you know that. I know you agree, so stop being so fucking contrary.”

He turned away from her, his arm waving in the air in dismissal. “Fine!” He growled, but he twisted slightly to point his finger back toward the house. “But we gotta ask the questions.”

“Fine!” She said too, throwing up her own arms as she turned and stomped back into the cabin. “Hey, Raph, how many Undies have you killed?”

Raphaël looked very amused. He had the kind of face that you might see on someone engrossed in a good soap or telenovela. All he was missing was some popcorn.

“I do not know this. Many.”

“How many people have you killed?” She stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed and looking stern.

“Personnes? Zero.”

“Great. Get packing. Take only the stuff you really need. I’m gonna mark this spot on my map and we can come back on a run to get the rest.” She picked up her socks and boots and moved around the sofa to sit down in front of the cooling fire. While she laced up, she eyed the dark green blanket, mouth pursed with thought.

“You taking this?” She asked, grabbing a handful of it and holding it up so that Raphaël could see it. “The Himalayan duvet.” Reese was busy dropping all the cans of food into his backpack, but Raphaël had taken a seat at the table, and was watching Daryl, who was watching everyone.

“Ew, non. I do many times the washing, but I still smell the dead man I find underneath it.”

Fiadh startled, working through the response for a moment, but then she shrugged. She probably should have been grossed out that it had been covering a dead body, undoubtedly of the person who’d owned the cabin, but she couldn’t smell anything. Besides, there was nothing that they had on them that hadn’t, at one stage, belonged to someone else. That was the way of things now.

With a small smile, Fiadh stood and began to roll the giant blanket.

“That ain’t gon’ fit on the bike, Fiadh,” Daryl muttered from his spot against the wall. He’d already pulled on his jacket, his crossbow resting against the wings sewn on the back.

“I’m gonna make it fit,” she declared. She glanced at Raphaël. “You got duct tape?”

“But, of course!” He said, as though the mere question to an engineer of all people was an insult. He pulled a silvery roll out of his backpack and tossed it to her. Moments later, the cabin was filled with sounds of tape tearing and creative curses.

Fiadh’s new-old best friend had said there were cars on the bridge still with gas in them. Daryl happened to know the bridge in question; he’d recently been on it, trying to save a family from a herd. Merle had been with him. At the mention of Yellow Jacket, he had tensed. Fiadh had looked at him closely, but then had skirted around him without a word and caught up with Reese.

She’d been trying to get some conversation out of the kid for the last twenty minutes or so, while they trudged back along the path they’d taken the night before. The path toward the net trap, and her weird little swords.

Daryl tried to distract himself by keeping an eye on their surroundings as the small group walked through the woods, watching especially for any straggling walkers. But the place was deserted, both of undead and living. There was no sign of anything worth hunting, either. The storm had flushed everything out.

He told himself that he found his attention wandering back to her because of the lack of action. Her hair was still loose and had dried in soft waves. He honestly didn’t know if he wanted to tug on it - hard, or just touch it. She’d fashioned another pack of sorts with the rolled-up blanket, snagging some bungee cords from Raphaël and tying them into straps. It gently bumped against her back as she walked, stopping right above the small of her back, right where the curve of her ass began.

Daryl gulped and looked away quickly. He’d be better off thinking about Merle.

“I am not your… your threat, you understand?” Raphaël had slowed down, waiting for Daryl to catch up so he could speak to him.

Daryl just glared. And then the guy had the nerve to chuckle at him.

“She is not for me. How do you say? Not my type.” When that still got no response, Raphaël pressed onward. “Ma Fifi, she is marvellous, c’est vrai, it is true. But I do not like the women.”

Raphaël stepped closer and bumped his arm off Daryl’s. “I am gay.”

Automatically, Daryl pulled his arm back, caught off-guard by the unexpected contact. Raphaël mistakenly took it to mean something else, and chuckled again. “Do not worry, Wild Man. You are not my type, either. I like pretty.”

And with a smug smile, he picked up his pace, calling out for Fiadh and Reese to wait for him. It was then, once he’d processed the weirdest conversation he’d had in months, that Daryl realised Raphaël had called him not pretty. He huffed out a laugh.

The trees began to thin out a little as they approached the small clearing where Fiadh had tripped the trap. Daryl pulled his crossbow off his shoulder and did a quick sweep of the area; memories of the night before coming like flashes as he did so. Fiadh was still for a moment, he reckoned caught up in the same thing, but then just as quickly she was moving. She all but fell on one of the short swords.

Raphaël, meanwhile, did fall, right on his net. “Philistines! Fucking philistines!” He groaned as he fingered the cut holes in his creation. He began to gather up what remained of his trap, muttering many things in French. Daryl ignored him.

Reese, though, seemed interested in Fiadh’s swords. She had recovered its twin, along with the harness, and she wasted no time in explaining what they were to the kid as soon as she spotted the mild curiosity on his face.

He was keen to get moving, but still Daryl waited for Raphaël to collect whatever he wanted to salvage from his trap, and for Fiadh and Reese to finish their weapons talk before he spoke up. “Let’s keep movin’. Got another couple miles to Yellow Jacket.”

Irritatingly, it turned out that Raphaël had been right about the cars, and one of the station wagons started without issue. From the passenger seat, Daryl directed him to the spot they’d left the bike, and hopped out once they closed in. He wasn’t expecting Fiadh to follow him out; she hadn’t said a word to him since the cabin, but he didn’t react.

“Three,” she said, finally breaking the silence. She was helping to pull the branches off, revealing the bike camouflaged underneath. Daryl glanced at her, a fleeting look of confusion passing over his face.

“Three languages,” Fiadh clarified, answering the question he’d barked at her earlier that morning. “I can speak three languages well. Maybe two others not so well. Though I can order a beer in at least a dozen countries.”

With each of them taking a side, they pushed the bike back onto the dirt track. Nearby, the car was turning around, almost ready to get going to their new home.

Fiadh kept talking, though she wasn’t looking at him. “English at home. I went to an Irish school from the age of four, where everything was taught through Irish. In secondary school, I did six years of French, which is pretty normal in Ireland. But when I was older, I took a job with a troupe in Paris and I lived there for two years.”

“Oh, well, la di fuckin’ da.”

Green eyes flashed upward, finally, to meet his, and to his surprise she started laughing. “Oh, fuck off, Daryl,” she told him, still grinning as she reached out over the bike to thwap him on the arm. But before she could connect, his hand intercepted hers, and took a hold of her wrist.

“Still don’t like ‘im,” he told her. He felt the same way as before, but there was no anger left.

Fiadh sighed, but in true fashion, wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Raphaël was sent over here by Air France to consult on some construction project at Hartsfield-Jackson. When everything went to shit, he really struggled. He had some English of course, from school, but nothing really prepares you for being surrounded by natives. Y’all with your drawls and your charming, Southern phrases, and no patience for anything but your own tongue.” She looked at him meaningfully. Daryl didn’t feel as though he should be sorry for that - it wasn’t his problem - but he released her wrist all the same and stayed quiet.

“When we met, we spent a lot of time together, because all of a sudden he had someone he could talk to. I helped him with his English, and he got better. But when he couldn’t manage it himself, especially the more technical kind of stuff, I did it for him. He’s not a bad person, Daryl. It’s just that sometimes his humour gets a little lost in translation.”

For a long moment, he studied her. He was trying to sort out his thoughts, but he found it very difficult not to be swayed as she pleaded the case. “Alright,” he mumbled. “Don’t trust ‘im, but I trust you. That’s enough.”

Her smile was quick, and wide, and had turned into a full-on beam before he even had the chance to blink. He couldn’t help but stare, so he did. Right up until the asshole in the car honked the horn.

Daryl rolled his eyes at her, looking away. “Lost in translation, huh?” He mounted the bike. “C’mon, ya calamity,” he said, kicking the bike stand, “Ya gonna stand there grinnin’ like a fool all day, or what?”

She climbed on behind him, wasting no time in making herself comfortable. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when he felt something against him.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she whispered, her lips grazing the shell of his ear. The sensation of the soft, fluttering touch and the feeling of her warm breath against his skin sent a wave of goosebumps down his neck. “I owe you one.”

She didn’t really owe him anything, but he couldn’t tell her that, because he felt struck dumb. So instead he just started the engine, letting the sound of the roar fill the silence. Fiadh eventually sat back, her chin leaving his shoulder. But when they reached the main road, her hands slid up beneath his jacket, searching for warmth.

To his shock, to his utter horror, it was fast becoming something he looked forward to. This woman had somehow managed to crawl up under his skin and take root, fucking his shit royally up.

Chapter Text

Hershel was waiting in the courtyard as they pulled up. Fiadh had come to expect it; he seemed to make a point of being there to greet everyone when they returned. By the time Daryl killed the engine though, Rick, Carl and Carol had joined them, all coming from different directions.

Gladly, Fiadh stepped into Hershel’s open arm, returning the half-embrace. Of course, the eagle-eyed older gent did not miss the slight wince of pain she gave at the contact, and even more typically, Daryl didn’t miss the opportunity to interfere.

“She fell,” he told Hershel, eyes down as he detached his crossbow from the bike.

“Snitch!” Fiadh gasped at the betrayal.

“You fell?” Hershel asked, his raised brows suggesting disbelief.

“Nothin’ graceful ‘bout it, neither,” Daryl added as a parting shot. He flung his crossbow and pack over his shoulder and stalked off, headed straight for Rick.

Fiadh made a face, but otherwise ignored him. She turned to Hershel and offered him a slight grin. “Ribs, I think. We can talk about it later, though. I want to introduce you.” She gestured toward the station wagon as it slowed to a stop. They’d followed at a slight distance, to give Fiadh and Daryl a chance to explain the new presence.

Raphaël was the first to get out. He barely looked at her, or anyone else, all of his attention for the building in front of him. He muttered a couple of French words and then started walking off in the opposite direction. Reese was a little more cautious.

The kid’s eyes peered over the top of the passenger door. He’d gotten out of the vehicle at least, Fiadh thought, but he didn’t seem keen to move any further away from his shield. She brought Hershel, who got the read of the situation without any prompting, to meet him halfway.

“Reese, this is Hershel. He’s one of the leaders here. Hershel, this is Reese. He and Raphaël over there - that’s the one walking around, muttering to himself like a madman - were in my old group. The one I was in before I found youse.”

“Hello,” Hershel said with a smile, and Fiadh could see a glint in his eye. “You can come out, young man. I promise I don’t bite. And even if I tried, I’m pretty sure you could outrun me.” With a chuckle, he waved at the spot where his right foot used to be.

At first Reese’s face was the picture of surprise, but then there was a ghostly flicker of something that looked just a bit like mischief to Fiadh. Something of what he had been before. He stepped away from the car and let the door swing shut. He shuffled a bit and fidgeted with the strap of his backpack, but he spoke. “Hey.” Reese stepped a little closer, looking at Hershel with some curiosity. “Were you bit?”

“I was.”

“FIFI!” The interruption was Raphaël shouting at her from near Tower 1, and he continued to until he got back to within normal speaking distance. Both Rick and Daryl had been watching the Frenchman’s every step. Rick’s hand was at his hip, hovering within drawing distance of his gun. Fiadh clenched her jaw.

“Fifi, why is this turret exploded? Hmm?” He demanded, ignoring everyone else. “And why is this barrière just so, Fifi? Why no… no frame? Foundation?” Raphaël put his hands on his waist and looked around, shaking his head and tut-tutting. “It is all terrible. It is bad management.”

“Relax, Raph,” she said, her tone light, though she was watching the others like a hawk. “We’re rebuilding after dealing with Woodbury.”

“I arrive just in time to save you all.”

Carol had her lips pressed together, trying not to laugh. Carl had been eyeing up Reese, but his attention switched pretty quickly to Raphaël. And his father looked none too impressed... But Fiadh knew Rick was no fool.

“You were in construction, before?” Rick asked, lowering his head and looking at Raphaël with that intense way he had.

“I am a civil engineer!”

Fiadh could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. She was about to attempt to diffuse the tension when Hershel got there first.

“Well, any friend of Fiadh’s is welcome here,” he said kindly. Rick and Daryl exchanged a glance. “It’s nice to meet you both. Let’s get you inside and see if we can’t get you settled in a bit.”

“Come on,” Carol said, “I’ll show you around. You both must be starving!” She held out an arm to usher Reese forward, catching Fiadh’s eye as she did so. Carol was a master at picking up on atmosphere, and she’d slid automatically into her role.

“I am certain inside will be improvement, Madame,” Raphaël declared, following in Carol's wake with his arms out, palms upward.

“Go on,” Fiadh told Reese, who seemed to hesitate. “I’ll unpack and see you inside.” He gave a short nod and turned away just as Carl sidled up next to her.

“Give me a hand?” She asked him, moving around to the trunk.

“Sure.”

Rick was still staring after the others as they disappeared into the prison. “He’s…” He seemed to cast about, looking for the right words. “Interesting.”

Daryl scoffed. “One way o’ puttin’ it.”

With an arched brow, Rick turned around toward the car, watching as Fiadh and Carl began to empty the trunk. “You trust him?”

The headache started to thump. Raphaël had always been a hard sell at first. Some of the old group had never taken to him at all, but he’d never done anything to harm anyone. “I do.” She hooked one of the bags around Carl’s neck. “But he is Marmite.”

“Marmite?” Carl echoed, and she looked up quickly, realising then with a quick glance at the others that nobody knew what she was talking about.

“It’s this really dark, thick, yeasty spread. You have it on toast. People either love it or hate it, there’s absolultely no in-between.”

Hershel loosed a chuckle. “Yeah. Yes, I can see that.” He reached out a hand to Daryl, laying it on his arm as he moved. “Let’s go in, we’ll catch you up on a few developments. Fiadh, drop by later so I can have a look at you.”

“Yessir,” she replied easily. She pulled the last item out of the trunk: the precious Himalayan duvet, then slammed the door shut. Once the others were out of earshot, she spoke only to Carl.

“Do me a favour,” she asked as they began to move toward the prison themselves, thoroughly bogged down by Raphaël’s gear. “Keep an eye on Reese.”

She could practically hear the eye-roll in Carl’s voice when he responded. “Oh, yeah, great, we can have play-dates and we’ll become super best friends forever, just because we’re the same age.”

Fiadh looked over at Carl, who would no doubt be taller than she was soon, and marvelled at the teenage sass he was throwing out. She snorted with amusement. “Totally. Because this is all just like summer camp.”

“Nothing’s like it was.”

The gravel crunched under her feet as she stopped in the middle of the courtyard and turned toward him. “Nothing. But you and Reese both understand that, you actually have a lot in common.”

He looked at her with disbelief, but she pressed on. “During the attack on our camp, Reese’s father was shot, and Reese, well… he had to take care of it himself. And then he lost his sister. He was alone, out there. He knows what it’s like. You know what it’s like. Nobody else in there does, in fact most of them will probably treat him like an alien.”

In truth, Reese was probably going to feel like an alien. For a while, at least. “You wouldn’t treat him differently, though. You get it.”

Carl had a very thoughtful look on his face. The harsh, prickly pre-teen was gone. He nodded. “I get it.”

“So you’ll keep an eye?”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Carlito.” She started walking again. “So, tell me about this library you found…”

It was hours later, when the sun and voices had lowered, that Fiadh found the opportunity to speak with Hershel. He sat on his bunk, his crutch propped up next to him, as he examined her back and side. Her tank top was rolled up and she stood stiffly, eyes fixed on the corner of the cell.

“How does it feel?” He asked.

She pursed her mouth in thought for a moment. “Tender,” she went with.

“Swelling looks normal,” Hershel mused thoughtfully. “Any sense of feeling full or tight in that area?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Nausea, dizziness, sweats?”

“No.”

“Any breathing issues?”

She shook her head. Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she glanced at Hershel, who was beckoning her closer. She leaned down and he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.

“Well,” he said, resting his hands back down on his lap, “From my state-of-the-art medical facility here, I think I can say with 60% confidence that there’s no internal damage.”

“60%?” Fiadh rolled her top down. “Smashing odds.”

“We’ll take what we can get. No strenuous physical activity. Take it easy as much as you can.”

“For how long?” She worried at her bottom lip, not overly enamoured with the idea of being grounded. Grounded inside a bloody prison, of all places.

“Check back in with me in a couple days. The bruising will take maybe two weeks, but I suspect, knowing you, that you'll be flinging yourself around and at things way before that.”

“I do love a fling.”

Hershel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just behave.” He plucked a small bottle of pills off a small side table and offered them to her, rattling the contents a little. “Take two before bed.” He tossed it to her, and Fiadh plucked the bottle out of the air.

“How’ve things been here?” She asked as she stuffed the painkillers into a pocket.

“Busy,” Hershel said, his breath coming out almost like a sigh. But it wasn’t one of frustration or irritation, rather to Fiadh, the man seemed almost content. It was that satisfied kind of sigh that one made after a good day’s work, or in her case back in the day, after a really good practice. “There’s a lot to get done. The Council decided that we’d focus on clearing out the administrative part of the building, and D Block, to meet the new demand.”

She leaned against the end of his bunk, nodding as she listened. “And how are they settling in?”

“Oh, just fine. I don’t think we’ll need to worry much about that.” Hershel levelled a look at her. “Speaking of settling in, Carol put your young friend in the cell next to yours. She thought it might help.”

“Makes sense.” In honesty, Fiadh hadn’t thought that far. In fact, most of her concern had been for whether the others would be able to deal with Raphaël, but having Reese next to someone he knew, someone who was already a part of this group, might help the transition. “He’s been through a lot.”

“It seems everyone from that group has.” He paused for a moment, watching her. When she didn’t bite, he pushed on. “Do you think there are more survivors?”

“I dunno,” she answered, her brows furrowing. “Raphaël said he hasn’t encountered anyone else, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”

“So you want to continue looking.” It was a statement, really. Fiadh just nodded, which prompted another sigh from him. “That’s what I thought.”

She decided to get out before being subjected to his special form of gentle persuasion. It was usually very effective on her. “Gonna go check in on Reese,” she said, fist knocking against the frame of the bunk, fidgeting. “You need anything?”

“I’m good. You take it easy now, you hear?”

“Loud and clear. Thanks Hershel.” She gave him a parting smile. “Oíche mhaith.”

“Goodnight, Fiadh.”

A low din of murmurs greeted her as she stepped outside and approached the stairs. There were still plenty of people about, some had even gathered to speak in the communal area. Fiadh ignored them and instead focused on getting up the stairs without wailing like a banshee. She felt every step, and was reminded with each one that it had been a long few days. Weeks. Months. It had been a long apocalypse.

She followed the flickering light coming from the cell next to hers and paused on the threshold. “Hey,” she greeted Reese, who was sitting on the bunk, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. There was a candle on his bedside table, where he’d also left his knife, but everything else looked untouched. His pack was tucked neatly under the bed.

“Hey.”

He managed to look in her general direction, at least, though his tone was as flat as it had been earlier. She moved inside. “You get something to eat?”

Reese nodded.

“Bit weird being in a prison, huh?”

Reese shrugged, his eyes back on his knife.

Fiadh bit the inside of her cheek. All she wanted to really do was to gather him up into a tight hug and tell him it would be okay. But something told her that would be more for her than it would be for him.

“It’s safe,” she spoke again, “In here. You can let yourself sleep.” Reese had been wandering the wilds alone for some time before Raphaël had discovered him. Being alone often meant that you didn’t sleep. Or if you did, it was fitful and filled with as many horrors as the waking world. She continued, “I’m just next door. If you need anything, just tell me. Doesn’t matter what it is, okay? Daryl is up here too, he’s in the cell down the end.”

Reese met her eye this time. “Okay.”

“We’ll find you something to do tomorrow. To contribute.”

What she should be doing was wrapping this child up in miles of cotton wool, all to never let him out of her sight again. But the reality was that nobody, no matter their age, could afford to be disadvantaged in such a way. Not in this world, not anymore. Besides, a distraction might help Reese.

“Not wash-up,” he said very quickly.

“Not wash-up,” she repeated; a promise. She pointed at the wall they shared. “I’m right there. Get some sleep.” She stepped back, not quite willing to leave him but also unwilling to push him. “I’m really glad you’re here, Reese.”

His response was the expected silence she got. With a small wave, she left him to it, only then noticing the figure just outside.

Daryl had been leaning against the railing, and when she stepped out of Reese’s cell, he cocked his head and started walking. Silently, she followed until they reached the cell at the end of the walkway. Inside, darkness awaited, with the only illumination coming from the candles below on the ground level, and the crescent moon coming through the high windows. Daryl stepped inside and leaned up against the half-shut door. She did the same, facing him.

“He alright?” The question was barely above a whisper. Neither of them would want the conversation to carry.

“I dunno,” Fiadh answered, her hand wrapping around one of the bars as she leaned in closer to respond. “He’s safe. So there’s that. But everything else, I suppose, we’ll have to wait and see.”

“You alright?”

Her eyes met his in the dark. “Grand,” she said.

“What’d Hershel say?”

“That my disgusting excess of personality is terminal.”

“Fiadh.” Daryl, at that moment, wasn't having any of her nonsense.

She sighed, and then rolled her shoulders and ducked her head in almost-defeat. “Just bruising. Said to take it easy for a day or two.”

Daryl was silent for a few moments as he seemed to weigh up her answer. He reached out, hand clasping around the bar just a few inches above hers. “Been asked to take a small team down into the tombs in the mornin’. Your pal reckons there should be ‘nother genny room under the C to D corridor. Ya up for it? Should be mostly cleared out.”

Fiadh didn’t hesitate. “I’m in.” He nodded in response, no sign of any surprise at her volunteering in his expression.

“Be me, you an' Tyreese with ‘im.”

“No Rick?”

“Nah. Says he’s gon' start workin’ on the garden. Teach Carl somethin’ that don’t involve fightin’.” Fiadh blinked a few times, clearly taken aback. “He’s gotta do what’s best for Carl an’ Lil Asskicker. Guess he reckons that’s it.”

“Yeah, I mean, I get it. It’s just…” Fiadh frowned, a brand new concern flickering to life in her mind. But Daryl merely shrugged, so she stowed it and bit her lip, letting her thoughts trail off. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Reese could help; that would be a way of keeping him out of trouble and it wasn’t washing up. It was probably a better option than leaving him to the whims of Raphaël, anyway.

“Where’s Raph?” She asked, changing the subject when her curiosity won out over her self-preservation. “I haven’t heard him in hours.”

“Last I saw, he was down in the Ops room, yellin’ at ev’ryone.”

That familiar stress-thump in her temples returned. “Why?”

“Ain’t happy with us syphoning off gas from the gennies for the cars. Said we’re all ‘morons with no spectacles’, whatever that’s s’posed to mean’.”

“Sounds like he’s planning on getting the power back up,” she mused aloud, resisting the urge to press the heel of her hand into the side of her head. “I’ll go and check on him.”

“Nah, can wait,” Daryl said. “Looked like he was fixin’ to spend the night down there.”

Fiadh fixed him with a pointed stare. “He could be assassinated by morning.”

“Doubt it. I told ev’ryone to direct all their complaints ‘bout ‘im to you.”

Fiadh gaped at Daryl, feeling more and more hard done by with every second that passed. He seemed to find the expression on her face humorous, because his shoulders started shaking a little with ill-hidden amusement. “Oh, wow,” she said, eyes narrowing at him. “Thanks, friend.”

“Ya should get some sleep. Gonna have a busy mornin’ with your new full-time job.”

She leaned in closer and lifted herself up on her toes so that she would be on a level with him when she threatened him. “I hope you know I’m gonna get revenge on you in my dreams.”

“Dreams are the only way ya’d get at me.”

“We’ll see about that, Dixon.”

“Lookin’ forward to it.”

Fiadh started backing up, both hands raised to give him the middle finger, her tongue stuck out.

“Sweet dreams,” Daryl told her, his mouth curved into the kind of grin that would give her own impish smile a run for its money.

“Screw you, elf.”

So witty, much sharp, she told herself, and then to make up for her subpar banter, she blew a long raspberry all the way from his cell to her own.

A few hours later Fiadh was tucking her big blanket around Reese, who was lying on her top bunk, when a shadow fell across the entrance of her sleeping quarters. She knew who it was without looking; so far nobody else had dared to try to get her up this early in the morning.

“When’d that happen?” Daryl murmured.

“Just before sunup.”

She turned away from the sleeping boy and cast about for her shoes. Her Morning Glory was laid atop a book on a small nightstand next to her iPhone. She’d spent no small portion of the early dawn hours looking at the flower, having been awakened by Reese’s sudden appearance. She’d decided to press it, so that she could keep it.

“My guess is he didn’t sleep a wink beforehand,” she continued, her voice a whisper as she stepped into her boots. It was likely that Reese tossed and turned, replayed memories and agonised over what to do before finally just getting up and looking for familiar, safe company. “Think he’s earned a late start.”

Once she’d knotted her laces, Fiadh straightened and pulled the harness with her jian off the metal frame of the bed, where it was hanging. With the small swords in hand, she stepped outside. She paused for a moment to pull the harness on, only wincing minutely at the movement. She was still feeling a bit raw and tender, but her range was definitely improving.

Daryl, who was watching her closely, did not seem as impressed. “Ya up for this?” He stepped closer, arm outstretched to offer a hand as she shrugged one of the straps onto her shoulder.

But she waved him away. “I’m grand. Let’s go be good little contributors.” She started down the stairs, the smell of fresh coffee greeting her and immediately improving her mood.

Chapter Text

“Head of Security, huh?” Fiadh asked, eyes crinkled at the corners behind her shades. She turned the steering wheel, following the lead of the motorbike in front of them. Frankie T’s truck rumbled steadily down the road.

“Yeah, Hershel’s idea. He said we should have someone proactive looking out for that side of things.”

Fiadh’s lips were pursed as she nodded. Her eyes were on Daryl’s back, but she was paying attention to her passenger.

“I think I can do it, Fee,” Glenn said, and she grinned at the earnestness.

“I think you can, too. What we’re doing now, this plan of yours, that’s proof enough of that.”

“This is a joint effort.” Glenn shrugged. “Since we’ve decided for sure that we’re staying here, and now that we have these extra people, it makes sense to do this now. Even if we are all running on near empty.”

These last few nights Fiadh’s sleep had been fitful, yet she had awoken with a sense of anticipation each time. There was something else in the air in the prison that morning: a muted kind of hope. People were being cautious with one another; courteous. Nice. The way strangers tend to be in the beginning when they’re thrown together and forced to figure things out. But there was food and there was purpose, and that purpose did not involve pointing guns at the living.

As far as she was concerned, that was real progress.

“We’ll get it done,” she said, before gesturing with a hand toward the CD wallet on his lap. “You pick your poison yet?”

Glenn made a face as he flicked through some sleeves. “Got any Fall Out Boy in here? Kings of Leon?”

Fiadh chuckled. “On the iPhone, yeah. But Frankie T was a man of classic tastes. Keep going.” Glenn dutifully went back to his study until something caught his eye.

“I know this one,” he said as he slid the disc from its sheath and held it up, finger in the centre hole of the CD like one is supposed to.

Fiadh read the simple print stamped on the disc and nodded readily. “First track will fit perfectly.”

“How do you know what the first track is?”

She glanced over at him. “How can I not? Appetite For Destruction is one of the most influential albums of its era.”

“If you say so.”

Movement up ahead caught her eye. Daryl was raising his fist, indicating that he was about to slow down. Fiadh tapped the brakes and eventually rolled to a stop. Their view through the windscreen was of the herd ahead.

“There’s more,” Glenn pointed out.

Ahead of them, Daryl was kicking out the bike stand. And ahead of him, about a quarter of a mile away, was the ambling group of walkers that were filtering in and out of the breach in the south of the prison. They hadn’t been able to get an exact count, but Fiadh estimated there were more than a hundred of the undead between the south wall and the prison entrance. The road had been impassable for the vehicles, so they had taken a scenic route and looped around.

Daryl appeared at the passenger window. “Reckon 109 to Marker 12, then turn off. Should be ‘nough distance between us an’ them. An’ Woodbury.”

“What’s that, 15 miles?” Glenn asked, though he was frowning toward Fiadh.

She had popped the CD into the player and was fiddling with the volume knob as the opening strains of Guns N’ Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle burst out of the speakers.

“Give or take,” Daryl said, his voice raised over the music, his eyes also on the truck’s driver and DJ. She was playing air drums against the steering wheel. “Might need a second round.”

Glenn nodded. “We can come back around, pick up the stragglers. Fee? Are you listening?”

“Welcome to the Jungle! We got fun and games!” She all but screeched in response, tapping out a beat in time to her Axl Rose impersonation.

“Fiadh!”

“Yeah! What?” She asked. Then she waved a dismissive hand. “I’m gonna back this thing up and then we’re gonna pied piper these rotten motherfuckers.” She returned her attention to her invisible instruments.

“Oh my God,” Glenn muttered, then turned a horrified look toward Daryl. “Please, switch places with me.”

“I wanna watch you bleed!” She sang happily.

“No way, man,” Daryl said immediately, stepping away from the truck. His shoulders shook with a laugh. “This was your idea.” He started walking back toward his bike and tapped the hood. A dozen walkers had broken away from the group and were headed toward them, drawn no doubt by the music. It was a sign to get moving. He pointed at Fiadh and shouted, “Honk if ya run into problems.”

Glenn then hopped out of the truck, crowbar in hand. Daryl was already back on his bike, arching around out of their way and back the way they’d come. Fiadh turned in her seat and tugged open the small sliding window between the cabin of Frankie T’s truck and its car. Once she caught sight of Glenn’s baseball cap, she slammed the truck into reverse and began a three-point turn.

Her passenger was then in the unenviable position of facing the oncoming, shuffling horde from the bed of a truck. To make matters worse, she started backing up toward them.

“‘Ay! Turn it up to ELEVEN!” Daryl shouted at her, right before he took off ahead of them.

With a grin, she twisted the dial until the only thing anyone could hear for miles was the definitive rock anthem. She continued to sing, which included making the guitar sounds, until Glenn gave her the signal. Then they took off at a breakneck speed of six miles per hour, their undead entourage bringing up the rear.

It took about two hours and two more albums before they’d reached the agreed-upon marker. The second run was quicker, without the same need to go quite the same distance with the twenty or so stragglers. But while they’d burned less morning daylight than they’d thought, Fiadh still felt weary.

She knew it wasn’t the physical kind; it was more likely a result of restlessness. There was only so long she could ignore the pressure. She would need to get back out there, and soon. Finding Reese and Raphaël had felt like a massive boon, to be sure, but there was still something niggling at her. They spoke of different things, however, as they walked back into the prison.

“Walkie-talkies would be so useful,” Fiadh agreed with Glenn. It was so obvious that she was kind of embarrassed for not having thought of it sooner. “Are there any here? The other guard stations, maybe?”

“Ain’t got that far in yet,” Daryl said

“We’ll keep an eye out. Add it to the list. Maybe Woodbury…” Glenn was musing, slowing down as they stepped into the communal area of C Block.

“We’d need some way of charging them,” Fiadh pointed out, though her eyes were already moving, scanning for signs of the kid. She saw none, but noticed Carol walking toward them.

“Right. I’m gonna go check in on Frenchie’s repair crew, see if they need an extra hand at the south wall.” Glenn started moving away, his hands raising to massage his temples. “And see if Hershel’s got any painkillers for this headache.”

“Hm?” Fiadh took a moment to catch his meaning. “Oh. Sorry,” she said, her grin sheepish. She probably hadn’t needed to blare the music as loud as she had. The walkers would have followed the truck with Glenn laid out like a buffet without further encouragement, but they’d wanted to be thorough.

“Next time I get to be DJ,” he muttered as he walked off.

“Yeah, right,” Fiadh snorted. Not in my truck.

Carol slowed as she passed Glenn, brows raised at the pinched look on his face. “How’d it go?” She asked, turning toward Fiadh and Daryl.

“It was pretty effective,” Fiadh said, glancing at the man at her side.

“Should buy ‘em ‘nough time to block off the breach,” Daryl agreed.

“So worth missing the council meeting this morning.” Carol’s lips flicked upward in a grin. Daryl snorted in response. For a moment Fiadh wondered if that was why he’d volunteered to be their spotter.

“Anything juicy from the meeting?” She asked Carol, noting that the woman’s smile faltered a little. Their gazes caught, and she hesitated for just a little too long, triggering Fiadh’s suspicion.

“Oh, just the usual. Endless plans, stupid complaints…”

Fiadh frowned. What would people have to complain about? Before she could ask, Carol carried on.

“Now that D is cleared out, people have been claiming their cells. It’s mostly the old Woodbury crew sticking together, which isn’t a surprise, but Hershel…” She trailed off for a moment, mouth pursed as she shrugged.

“He doesn’t like the divide?” Fiadh guessed, prompting a nod from Carol.

“He wants us to intermingle more. Spread us out and make sure that work teams have a mixture of everyone. We also came up with the idea of having regular evening gatherings. Something a bit more laid back than the group meetings.”

“Cozy,” Fiadh deadpanned, glancing over at Daryl, who looked even less enthused.

“The first one will be tomorrow evening. Outside. So don’t you decide to escape on some solo hunting trip, mister,” Carol ordered Daryl, pretending to be stern, but there was a knowing look on her face.

“We got a run planned,” Daryl muttered, arm gesturing between himself and Fiadh. It was the first Fiadh had heard of it, but she wasn’t about to say that. Instead, she just nodded quickly.

“Well, you’ll just have to cut it short, won’t you? Or postpone ‘til the following day.” Carol’s grin broadened. “Sorry, Pookie.”

Fiadh pressed her lips together, smothering a snort of amusement. The dynamic between Daryl and Carol had always intrigued her, but she had worked out that Carol was probably the only person who could say things like that to Daryl and get away with it.

Not even bothering to wait for his response, Carol turned back to Fiadh. “Are you free this afternoon? I thought we could get started on those lessons.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Fiadh said quickly, brows rising as she recalled their discussion from a few days before. Now was as good a time as any to make good on the deal she’d made when she’d taken the jian. “Just give me ten. I need to check in with the kid.”

Carol nodded. “Reese and Carl were in the library last time I checked. Beth is interested, too, so I'll let her know we’re on. Meet you outside in the courtyard.”

She turned on her heel and walked off, sure footsteps echoing around the space. They didn’t cover Daryl’s huff. Fiadh, who was about to make herself scarce, turned to look at him. “What’s wrong, Pookie? Feeling left out?”

He threw her a withering stare. She started to chuckle. “Y’know, you could always come to the lesson. Might learn something,” she offered, walking backward toward the passageway, arms open in overture.

“Nah. Don’t reckon ya could handle me.”

Fiadh laughed as she turned away from him. “Try me, Dixon,” she said as her parting shot, hopping lightly up the steps and disappearing into the dark corridor. Behind her she could hear him muttering about being surrounded by bossy women, which prompted another chuckle.

The amusement stayed clear on her face, though the broad grin morphed into something a little more thoughtful as she walked through the prison alone, marvelling at the strange silence of it. It was still dark and dank, and grey and more than a bit depressing, but it somehow didn’t feel quite as bad as it used to. Not as desolate; empty. It was almost as though as soon as they’d had a chance to stop, to settle and take stock, that the place had felt less like an actual prison.

She passed by a couple of offices, most of which had been relatively usable from the beginning, having been locked and inaccessible to the walkers in the halls. Fiadh thought that one of them would make a great space for Hershel. They could also technically be used as sleeping spaces, should their number grow any further. A curious brow arched once again as she approached the library.

Fiadh stood in the doorway, observing the three bowed, quiet heads. “Find anything good?” She asked, prompting Carl and Reese, who were seated on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books, and Tyreese, who had commandeered the table, to look up with surprise.

“Not really,” came Carl’s reply. Both he and Reese returned to their piles, as though dismissing her presence immediately.

Tyreese answered by holding up a softcover. Fiadh squinted at the title and stepped inside, closer to the table. “House of the Dead? Dostoevsky?” She asked, glancing at the big man with some disbelief. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he responded, a small, almost shy smile forming. “I thought I would make a list of books that were considered classics. For the kids. You know, since they don’t have proper school.”

“What, no Harry Potter?”

“Harry Potter is for babies,” Carl informed the room, not looking up from his page.

“Then I suppose I’m a baby,” Fiadh muttered, eyes widening a little at the force of the moodiness coming from the other corner.

“I suppose I am, too,” Tyreese said. Fiadh caught his eye and they shared a grin. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for anything construction or gardening related, too,” Tyreese went on, and then scooted a little in his chair so he could turn and point toward a smaller pile at the end of the table. “Not much there, but we do have a range of LSAT prep material, just in case you ever felt like, I dunno, taking the bar someday.”

“I think I would actually rather read Dostoevsky,” Fiadh said, a laugh in her voice.

“That’s saying somethin’.” Tyreese added House of the Dead to the top of a pile. A quick glance at their spines told Fiadh that the stack did indeed include various ‘classics’. To Kill A Mockingbird was there, along with Moby Dick and even a battered copy of Dracula. “You a big reader?”

She glanced up at him. “Not lately,” she said, shaking her head as she answered his question. “There just didn’t seem like there was time before. And now…” She gestured around her. “Now I can’t decide if we still have none of it, or if it’s all we’ve got.”

Tyreese looked thoughtful for a minute, considering her words. “I think,” he began, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, “That now more than ever, we should probably make the time.”

Fiadh found herself smiling. “Maybe.”

“Well, when you did read, what did you like? Apart from Harry Potter, of course.” His smile was a little conspiratorial.

“Of course,” she agreed, eyes flickering over to the boys for a second. They were both still pretending not to be listening. “I always enjoyed a thriller,” she confided. She’d seen nothing like that on the table. “Some mystery, too.”

“A good Whodunnit.”

“Yes! Exactly. Let’s me feel intellectually superior if I figure it out before the end.”

“I will keep an eye out for anything fitting that description, then. Put them aside for you.”

“Thanks, Tyreese.” Fiadh couldn’t help but feel a little touched by the sentiment, and somehow felt lighter for the exchange.

“You got it.”

“I’m actually about to do a self-defence lesson outside with Carol and Beth, you’re welcome to come along if you’d like some fresh air?” She offered, wanting to ensure that nobody felt left out.

“That’s a great idea. Thanks… But no, I’m okay here, I think.”

Fiadh nodded, then turned an expectant look toward the two boys. “Lads? How about it, yas interested?”

Reese had actually started to nod, but stopped immediately when he heard Carl’s words.

“Self-defence with a bunch of girls?” He shook his head, and Reese, catching the movement, followed suit and copied it.

Fiadh tried not to show how entertained she was. She had been worried about Reese feeling left out, and was pleased to see that Carl had taken him under his wing; as promised. What she hadn’t expected to happen was that the two of them would combine their powers to become Super-Tween.

“You don’t wanna learn how to kick arse, that’s your loss,” Fiadh told them, her shrug just the perfect amount of nonchalant. She pointed at Reese for a brief moment. “See you at dinner.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” she repeated, then turned, winking at Tyreese as she swept from the library.

They weren’t bad, all things considered. Fiadh stood in front of Carol and Beth, her back to the fence, as the two women slowly performed the string of movements she’d taught them. Both had discarded their jackets some time ago, warm from their physical exertions even though the breeze had a nip to it. It blew across the field, causing the long blades of grass to flutter and bend.

Her eyes weren’t the only ones on the class. Over the course of the last hour, the three women had drawn something of a crowd. Some had stayed to watch with interest, others had merely stopped for long enough to figure out what it was they were doing before carrying on with their work. Under Raphaël’s instruction, a team had managed a temporary fix of some of the fencing, but the importance of that particular job meant that the footfall outside was steady. That was why Fiadh faced them, and why Carol and Beth, her willing students, were facing the woods. They didn’t need to know just how sharp some of those eyes on their backs were.

There was a leanness to most of the people in the prison; borne from a combination of missed meals and near-constant movement. A basic level of fitness was always a good starting point for any teacher of the physical arts.

Fiadh stepped forward to reposition Beth again as the girl wobbled through the basic long forward stance. “Your reach will be your best asset,” she said to her as she gently guided Beth’s elbows lower. She pressed into her lower back, prompting Beth’s spine to straighten in response.

She was all long arms and legs; definitely a plus for any fighter. But Beth was also a little awkward, lacking balance, and while the will was there, the strength behind it wasn’t. At least, not yet.

“What we’ll need to work on is your core.” As Beth returned to a ready stance, Fiadh pressed her hand to her own abdomen. “A strong core helps us maintain the positions that our bodies need to be in. It keeps us stable, and once we’re stable, we can start moving easier, and with more power. Abs, pelvis, spine. I’ll teach you a few exercises that’ll help build you up. Keep going.” Beth nodded, her chest rising and falling with her heavy breaths.

Fiadh moved toward Carol, who snapped into a chest block; the fifth movement in the beginner’s kata Fiadh had concocted after watching them warm up. “You’re like me,” Fiadh told her, a smile appearing as she spoke a little ruefully, “We won’t have the reach that Beth has. But we compensate in other ways.”

She stopped next to Carol, positioning herself just a little in front so that the other woman could see her from multiple angles. “This is first punch. Stomach level.” Fiadh’s feet were planted hip-width apart, one arm tucked into her side as she bent her knees slightly. The other arm, fist extended, shot out. She repeated the move twice more before turning back to Carol. “Show me. First punch.”

Carol executed, and Fiadh nodded. “Good. Again.”

Fiadh began moving around again, eyeing Carol as she punched thin air. “Good. Right hip should swing into it with you.” She got into a ready stance herself, bouncing lightly on her feet before snapping out with first punch. Her body seemed to roll into it. Carol watched and then recreated it perfectly.

“Nice form,” Fiadh said. Then she spoke to both when she noticed Beth was also trying to recreate the move. “Remember that the power doesn’t come from the fist itself. The fist is the tip of the sword. In order to injure your opponent, your body has to push the sword forward.” She stopped next to Beth and reached for her hand. “Thumb on the outside, Beth. If you tuck it into your fist like that you’ll break it when you hit your target.” She stopped in front of Beth and held up her palm. “Show me.”

“You want me to hit you?” Beth asked, surprise leaking through her tone.

Fiadh slapped her palm and held it aloft, higher than she would have for Carol. “Yep. Show me.”

Beth’s punch was half-hearted, perhaps because of her hesitancy. “It’s okay, Beth,” Fiadh told her, slapping her palm again, “You won’t hurt me, I promise. Forget that it’s my hand. Just think about how to make the move, how it’s supposed to feel. Don’t worry about anything else.”

The second attempt was better, with Beth rolling into the punch as instructed, her long arm covering the distance between her body and Fiadh’s hand easily. The third attempt she corrected her elbows, without having to be told. The fourth, Fiadh actually felt.

“Perfect,” Fiadh told her, grinning as she took a step back. “Congratulations ladies, you’ve just learned the first third of your first kata. In record time, too.” Carol wiped her brow with the bottom of her shirt, while Beth leaned over and grabbed her knees. They both looked wrecked, but they were both also smiling. “The idea is to keep drilling through these moves until they become second nature to you. Until they become something you slip into as naturally as breathing. Tomorrow we’ll go back over everything we did today, and I’ll add the next moves. We’ll also go through some techniques for escaping grabs and holds.”

Fiadh started rolling her head in circles. “Now, for cool down, I’m gonna show you a really handy five minute stretch. It gets everything, and it’ll be really good for you both tomorrow when you wake up, stiffer than you’ve ever been in your whole fucking life.”

Carol let out a laugh. “I believe it!” She gave a breathless wave toward Michonne, who was making her way over from the side.

“Alright, shake it out,” Fiadh began, grinning as Michonne joined in for the stretches. “We’re going head to toes.”

The five minute stretch turned into more of a ten minute ordeal, but by the end of it, all muscles had been thoroughly worked, and the sweat had dried on everyone’s brows. Carol was laid out on the ground, her limbs star-fished. Beth was quicker to her feet, to Fiadh’s surprise. “I gotta go get Judith,” she explained as she brushed her blonde hair back with her hands, fixing her ponytail. “Thanks, Fee. Same time tomorrow?”

“Yep. Don’t forget your stretches in the morning!”

“I won’t!” Beth called back, taking off back toward the courtyard in a jog.

“Oh, to be 17 again,” Carol cried from the ground.

“Oh no, pass,” Michonne said with a laugh as she held out her hand to Carol.

“Same. 17. Ugh.” Fiadh shuddered. Carol took Michonne’s hand and rose to her feet. Once she had straightened up, she looked off in the direction that Beth was running. Her eyes caught on some of the people milling about.

“Well, I know one thing for sure, I’m going to feel my age tomorrow morning. That was great though,” she said, looking toward Fiadh.

“Give it a month and you’ll be fighting rings around any 17-year-old,” Fiadh said, her hands finding her hips.

“Looks like you might have more company next time,” Michonne told them, “There was a bit of a crowd earlier.”

“More the merrier, right?” Carol asked, brows raised.

“Can’t be a bad thing,” Fiadh agreed. “You planning on joining us in future, Mich?”

“Actually,” Michonne said, drawing out the word as her hand reached for her katana, “I was coming over to see if you wanted to spar.” She nodded toward Fiadh’s harness, which was discarded in the grass. “I don’t know anything about the jian, but I figure between the two of us, we can work something out.”

Fiadh’s face broke into a big, delighted grin. “Fuck yes.”

Chapter Text

Daryl watched Fiadh dance. There was really no other word he could use to call the things that she was doing. There was no music that he could hear, but she moved like there might be, coming from a place he couldn’t hear or reach. He idly wiped his oily fingers with a rag as he just stared.

Michonne had started by demonstrating some of her own moves with her big, fuck-off sword, and after a while, Fiadh had started copying them. Every now and then they had stopped to discuss something, and she’d try a similar slice or swing, but modified for both blades. Finally, they’d started to spar against each other. Slowly at first, with Michonne driving the deadly routine forward, but after a short while their dance had sped up.

The more they did it, the more dangerous it looked. Despite the fluidity of their steps and motion, despite how much of a wonder her body was to him, it all still looked unsafe.

He’d come out to the courtyard to do some maintenance on his bike, but in truth he’d finished it ages ago. He crossed his bare arms and continued to fight the urge to yell at them to stop.

“Kinda hot.”

His head swung toward Rick, who had appeared beside him with a spool of twine in his hand and a bundle of sticks beneath his arm. Daryl reeled a little in surprise. Rick was looking over at the duelling pair, an almost sort-of smile on his face.

“Kinda terrifyin’,” Daryl said.

“Kinda the same thing.”

Daryl stared at his friend, wondering what had brought on this glimpse of normal from Rick. But he wasn’t going to start questioning it - no way, not looking this gift horse in the mouth. At Daryl’s snort of amusement, Rick’s grin picked up a little. “Gimme a hand?”

“Alright,” Daryl said, taking the bundle. Rick began to unwind the twine from the spool as he strode forward, bound for the field. “Ya speak to ‘er yet? Since the first meetin’?” He nodded toward Fiadh and Michonne as they stepped onto the grass.

Rick flashed a grimace, then shook his head. “She’s pissed at me.”

“She ain’t. Just gotta clear the air.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, eyes on the flash of swords. Then he turned his gaze to the ground and pointed. “First one there.”

Daryl bent and stabbed one stick into the earth. When Rick approached with the end of the twine, he asked, “What’s this for?”

“Marking out the lines for the crops,” Rick answered as he crouched down, his knees popping. He tied the thin rope around the middle of the stick. “Raphaël said to plan out where we wanted to plant. So he could build an irrigation system.” Rick squinted as he stood and backed up, letting the twine loose from between his fingers. “At least, that’s what I think he said. There was a lot of wild waving and charades involved.” He stopped a distance away, and Daryl followed to mark the position.

“That kid you brought back,” Rick said, frowning through the early evening sun as he looked back over toward Fiadh and Michonne, and then beyond. “What’s his story? Been spending a lot of time with Carl.”

Daryl placed another and then looked up. The boys had ventured outside and were watching the sparring closely. “Lost everyone,” he began, his eyes turning downcast, “Father in the Woodbury attack, sister turned after. Tough kid.” He watched as Reese and Carl exchanged a couple of words. “They both are.”

“Shouldn’t need to be. This place can be something else for them. It needs to be something else, Daryl.”

Daryl sucked in a breath and held it, holding the sigh he wanted to release. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“He needs to be something else,” Rick added, his voice low and filled with grief suddenly.

Daryl looked at Rick, and then looked at the man’s son. He didn’t agree. But he understood.

He stabbed the ground again, marking the third row, when a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He looked up, and before he’d even registered how many of the dead were approaching the fence, he let out a shrill Dixon whistle. The kind he and Merle used to communicate with each other while on hunts.

A strawberry blonde head whipped around.

“Drawn by the noise,” Rick said, straightening up. He raised an arm and started waving it, looking to get Maggie’s attention. From up on top of the Tower 1 platform, Maggie dropped a sheet of metal she’d been sizing up against the door, and picked up her rifle.

“Lotta people, lotta noise.” Daryl had started toward the fence, but Fiadh and Michonne got there first. Their blades slid between the gaps in the wire fencing, making short, exact work of the gathering walkers.

“Movement in the trees,” Maggie called down to them as she peered down the scope of her gun, “Can’t tell how many.” The brush rustled, and a half dozen more fell out.

Daryl’s knife was in his hand as he jogged toward the fence, joining the others.

“Where are they coming from?” Fiadh asked, her breath coming quickly. She shook her head and lunged, skewering the walker with the white shirt. “We just cleared this morning!”

“Somethin’ must’ve drawn ‘em,” Daryl said as he stabbed his knife through an eye and snapped his arm back. “There, look, couple headin’ away.”

One or two stragglers were turning around already, moving back toward the trees. There was something else out there, pulling the herd in different directions. A shout rang out.

Daryl moved quickly, grabbing a fistful of Fiadh’s vest and tugging her backward, away from the fence. “Someone outside!” He yelled. Behind him Rick started running, headed straight for Carl. He shouted something that got buried beneath the sound of a bullet.

Daryl’s arm was around her waist at frightening speed, and he was moving before his brain had even really registered what he was doing. He spun Fiadh around, her back pressed into his chest as he tightened his grip, shielding her from the gunfire in the trees.

A second shot was fired, this one closer. He ground out a curse and curled over Fiadh, bringing them both into a crouch. Next to him, Michonne had lowered herself to the ground.

“Shit. Reese. Shit.” Fiadh’s hand curled around his forearm. “Daryl, let me go.”

“No.”

“I don’t think it was aimed at us,” Michonne hissed. She’d risen slightly, her fingers clasped around the fence as she peered into the woods. “Whoever is out there is having their own problems.”

Fiadh had frozen in his arms, her face turned toward where Rick had reached Carl. And Reese. “He’s okay,” he rasped in her ear.

He could feel her muscles ease, some of the stiffness of panic leaving her body. But then, just as quickly, she tensed again. “Let go,” she ordered, slapping the palm of her hand off his arm. “Don’t make me stab you.”

Under normal circumstances, it would have been funny. But she sounded pissed, and that made him pissed. He released her and she fell forward a little, but recovered annoyingly quickly.

“Clear!” Came Maggie’s call. He glanced up at the Tower as he stood himself. Even though Maggie couldn’t see anyone in the trees, she hadn’t lowered her gun. That told him enough.

“Go around the front,” Fiadh was saying to him, sheathing her swords with a practiced ease she hadn’t had the last time he’d seen her with them. “Me and Michonne, we’ll sneak out the side.”

“Trap them in the middle,” Michonne agreed, and was already moving.

Daryl didn’t have time to stop them. He didn’t know why he wanted to, either, or why he found it curious that Fiadh was suddenly giving orders. But the orders made sense. They had to find out if this was something they’d have to defend against. He broke away from the others and started running in the opposite direction. Glenn joined him at the gate.

She was sprinting, Michonne right behind her, only slowing when they got to the general area she believed the shot had originated from. Their weapons were in their hands then as they crouched, eyes scanning and expressions alert. Fiadh stopped completely when they got to a small clearing; tree trunks a little wider apart.

It was a mess. She didn’t need Daryl’s tracking skills to figure out that this had been where their visitor had run into trouble. Fiadh bent down to pluck one of the spent casings from the cold ground. Moments later, a soft whistle preceded Daryl and Glenn as they emerged into the clearing, prompting Fiadh and Michonne to lower their weapons.

Daryl’s gaze ran over her, before turning to the forest floor. “These,” he said, pointing at some footprints, “Move back an’ forth. Someone was watchin’.”

Fiadh suppressed a shudder that had nothing to do with the growing chill in the air. She watched Daryl as he moved about, putting the story together. His brows pulled in a frown when he hunkered down, fingers skirting the edge of a print.

“What is it?” She asked, taking a step forward, looking down at what had captured his attention.

He shook his head and huffed out a breath. “Looks like one o’ the prints from Sandy Creek.” He even sounded like he didn’t believe it. “Could just be a coincidence.”

Fiadh arched a brow, but despite her cool outward appearance, her heart started thumping fast. “One of the two sets you pointed out when we were there?” She asked, her memory of their trip to her old camp coming back easily. “One that was careful. Another that was searching.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his teeth working on his bottom lip for a moment as he thought. “One set was Raphaël. Dunno the other.”

“It wasn’t Reese?” Michonne asked, looking as bewildered as Fiadh felt.

“Nah. His were smaller… Messier.” He dipped his head, looking up at Fiadh. The corners of her mouth turned downward. She didn’t need to ask; she knew messier meant bloodier.

“Someone could have followed you back from there,” Glenn pointed out, sliding into his new Security role.

But Fiadh shook her head. “I don’t think so. We took a very round-about way back. On foot, backtracked to that cabin, the bridge, the car and the bike… I think we would have noticed at some stage if someone was on us.” She glanced at Daryl, knowing that he would be the definitive voice on the matter.

He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “We were distracted,” he said eventually, and then shrugged.

“So it’s either someone from Fee’s old camp,” Glenn theorised, “Or it’s someone scouting the area. Picking through camps. Looking for opportunity.”

Michonne nodded, her grip tightening on her katana. “And one would like to think that if a visitor from Fiadh’s old camp came by, they’d say hello like a regular person. Not run off.”

“Good point,” Fiadh conceded.

“Alright, spread out in a line. Move forward together, that way we cover more ground. Tracks lead that way.” Daryl pointed, shouldered his crossbow and started to move off. “C’mon.”

They walked through the trees in silence, together but separate, moving in the line Daryl had suggested. They noticed nothing out of the ordinary until the woods spat them out, revealing a strange scene on the road.

A once-white car had stopped in the middle of it, the inner cabin light noticeable amidst the darkening evening. The driver’s door was open.

“Someone left in a hurry,” Glenn muttered as they walked up the embankment to the road.

“What’ve they got?” Michonne asked, reaching the tarmac and looking back down the road, into the distance. A group of walkers were kneeling around something.

“Their dinner,” Daryl said.

“Could be our guy.” Glenn pulled out his knife. “I got it.”

“Behind you,” Michonne told him, following Glenn and leaving Daryl and Fiadh to check the car.

Daryl pressed his hands to one of the rear windows, peering in to make sure nothing moved around inside. Fiadh slid into a seat and started throwing things around. “Wrappers, empty bottles…” She tossed them behind her, into the back, then leaned over and opened the glove box. “Someone’s very overdue electricity bill.” She was opening up a map when Daryl spoke.

“Pop the trunk.”

Fiadh scooted forward in her seat, arm extended as her hand and fingers groped around blindly, looking for the release. Locating something that felt familiar, she pulled on the switch and was rewarded with the thunk. She stepped back out and joined Daryl at the back of the car.

Inside the trunk, locked away, was a range of weapons, along with a backpack. She eyed the baseball bat, something niggling at her. “Why would someone run off and leave their shit behind them? Their weapons? Weird.”

“Got spooked, mebbe?” Daryl had ripped the backpack open and was rifling through the contents. He pulled out a frontal torch, attached to a rubber wristband, and handed it straight over to her.

“Nice,” she muttered, flicking it on and then strapping it to her own wrist.

She turned around, and looked down the road, eyes finding Michonne and Glenn immediately. They were almost at the small group of feeding undead. One of the walkers broke off and ambled toward them, some sort of entrail slipping from its slimy mouth.

“Ya think it’s him?”

Her head turned to the side a little, her body leaning in toward him as she watched his profile. “The Governor?”

He nodded, still looking through the bag.

“Nah.”

The abrupt answer got his attention. He looked at her expectantly, so she elaborated. “He didn’t make a habit of wasting bullets on walkers. Preferred to shoot people, didn’t he? And he wouldn’t waste a bullet on a walker when he had that perfect shot of Michonne.”

Her gaze found her warrior woman friend as she sliced a dead head from its shoulders. She and Michonne had been sparring right there, within spitting distance of that fence. Their watcher had a prime view. It would have been an easy shot. “He wouldn’t pass up taking her down.”

“Or you,” Daryl added. He turned himself and leaned back up against the edge of the trunk. He looked everywhere but at her.

“Or any of us, really.”

He ignored her. “Gonna have to practice, or spar, or whatever the fuck it is you’re doin’, somewhere else in future. Away from the damn fences.”

Fiadh’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp in the dimming light. “That an order?”

“If it’s gotta be.”

Colour crept into her cheeks, but this wasn’t the physical precursor to embarrassment, no, Fiadh was getting angry. Keeping away from the fences made sense, of course, even when she was pissed off she could see the rationality, but his tone, his words, they just hit her wrong. She opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her lips as he pushed off the car and started walking toward Michonne and Glenn, who were on their way back.

“What ya got?”

Michonne was already shaking her head. “It’s just roadkill, not human,” she answered as she and Glenn broke into a jog to close the remaining distance. “You?”

“Some supplies. Weapons. Not much, but we should take ‘em.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Glenn said.

Fiadh handed him the bat, finding herself in agreement with the sentiment. “So weird.”

“We head back,” Daryl told them. “Take another look in the mornin’... What!?” He snapped, turning toward the direction of Fiadh, who was muttering.

She glared back at him. “Nothing. Sir.”

Michonne and Glenn exchanged a glance. They both turned as one back toward the trees, clearly not wanting any part in what was brewing between the other two. But if they thought the weirdness at the side of the road was bad, what was waiting for them back at the prison would be much worse.

Fiadh heard the shouts from the bottom of the driveway. The four of them had swung around to return to the main entrance, thinking that they might pick up on something else that they missed, but by the time they had reached the prison the sun had well and truly set. She couldn’t see who it was outside in the courtyard from that distance, but she thought she recognised Rick’s distinctive voice.

They took off at a sprint, fearing the worst kind of catastrophe. Maggie’s face was pale as she rushed to open the inner gate for them. “It’s Carl - he’s missing,” she breathed, casting a furtive glance behind her toward Rick, who was shouting at Reese.

“What the…” Fiadh ground out, her earlier anger returning tenfold at the sight of the former police officer berating the teen.

“You must’ve… It had to have been you, he wouldn’t have just… taken off!” Rick’s finger was pointed at the kid, his face twisted with desperation as his voice rose. When Reese could only stare, open-mouthed, Rick turned on his heel, throwing his hands up in frustration. Pinching the bridge of his nose he took in a deep breath, trying to force a calm on himself.

He tried again, this time his voice was lower. He leaned forward a little, his head ducked as he closed some of the height distance between him and the kid. “Now, he was with you… I know he was with you, don’t say he wasn’t…”

“Oi!” Fiadh barked out as she neared, her strides loud and quick on the gravel. She slid her body between the two of them, facing Rick and putting Reese to her back. “Calm the fuck down.”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN!?” Rick sputtered, his eyes glinting dangerously as he stepped right up to Fiadh. “Carl is gone. We have no idea where, or for how long. And he knows somethin’! H- He -”

“Rick, we’ll find him,” Hershel said as he neared, crutches clicking. He reached out a hand toward Rick’s arm. “We have all of our people looking.”

“No sign in the Tombs, or with the Frenchman,” Tyreese panted as he joined the growing group outside, clearly having run the whole way up.

“Every second counts, Hershel,” Rick said, his words coming out in a croak. The memory of Rick’s last breakdown was still fresh in Fiadh’s mind as she watched him. “We need to search. We need a grid. That kid knows.” He pointed again at Reese and took a half-step forward, but Fiadh was there, and without even thinking about it, her fingers twitched toward the hilt of a weapon.

Daryl was there in a heartbeat, his hand grabbing Rick’s shoulder. “Hey, back up man,” he rumbled. “We’ll find Carl. Kid’s just scared, is all.”

When it looked like Rick wasn’t going to barrel through Daryl, Fiadh turned, and gently placed her hand on Reese’s arm. “C’mon over here,” she said softly, before guiding him a short distance away. Then she placed her other hand on his other arm, and angled him away from Rick. So that all he could see was her.

Rick made a move to follow, but Daryl planted himself in front of him, his palm flat against the other man’s chest. “Let ‘er talk to ‘im.”

Fiadh looked away from Rick’s wild gaze; the lost look of a man afraid of losing his son, and focused on Reese. His face was pale, even in the dark she could see how colourless his cheeks were, and his chest was rising and falling quickly. His shoulders were hunched forward and his back bent a little, as though he was trying to make himself smaller.

“It’s okay, Reese, you’re not in trouble.” When he looked at her with those wide, dazed eyes, she added, “I swear. No matter what.”

She rubbed one of his arms with the palm of her hand. Up and down in slow motions. “Okay?” She asked, searching for a sign that he was hearing her.

Reese nodded.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He nodded again, and gulped.

“Remember, you’re not in trouble. No matter what.”

“He -” Reese looked to the side, his eyes alighting on Rick for just a fraction of a second before sliding away again, “Carl’s dad… When the gun went off, he yelled at us to get back inside. To run back to the prison and to stay with the others. W-we got to the c-cage - you know the gate… thing… outside one of the buildings?”

“The wire fence outside of D, yeah, I know it. It’s got some metal sheeting against it,” she said, her tone encouraging. Fiadh, knowing Carl a little - but enough - had a feeling she knew where this was going.

“Carl said that we’d be safe there but also have, like, the best view of the action.” A strangled noise coming from Rick’s direction distracted Reese momentarily.

“And then what happened?” Fiadh asked, bringing his attention back to her. She’d stopped rubbing his arm, but her hand was still there.

“We saw you and that other sword lady run by, and he said you were going after whoever was shooting at us. Because they were a threat, and that’s what you do. He said that’s what he should be doing, too.”

“What did Carl do then?” A coldness was settling in Fiadh’s chest.

“He followed you for back-up. He went through that gap in the fence.”

Voices broke out into heated discussion around them, but Fiadh stayed focused on Reese. “I’m sorry…” The kid was saying, his throat working as he swallowed again. “I should’ve gone with him? I should’ve… should’ve stopped him.”

“No, no, Reese. It’s not your fault, it’s okay.” Fiadh’s face crumbled a little. If it was anyone’s fault, it was hers. She needed to keep a closer eye on him. She needed to teach him. There were rules, and he didn’t know them. That was on her. “Don’t worry, we’re going to go looking for him, and we’ll find him. Carl should not have gone out there alone, but he had his gun with him, at least. His gun and his knife, right?” With another squeeze of his arm, she leaned down, trying to catch his eye again. Worry flickered across Reese’s face.

“He didn’t have a gun,” Reese whispered.

Fiadh frowned, and nearby, Rick cursed.

“He always has his gun,” she said, straightening as she looked over at Rick.

“I took it off him.” His voice was raw. Rick dragged the palm of his hand down the side of his face. “I took it this morning.”

Fiadh’s mouth opened in shock, then she closed it. When she opened it again, the voice that came from it held a tremor. “You what?”

“Fiadh…” Daryl warned, his expression pinched. His hand closed around the material of Rick’s shirt.

The sound of an engine rent the air, shaking the enrapt audience from the scene in front of them. The unnatural roar closed in quickly.

“Car!” Someone shouted.

Fiadh’s hand was back on Reese’s arm, and she bent closer a little, her tone urgent but not fearful. “That spot Carl took you to earlier, outside C Block? Go there.” She held his wide gaze for a moment, until he nodded and started walking backwards.

Once she was sure he was headed back toward the prison and relative safety, Fiadh pulled her handgun from its holster and turned toward the long drive. When the car came into view, she sucked in a shocked breath.

“It’s the car from the road,” Glenn said as he and Daryl covered the short distance to the internal gate in record time, their own weapons raised and arms locked.

“We found it on the road, it looked abandoned,” Fiadh said quietly to Hershel, who was frowning with some confusion. She moved in front of him, passing Rick as she did so. Rick’s jaw was clenched as he watched the car’s progress. It was just another obstacle standing between him and his search for his son. Fiadh could sense it, understand it, and knew the man was about ready to pop.

At first she thought the car wasn’t going to slow down, that they were dealing with someone intent on coming right on in without ringing the doorbell. Fiadh didn’t know if it was the warning shouts from Glenn or the sight of half a dozen armed hosts that slowed the visitor, but the car did screech to a hasty halt just in front of the gate.

The driver’s door opened. A pair of raised hands preceded a body as someone stepped outside, head ducked. The man looked straight at them, the headlights illuminating everything.

“Oh, fuuuuck,” Fiadh murmured.

“I come in peace,” Caeser Martínez told them, his brown eyes sweeping across the group until they met Fiadh’s cold stare and halted.

Daryl moved in front of her and cocked his gun. “An’ ya gon’ leave in a bodybag.”

“I mean no harm,” Martínez said, hands still raised in the air. He sought out Rick then, ignoring Fiadh and the man who blocked his view of her. He took half a step forward. “I’ve got your boy.”

Rick moved like a bullet from a gun. Not even Daryl was able to stop him this time.

“You’ve got Carl?” He growled out as he reached the gate, hands closing around the wiring for purchase. Fiadh could no longer see the range of conflicting emotions flickering across Rick’s face, but his strained voice told her everything. “Wh-where? If you’ve hurt him…”

Rick’s curls swing to and fro as he shook his head, a promise and a threat just beneath the quiet words.

“No, no, I haven’t… I wouldn’t. He’s here. Right here in the car.” Martínez, looking the picture of innocent earnestness, gestured toward the passenger side. “He’s hurt.”

Chapter Text

“I want to talk to Fiadh.”

The prison had erupted into action. Carl had been plucked from the car, and Martínez had been pounced on. Most of the group was gathered in the cells, hanging around outside while Hershel checked over Carl. A smaller contingent was in the communal area, watching the man who had taken up new residence in Merle Dixon’s old spot.

The door was closed and locked, and the man himself was standing behind the bars, staring directly at Daryl. Daryl was seated on the table, his crossbow aimed right at Martínez’s head. One look at Daryl’s face and there’d be no doubt as to whether or not he’d pull the trigger. Martínez, in return, was sneering at him, any mutual understanding they’d gained from the sit-down the month before was completely gone.

“I’ll answer all your questions, but I have to talk to her first.”

“Ain’t no way,” Daryl snarled.

Fiadh stood at the internal gate between both worlds; her spot in a storm. She was waiting to hear how Carl was and studiously ignoring Martínez’s beseeching stare. Reese was close by, too wary of Rick to get any closer to Hershel’s cell, but wanting to check in on his new friend all the same.

Tyreese appeared beside her, blocking her view of the others. “Anything?” He asked softly.

Fiadh shook her head. “Not yet.” She looked Tyreese over, noting the blood that had soaked through his shirt. He’d been the one to carry the unconscious Carl inside. She heard mention of her name again, but she couldn’t see beyond the mountain that was Tyreese. “Hey, have you seen Karen?”

“She’s down in the tombs with your French friend. Why?” He didn’t look suspicious, per se, but Fiadh caught a note of something that triggered caution. She decided to be honest.

“With Martínez here, things are heightened. If Carl isn’t okay, people are gonna look for somewhere, or for someone, to focus their upset on.” Fiadh’s voice was so low, Tyreese had to lean down quite a distance to hear her. But he was nodding thoughtfully, so she continued, “I don’t know how some of the other Woodberries would react to that. I think having Karen around might help.”

“I follow.” Tyreese straightened up, cast a glance about, and then nodded again. “I’ll go find her.”

“Thanks, pal.”

He was only gone a matter of seconds before all hell broke loose in the communal area. Martínez was pushing himself against the bars, goading Daryl, who was on his feet with his crossbow raised. Glenn was shouting.

“Alrigh’. That’s enough,” Fiadh said, pushing herself off the wall and stepping into the fray. Nobody paid any attention to her, so she stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a sharp, shrill whistle.

Everyone stilled, and every eye in the place snapped toward Fiadh. “That’s enough,” she repeated, walking straight toward the holding area. She shouldered past a few people hanging around and then reached out a hand to touch Daryl’s elbow. He didn’t move.

“A chroí,” she said, “It’s okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Daryl huffed. He stepped aside slightly, but he did not lower his crossbow. Fiadh thought it was good enough. She looked at Martínez, who had a smug expression on his face. She was going to wipe that right off.

“Say what you think you have to say to me. Do it knowing there are no words that’ll ever make things okay between us.”

His face fell. Martínez reached out, his arm sliding through the bars as he reached for her. Fiadh stepped backward and his hand fell, too. “I stopped him from shooting you,” he said, all of his earlier bravado gone. It was like when they’d run into each other at the feed store off Owens Road, like there was nobody else there but the two of them, tugging on that old connection they’d had from when it first all went to shit. “Remember? You were in the vent. He was shooting blindly into them and I saw you and stopped him.”

Fiadh knew she’d never forget those horrible moments; waiting inside the vents to see if the Governor’s shots would hit her. She remembered Martínez, too - he had been there. He had prompted the Governor’s exit.

“His right-hand man,” she deadpanned.

He shook his head and broke their stare, looking downward at the space between their feet. “Yeah, right. Like he listened to anyone. The fact I got him out of here without shooting you was nothing short of a miracle.” When Fiadh said nothing in response, his furtive brown eyes slid back up to meet hers. “I didn’t know how fucked up he was ‘till it was too late. We’ve all had to do shit we’re not proud of, Fiadh.”

“That’s true. But your list of sins is a lot longer than mine.”

“I went back to your old camp. Thought maybe I could see if I could find any others.”

“Then you came here,” Fiadh said, then she pushed, clearly not giving Martínez an inch, “Empty-handed. Tell me, Caesar, did you think you could make up for it all? Bring me Frankie T’s trinkets or Charlie’s raggedy old teddy bear and we’d, what? Have a moment and bond?”

“Fee…” He breathed her name like it was a curse.

She stepped forward then, closing the distance between them. She reached out and wrapped her hand around one of the bars and leaned until their noses almost touched. “You think I’ll stop them from putting a bullet in you?” Fiadh murmured, her voice low and hoarse.

“Now we’re talkin’,” Daryl said.

“Maybe I should do it myself. For Oscar, Axel, Andrea. For Merle. For Frankie T and for Charlie.”

Martínez opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, the next voice was from a boy, who had crept over quietly and listened.

“It was you,” Reese said, his voice shaking, his eyes wild, “You attacked my camp. My dad… My sister!” He broke his stare suddenly, looking around, wringing his hands, his weight moving from one foot to the other. Reese made a decision, turned, and fled from the room.

Fiadh stepped back. “We’re done here,” she told Martínez, then followed Reese out of the prison, her pace measured but her fists clenched.

Shattered. That was the only word Daryl had to describe the look on Martínez’s face as Fiadh walked away. He had expected a different kind of reaction from the woman who normally showed a lot of kindness. But even though Martínez had spent longer with Fiadh, he didn’t know her like Daryl did. Daryl saw all of her, and he knew that she really was done. Just like she’d said.

“You got to speak to her,” Glenn said, taking the lead once more.

“For all the good it did ya,” Daryl snorted, unable to stop himself.

“Now you answer our questions.”

Martínez was still looking at the spot where Fiadh had disappeared. The darkness of the corridor had swallowed her up. Daryl figured she’d caught Reese and was trying to explain the situation to the kid. But how could she explain keeping someone who had been involved in attacking his camp and killing his family? That would never sit right.

“I told you,” Martínez ground out, finally looking at Glenn again, “I left him weeks ago. Dude was a few sandwiches short of a picnic by then, if you follow.”

“It’s disturbing you didn’t realise that sooner.”

“Look. Glenn, right?” Glenn’s response was to narrow his eyes, but Martínez barrelled on. “I needed somewhere to stay. A place to belong. Just like you people. I followed orders and we protected what was ours.”

“We are nothing like you.”

Martínez actually scoffed at Glenn, shaking his head in disbelief. It pissed Daryl off and his grip tightened. “You’ve done the same shit. Just called it something different. You’ve killed and harmed for your people. You broke into Woodbury and threatened innocents.”

“They came to Woodbury for me and my wife!” Glenn shouted, his composure breaking. He jerked his arm and pointed behind his shoulder at Daryl. “To rescue us from you psychos. Yeah, that’s right, I know you’re a psycho. Maybe you’ve blocked it from your memory, but I sure as hell haven’t. You stood by while I was tortured, while my wife was assaulted. And now you’re trying to tell us it was necessary? That you were only following orders?”

Glenn’s face was a shade of red Daryl hadn’t seen since the night they’d all got drunk on wine in that CDC bunker.

“I made a mistake, man, okay?” Martínez seemed to be realising that it wasn’t working, and he changed tack. “I’d lost my wife. My boys. I had no purpose, I thought I had nothing left. And then I found Woodbury. Or… Maybe Woodbury found me. It made me see that if I could go back, I would do anything to keep my family safe. So I figured I would do anything to keep my new home safe.” He held up his hands. “I know it’s not an excuse. But it’s the reason.”

“Alright, well, thanks for coming all the way out to tell us that.” There’d been very little change in Glenn’s expression, though some of the others began shifting a little.

“I just wanted to check. To see if y’all had made it. The kids. If Fiadh was still here.” His eyes flashed toward the doorway she’d exited through. The stiffness left his shoulders as they slumped. “Then I heard the kid in the woods. I couldn’t just leave him there, so I brought him back.”

“Your ticket inside the gates.”

The voice was low but it drew everyone’s attention. Michonne had been standing to one side, watching everything, silent as the dead night. Daryl thought she looked like a coiled snake; so still and watchful, but ready to spring and strike. Her fingers were curled around the handle of her katana, which was secured at her back.

“Convenient for you that you happened to find a way in, after creating the diversion yourself,” Michonne continued. Daryl’s brows raised, and he exchanged a look with Glenn. It appeared that Michonne was the only one thinking clearly. She stalked forward.

“You think I planned that?” Martínez asked, incredulous.

Michonne’s shoulder rose slightly in a shrug.”You. Or him. This reeks of him. His M.O. Using Carl as a way to get in, gain our trust, find out our numbers and figure out our weaknesses. For him.”

“I- No. Just, no. If you’d seen the state he’d been in when I left him, you’d know that he isn’t capable anymore.”

“But you are?” Michonne closed the distance. Martínez took a step back.

“That’s not what I meant, Michonne… I’d only meant to look. And then the biters rushed me and I used my gun. It wasn’t planned, I swear.”

At that moment, the dark-haired former Woodbury militia member walked in, closely followed by Tyreese. Martínez gripped the bars again. “Holy shit. Karen - you’re alive. How-”

“I hid under Tommy’s dead body.” Karen blinked her brown eyes rapidly at the sight of Martínez. “I stayed there until these guys found me. They took me in. They took all the rest of us in.” She shook her head and frowned. “He didn’t shoot you?”

“No, he ordered me and Shumpert into the truck with him.”

“And where is the other guy?” Glenn asked.

Martínez shook his head. “Shump peaced out almost straight away. No idea where he went.”

With slow, purposeful movements, Michonne pulled a tattered map from one of her pockets and began to unfold it. “Show me where you peaced out.” She held it up in front of him. The paper was well-worn and used, but it was filled with markings and notes.

Martínez gulped, his eyes flashing from Michonne’s face to the map. He hesitated for just a moment and then pointed at a spot that didn’t have any markings on it. “It was around here.”

“He got transpo? Supplies?” Daryl piped up.

“Nah. He was pretty much catatonic at that point. I doubt he made it far.”

Daryl’s gaze met Michonne’s and he nodded at her in silent agreement. They would go, and go as soon as possible. They’d made an agreement.

“It’s probably a trap, you know that, right?” Glenn asked, looking between the two of them.

“If it is, we won’t get close enough to trip it,” Michonne said, folding the map back up.

“And it’s what - 60 miles?” He pushed, clearly not happy about it. “We don’t have that kind of fuel to spare, not now with Frenchie working on the generator.”

“Still a few cars left over at Woodbury, we can pick the rest clean.”

“Woodbury isn’t empty anymore,” Martínez declared, drawing Daryl’s attention once more.

“What do you mean?” It was Karen who asked. “We were just there a couple of days ago. It was a ghost town.”

“Before I came here, I stopped by. Just to check. But there was a group of men already inside. Not the friendly types. They had a couple of people chained to lamp posts on Main Street.”

Karen looked alarmed, but Glenn just narrowed his eyes. “Or you could just be trying to keep us away from your old base of operations.”

Martínez threw up his hands in surrender and took a step back from the bars. “Hey, man, your funeral.”

“Thankfully, there will be no funerals today.”

Every head turned toward Hershel, who was emerging from the cells. Strands of his wispy grey hair had come loose from his ponytail. He looked tired, but relieved. Carol followed closely behind him, wiping some blood off her hands with a cloth. “He’s gonna be okay. I reckon his ankle was badly twisted, but that’s manageable, as are the scrapes and the bruising. It was the head wound that gave us the scare. I’ve stitched it up the best I could, but there will be a mighty scar. I still don’t know if he’ll lose the eye.”

“Is he awake?” Michonne asked, her face creased with concern. “Did he say what happened?”

Hershel nodded. “He was awake for a bit. He passed out again after I started the stitching. He says that there were too many, so he ran, but his foot caught on something and he fell, head first into a tree. Seems something tore him up pretty good. An inch lower, and the eye would’ve been gone for sure.”

Silence fell for a few moments. The only sounds were Hershel’s crutch as he approached. “No doubt about it, you saved his life,” he said to Martínez, before turning away and heading toward the passageway. “Council members, we meet in one hour.”

“Hey, Rick.” Fiadh whispered the greeting from the entry to the cell. Rick looked up, his eyes raw and red-rimmed, exhaustion etched in every line on his face.

“Hey,” he responded softly, meeting her eye for a moment and then turning his gaze toward the floor.

“He’s sleeping?”

“Yeah.” A nod, and then his attention was back on the still form of his son on the bed. “He’s in and out.”

“Reese is here,” Fiadh began after clearing her throat, glancing quickly back over her shoulder to where the kid hovered, clutching a comic book in one hand, and a can of soda in another. “He wanted to know if it was okay to visit for a minute. He brought a few things for Carl.”

It had been the only way she’d been able to convince the kid not to bolt after discovering Martínez. An hour later, he’d calmed down enough to listen to her make promises she wasn’t sure she could keep. The last one of those had been the promise to get him in to check on his friend. Fiadh had been almost certain that Rick would either chase them off, or that Reese would be too afraid to go near the man after what had happened in the courtyard. But both of them surprised her.

“Yeah. Yes, of course. C’mon in, son.” Rick’s arm rose in an encouraging gesture, and after only a moment’s hesitation and a flash of fear in his eyes, Reese stepped inside. Rick’s face softened, just like his voice had, when he saw what Reese was carrying. “That’s his favourite,” he said, nodding at the can of soda.

Reese just nodded solemnly in response. Then Rick rose from his seat and looked at Fiadh. “Can we talk?”

“Sure. Out here?”

“We won’t go far,” Rick said quickly, before turning his attention to Reese. He leaned over a little, his hands just above his knees. “Will you watch over him?”

Reese nodded.

“If he wakes, you’ll come and get me right away?”

Another nod. Then a hoarse, “I promise.”

“Alright. You’re in charge.” It looked like Rick was about to reach out, touch Reese’s shoulder, but at the last second he thought the better of it. Instead he straightened, and with one last look at Carl, he started to move toward Fiadh.

She stepped aside and let him lead the way. As promised, they didn’t go far. Rick climbed halfway up the stairs and then slumped down, almost immediately putting his head in his hands. Fiadh watched, and then sighed, trudging up to join him. She plopped down on his stair.

“About earlier,” Rick began, slowly sitting up. His hands dropped from his face.

“It’s okay,” Fiadh said. She surprised herself by how quickly she was willing to move on. She had been fuming with Rick over the whole thing, but everything since had tempered it somewhat. “He’s your kid. I get it.”

“I am sorry.”

She looked at him then, at his dejection. At the slump in his shoulders and how his chest seemed to pull inward. She saw the hints of desperation she’d seen when she’d first arrived.

“I’ll make things right with Reese,” he continued.

Fiadh stared for a few more moments, and then nodded, her jaw tightening. “He’s fucking terrified of you now.”

“I know. I’ll fix it.”

“Then we’re good.” She shrugged, as though that was all there was to say.

Clearly, Rick felt otherwise. “But that’s the thing, Fiadh, we’re not good. I know you’ve no reason to respect me, hell, I’ve given you no reason to trust me since -”

“Wait, what? Shut up a second, will ya?” She ordered, looking at him with shock. “This thing, this issue between us has nothing to do with respect. Hershel told me what happened on his farm. And between him and the shit I’ve heard from the others, it sounds to me like you did what you had to do to keep everyone alive. And when you couldn’t do it anymore, you stepped down.” She sucked in a breath, the frown deepening between her brows. “Just because I don’t agree with you on certain things, doesn’t mean I don’t respect you.”

He said nothing for a moment, and then huffed a noise that sounded like amusement. “You remind me of my old partner sometimes.”

Fiadh’s mouth popped open again. “The partner who tried to fucking kill you? Gee, thanks Sheriff.”

This time, the sound Rick made sounded suspiciously like a real chuckle. “No, no, not like that,” he said hurriedly, amusement cracking through his voice. “More like… Well, Shane was never afraid to speak up, speak his mind. He was a force like that. There were two things that you were always guaranteed with Shane. One was that he’d argue all the livelong day if he thought he was right, but the second was that no matter what was goin’ on between us, no matter what we’d said to each other, he always had my back.” Rick’s eyes lost focus a little as he added, “Back in those days, anyway. Back before all this.”

Before he tried to kill him and take his place, she added to herself. She still felt a little uncomfortable with the comparison, but she could at least see what he was getting at. To a degree.

“He said Carl was weak. He said that he had to learn.”

Fiadh blew out a huff of her own. “He’s wrong on one count there. There is nothing weak about that boy. He’s a credit to you, Rick. I think you’re a great dad.”

The silence hung for a few moments, and when Rick turned his sad blue eyes back to her, a bit of a weight settled on Fiadh’s chest. She pushed through it. “But I do think he should be learning. Hear me out!” She urged preemptively when she thought he was going to refuse straight away. When Rick remained silent, Fiadh made her pitch.

“Let me teach him a few things. I’m going to be teaching Reese anyway, so it might as well be the two of them together, they’re kind of inseparable at the moment.”

“I just want him to do normal kid stuff, Fiadh. Here, behind the fences, with me.”

“And he will, Rick. It’ll be purely for self-defence. Trust me, it’s something everyone should know. Besides, it’s good for confidence. And fitness. And we’ll never be putting them out there Rick, where they’d be in harm’s way. But we still want them to be able to fight that harm if it makes its way in here, to them, don’t we?” She beseeched, her eyes wide, looking for him to agree.

“They can’t be helpless, they just can’t.” She shook her head, her gaze moving toward the cell with the two young boys who, in this new world, would soon be expected to be men. “It’s not just for us, to help us protect them. It’s for them, too.”

Rick was quiet for a long time. Then, finally, he sucked in a deep breath. “No guns.”

Fiadh shook her head. “No guns.”

“It’s for defence.”

“For defence.” She sensed the win. She probably would have promised anything at that point.

“Alright.”

Fiadh’s face broke out into a broad grin. Rick looked at her and shook his head. “You’re very convincing. I think it might be the accent.”

“Psh. You’re one to talk, Officer Silvertongue.”

He arched a brow. For a moment he pretended to be offended by the moniker, but the twitching at the corners of his mouth told her he really wasn’t. He let it slide, and inch by inch, his body began to relax a little more, until he leaned back against the step behind him. “He’s all I think about,” he admitted, tone turning serious again. “From the second I wake up. It’s all just Carl and Judith in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.

“That’ll be the good dad thing, I suppose.”

Rick glanced her way again. “You close with your old man?”

“Nah.” She pursed her lips. “Didn’t see him much. I suppose that means I don’t really have anything to compare your parenting to, and I could be overestimating your skills. Maybe you are shit.”

He stared, his eyes widening a little as he tried to figure out if she was joking or not. Eventually, when Fiadh couldn’t keep her face straight anymore the impish grin appeared, complete with dimple. Rick loosed a short, sharp laugh.

Movement caught her attention, and Fiadh looked up in time to spot Daryl pause in the entryway, staring at the two of them with head cocked. Curiosity lit his features for a moment, but he didn’t say anything about the odd image of Fiadh and Rick sharing a laugh on the stairs.

He walked toward them. “Rick, council wanna see ya. They’re in the library.”

Rick didn’t make any move to stand. He frowned, then looked over at the cell. “I have a feelin’ I know what that’s about,” he murmured. Still, he remained seated.

“Go,” Fiadh said, then she stretched her legs out in front of her. “I’ll be here.”

Rick’s head snapped around toward her. “You sure?”

“Yep, not going anywhere.”

“Alright.” With a long-suffering sigh, Rick stood, his knees popping with the movement. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll send someone to get you if there’s a change.” Fiadh knew that Rick wanted to be there when Carl woke up again, and her offer seemed to soothe a nerve or two. He stopped for long enough to glance inside the cell before heading out. Daryl dropped into his vacant spot on the stair next to Fiadh.

“You okay?” He asked, his tone casual. Fiadh knew it wasn’t a casual question.

“We had a good chat.”

“Good.” Daryl plucked the end of her plait from her shoulder and stared at the black hair tie for a while. Then he started twisting her hair around his fingers. “Back there for a minute I thought ya were gonna pull a knife on ‘im.”

“Back there for a minute I was gonna pull a knife on him.”

His eyes snapped to her and his jaw worked as he chewed the inside of his cheek. She leaned in toward him and bumped her arm off his. “Don’t worry. We’re okay now. Promise.”

Daryl studied her for a while, but nodded in the end. “Alright.”

“The meeting is about Martínez?” She asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah. ‘Bout what to do with ‘im.”

“What are the options?” Her voice lowered even further, mindful then of the conversation carrying. Daryl leaned in closer.

“Boot him out. Give ‘im his stuff an’ his car an’ the marchin’ orders.”

“And? What else?”

Daryl drew in a breath. He looked at her, already anticipating her reaction. “Or let ‘im stay.”

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Naw, I ain’t. Wish I was. We were at a stalemate before I left. Me an’ Carol want ‘im gone. Hershel argued for 'im to stay. Glenn was with us, but I reckon he’s ‘bout to be swayed by Sasha. Sasha reckons we should put it to the rest o’ the Woodberries. Let ‘em vote on it, seein’ as they knew ‘im.”

Fiadh was shocked into silence. Daryl looked at her and started worrying at his bottom lip. “They prob’ly gonna wanna talk to you, too. On account o’ yer history,” he added when she’d stayed silent.

She pulled her legs back up toward her and wrapped her arms around them. After another minute of silence, she lowered her forehead to her knees and took a shuddering breath to calm herself. “How am I supposed to keep Reese here if Martínez is allowed to stay?” She asked, her voice muffled.

Daryl reached out a tentative hand and laid it on her back. His fingers were splayed between her shoulder blades and he started to rub circles through her vest. “We’ll figure som’ out.”

She leaned further into him, seeking comfort for the first time in a long time. She rolled her cheek on her knee, turning her head so she could look at him without having to sit up. For just a split-second, her eyes were glassy. “How?”

Daryl dipped his head, his hand still on her back. “For starters, we can take the kid with us tomorrow.”

“Where are we going tomorrow?” She asked, some of the emotion leaving her voice.

“Martínez gave us the spot he last saw the Governor. We’re gonna check it out.”

Her brows rose, and then she straightened up, causing Daryl’s hand to slide lower. “We are?”

“Yeah. You, me, an’ Michonne. We made a deal, remember? An’ we take the kid with us. Otherwise ya won’t come. Or ya come but bitch at me the whole time.”

“Hey, you’re the one always bitching at me,” she said, her lips curving upward into a smile. She was suddenly aware of the heat from his hand at the small of her back, and he was suddenly too aware of the shape of her mouth. “It’s like, your love language.”

“My… My what?”

“Y’know, how you show you care.” She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh at the baffled expression on Daryl’s face.

He was saved from having to respond when Reese stepped out of Carl’s cell, his eyes bright. “He’s awake!”

They both reacted immediately, tearing themselves away and putting distance between each other.

“I have to go and get Rick,” Reese said, already backing up.

“I’ll go,” Daryl said, standing and covering the distance to the end of the stairs quickly. “You stay with the crazy Fairy.” Daryl stayed focused on the door, his cheeks filled with colour. Reese looked at Fiadh with confusion, but she waved any questions away.

“Carlito!” She exclaimed with a big smile, as she stepped into the cell. “You’re gonna have such a bad-arse fucking scar!”

Chapter Text

Attendance for the lesson the next day doubled. Along with Carol and Beth, Karen had shown up, with Tyreese in tow. Fiadh’s surprise was evident, as he hadn’t seemed interested the day previous, but when she noted the glances he was throwing Karen’s way, she put it together. It was partly why she felt so guilty separating Karen from the rest of the group.

It wasn’t her fault; Karen had a background in kickboxing. She wasn’t purposely cockblocking the bloke, but by the time the hour was up, he’d stopped noticing any other body but his own. He joined Carol on the grass, copying her tired starfish pose as the pair of them recovered.

“I thought… I was in good shape… but…” Tyreese pushed out between deep breaths.

“I know,” Carol groaned. She groped around the grass, searching for the towel she’d brought. It was just beyond her grasp, so Fiadh bent over to scoop it up, then she dropped it on the other woman’s face.

“C’mon boss,” Fiadh encouraged over Carol’s groans, then held out her hand. “Let’s get this meeting over with.”

“You’re an evil person,” Carol informed her. But she took the offered hand and accepted the help up. She dabbed her neck and rosy cheeks with the towel.

“She seemed so nice,” Tyreese agreed. His demeanour improved immediately, however, when Karen stepped over to offer her hand in assistance.

“No pain, no gain,” Fiadh intoned in a sing-song voice, failing the battle against the grin. She had begun that morning with a sense of foreboding, thinking about the impending chat she had to have with the council about Martínez. And what that would mean for Reese. But Carol had convinced her to do the lesson anyway, even offered to have the meeting pushed back. While Fiadh had just wanted to get it done, she had to admit to herself that the informal class had definitely buoyed her spirits a little.

Perhaps it felt like a purpose again. It had been a while since she’d felt something more than just the drive to survive.

“When do you think we’ll have the whole kata down?” Beth asked brightly, falling into step next to Fiadh as the group approached the courtyard. They’d set up a lot closer to Tower 1 this time.

It had nothing to do with Daryl’s orders from the day before. No, nothing at all.

“Well, you and Carol are familiar with about half of the movements, and we’ll spend the next few days going through the rest. But having it down? That’ll take a while.” She glanced to the side, seeing Beth’s face fall a little, so Fiadh hurried to add, “But you’ll get there. I know you will.”

The group split when they reached the Block, with everyone promising to meet at the same time the next day. Carol stopped in the communal area for long enough to grab them each a bottle of water, and then led them into the passageway.

“Anything I need to know?” Fiadh asked quietly as she unscrewed the cap off her bottle.

“No change since last night,” Carol answered, shaking her head. “Me and Daryl are a firm ‘NO’. Glenn… he was a ‘no’, but he’s gone quiet. Hershel is a firm ‘yes’, and I’m pretty sure Sasha will go the same way. Rick made a case for leniency, but he doesn’t have a vote at this point.”

“But he’s persuasive,” Fiadh pointed out.

“Well, yeah, it’s Rick.”

“Could sell rubbers to a monk.”

Carol snorted and then coughed, some of her water going down the wrong way. With a rueful grin, Fiadh reached out and gave Carol a helpful thump between her shoulder blades. Carol looked at her with some amusement, but as they approached the door to the library, the pair fell silent.

Inside, the rest of the council were gathered around the table. Daryl was sitting backwards on a chair, his wrists resting on the back of it as he rolled a cigarette. Hershel was seated, his crutches against the table. Glenn was pacing - Fiadh didn’t think she’d seen Glenn be still since Woodbury. Sasha was also seated, her boots atop the surface, with an open notebook propped against her thighs. Carol moved to take a spot next to Daryl.

Fiadh just stood at the threshold for a few moments, surveying the scene.

“A glimpse behind the curtain,” she declared. “The brain trust in action.”

Daryl snorted. With a smile, Hershel leaned to his side and patted the chair beside him. “Would you sit next to me, Fiadh?”

Fiadh didn’t think she could deny a request like that; not from Hershel. So she slid into the seat and took a deep breath to still her nerves and school her thumping heart. She had the distinct impression that she was not going to enjoy this.

“We wanted to talk to you about your experience with Martínez. The time you spent with him before Woodbury,” Hershel said, getting proceedings going straight away. Glenn took his seat, though Fiadh could feel the vibrations of his jumping leg beneath the table.

She looked at Hershel, her expression guarded. “What did you want to know?”

“What was he like? How was he as a member of your group?”

Fiadh frowned, her lips pursing for a moment as she considered the question. “He was… good.” She dragged the last word out, as though it was being spoken against her will. But she couldn’t lie, no matter how much the truth inconvenienced her. She paused for a moment, but nobody spoke. They seemed to be giving her the chance to sort her thoughts.

“I met him fairly early on,” she said, her face taking on that look of someone remembering. “Along with his wife, Carla, and their two sons. At that point I still had a couple of members of my troupe with me. But we were foreigners. We didn’t know Atlanta and we had no idea what we were doing. But Caesar did. We met him while trying to get out of the city. He told us he used to be a physical education teacher.”

Hershel nodded encouragingly. Glenn was shaking his head with wonder. “We could have been on that same highway, at the same time,” he said.

“We probably were. From what Carol has told me, we all saw those planes and choppers at the same time, and that same herd drove us off the road.” Fiadh rolled her shoulders then, and ploughed on. “I lost everyone I knew that day. Some were bitten, others just… slipped through my fingers. I was trying to get to one my friends and I got pinned down. It was just mayhem. At one point I didn’t know which way was up. Caesar saved me, came in with his baseball bat and pulled me out of it.”

“So you stayed together after that,” Hershel said, his voice as gentle as ever.

Fiadh nodded. “For a while. We were moving to another spot when Martínez’s car got separated from the convoy somehow. I didn’t see him again after that.” Fiadh glanced up at the others. “Not until we met with the Governor.”

“Without his wife and kids,” Glenn put in. “Did he say what happened to them?”

“No,” she said with a slight head shake. “All he said was that they were gone.”

Hershel looked toward Sasha, who was tapping her pen against the notebook on her lap. “Do any of the others know anything about the circumstances?”

“From what I’m told, he doesn’t talk about anything personal,” Sasha responded.

Fiadh couldn’t exactly blame him. Nobody liked talking about those kinds of losses. But she understood why Hershel was asking. “Look,” Fiadh said, sitting forward a little, “I know what you’re trying to do here. And I get it. But what he was before the Governor is irrelevant to us now, because what he was with him, isn’t something we can have here.”

“Agreed,” Carol said.

“Disagreed,” Hershel said, with force. “All the people of Woodbury have the same accountability, and we took them in. Karen was part of the group that breached our defences here and would have killed us all, and we took her in.”

“Karen didn’t make children orphans,” Fiadh shot back, eyes sharp.

“But she would have. She could have. Each of us potentially has done, or could do in the future.”

“Hershel,” Fiadh said, looking at him in disbelief, “She didn’t. We don’t know if she would have. What we do know is that he did. That’s what we have to work off.”

“Ain’t no secret the Governor’s men attacked other groups,” Daryl said, then pointed at Fiadh. “An’ we know Martínez did her group.”

“He claims he didn’t know there were children there,” Hershel said.

“And that makes it okay!?”

“No, darlin'. It doesn’t. But where do we draw the line? We allowed Merle in here, and he was equally as culpable as Martínez.”

“Merle was Daryl’s brother!” She exclaimed. Her eyes swept each member of the council, measuring them. Then she loosed a sharp exhale. “This is useless.” She slumped back against the chair.

“Sasha, what have the others been saying about their former groupmate?”

Sasha glanced up at Hershel, then back down at her notebook. Fiadh noticed then that it was open to show a list of names. “Most of them speak pretty well of him. A couple said he was a bit of an asshole - which tracks with mine and Ty’s experiences - but they said he worked.” She looked over at Fiadh and added, “Bringing Carl back definitely helped.”

“You’re opinion polling?”

“It’s part of fostering a feeling of community,” Hershel told Fiadh.

Her eyes flashed between him and Sasha. “Did you poll Reese? Because I’m pretty sure what he’d say about the man who was directly responsible for his da’s death, and indirectly responsible for his sister’s, would not jive well with the rest of your data.” She’d had enough. She stood, the chair scraping off the floor. “None of you would be able to share a camp with someone who did that to you. And if Reese wants to leave because of it, I’ll not only let him, but I’ll be going with him.”

“Fee, no,” Glenn said, standing to mirror her. “You can’t give us an ultimatum like that -”

“It’s not an ultimatum,” she said, cutting him off, “It’s just facts. Youse do what you have to. I will, too.”

She’d made it to the door before Hershel spoke again. “We haven’t made any decisions yet, Fiadh. We’re just doing our due diligence.”

She stopped at the door, her back ramrod straight. “Good luck with that,” she said without turning around. Then she pulled the door open and left them behind.

“I don’t get it!”

Fiadh bit the inside of her cheek as she looked across at her young passenger for the dozenth time in as many minutes. He was having a very understandable meltdown, but there was no doubt about it - it was still a meltdown. At least Reese was talking now.

Shortly after the meeting had ended, she’d told him to grab his gear, that they were going on a run. She hadn’t loved the idea when Daryl had suggested it the night before, but the alternative was potentially much worse. Fiadh had the terrifying thought that if she left Reese alone, he’d either try to kill Martínez himself, or he’d be gone when she got back. She couldn’t decide which was worse.

Thus, the teen had become the fourth to Michonne’s, Daryl’s and Fiadh’s trio. Daryl was on his bike, leading the way, while Michonne was half-asleep in the bed of Frankie T’s truck. Fiadh had no idea how she managed it; but the other woman could snatch forty winks while a hurricane raged.

“I don’t get it, either.” Fiadh took a bite of a protein bar and then held it out for Reese. He shook his head and waved the offer away. She couldn’t blame him, she didn’t have much of an appetite that afternoon herself.

“Why didn’t they just kick him back out?”

“He asked to stay. Some of them think sending someone out alone is the same as killing them.”

“That’s stupid! I was alone for forever.”

She bit back a sigh. In truth, Martínez was a survivor, and she would bet on him making it on his own. He’d done it before. She didn’t see kicking him out of the prison as a fitting punishment for his crimes, but it was the easiest option as far as she was concerned. What was proving difficult for Fiadh was trying to figure out how she’d feel about the whole thing if it didn't directly impact the kid.

“What if he gets out of his cell, Fiadh?” Reese asked, his face paling a little more.

“They said he’ll be staying in death row until they’ve made a decision.” Daryl had told her as much when he’d found her afterward.

The landscape outside began to change from woodland to buildings, and she knew they were coming up on the town Daryl had said he wanted to check out for supplies first. Fiadh pointed a finger at the map Reese was holding. “What’s the name of this place, again? C’mon, you’re supposed to be my navigator.” Anything to distract him.

“Uh… Man- Manchester.”

“There’s a place in the UK called Manchester. Birthplace of lots of bands, like The Smiths, The Stone Roses… Oasis!”

“I dunno who any of those are.”

“Be DJ.” She pulled her iPhone from the dash, which was connected to the charger, and passed it over to him. After a brief silence, the opening riff of Bye Bye Bad Man by The Stone Roses burst through the speakers. Fiadh bit her lip. What a choice.

“Maybe I should get him before he gets out of the cell. Before he gets me.”

“He won’t get you, Reese. He doesn’t want to get you. And if he did, I wouldn’t let him. ‘Kay?”

“I don’t need a babysitter. I can protect myself.”

She said nothing, her eyes back on the bike in front of her. She turned the steering wheel as Daryl turned right off the 85 and toward the town’s main street. She spied a group of stately looking buildings and slowed, eyes peeled for activity. Aside from some trash blowing in the wind and some crows picking at carrion, all seemed quiet.

Fiadh pulled into the spot Daryl had indicated before he’d started pushing his bike down an alleyway to hide it. She pulled the handbrake and killed the engine. “Stay in the car ‘till we clear,” she told Reese as she opened the door. Michonne was already jumping down off the bed, sword in hand.

Reese opened his door and stepped down, ignoring Fiadh’s order. “Reese, I said wait for us to clear.”

“I told you! I can protect myself.”

“Jaysis Christ, Mother Mary, Holy Joseph and all the blessed saints, give me fucking strength!”

Michonne and Daryl exchanged a glance. “Hey, look, a comic book store,” Michonne said suddenly, her sword arm raised and pointing toward a nearby shop. “I’m gonna go see if I can find some good Get Well Soon gifts for Carl. Give me a hand, Reese?” Reese frowned at her, and then at the store, but he quickly decided to go along with the suggestion. Fiadh mouthed her thanks to Michonne as the pair passed by and stepped up onto the pavement. Michonne’s knowing smile flashed, disappearing before Reese could see it. She held two hands up to the glass and peered inside. “Looks empty.”

“Place is too empty,” Daryl pointed out, and Fiadh couldn’t help but silently agree. But, they couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, either.

She turned on the spot, looking around what was probably once a very charming town. “Library?” She asked, noting a nearby building that looked less commercial than some of the others. Daryl nodded and the pair took off toward it, his crossbow in hand, Fiadh with one of her jian ready.

They fell into their easy, shared rhythm. Across the street, up the steps until finally, both were at the door. Fiadh’s shoulder was pressed against it and she hefted inward as soon as she got the nod from Daryl. He darted swiftly inside, with Fiadh hot on his heels and making no sound, hand still on the door. Once inside, they split off in different directions, each already knowing who would go left and who right.

The library was by no means extensive or grand, but it was quite big, and there were rows and rows of shelving, each creating a small pathway, separate to the others, and each needing to be checked before they could stand down.

Daryl reached the southernmost corner first. “Clear!”

“Clear!” Came Fiadh’s return call, seconds later.

A loud thump coming from above drew their attention. They both backed up, moving toward the centre of the room, eyes and weapons raised toward a wooden mezzanine. More sturdy, wooden stacks and a reading nook, with some comfortable-looking chairs and a few tables, made up the space above them. Along with a long-dead zombie, who had bifocals on a string around its neck.

Both Fiadh and Daryl jumped back as the walker reached and then toppled itself over the balcony rails, falling a short distance below and impaling itself on a statue of Don Quixote on horseback, holding an upright lance. Fiadh cocked her head as she studied it, then hopped back another step when the body removed itself from the impaled head, and flopped to the floor.

“That’s Kill of the Day,” she said.

“Naw. It killed itself. Don’t count.”

“Killing itself is still a kill. List.” Her eyes remaining on the gruesome scene, she held out her hand. Daryl slapped the piece of paper into her palm. She straightened out the edges before glancing down, then she read the neatly written book titles. “Okay. You go check if there’s a DIY section, I’ll check the front desk for any sort of cataloguing system.”

“Alright.” He pointed at the statue before walking off. “Still don’t count.”

Fiadh rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine, we’ll call it a placeholder, then.” It was her opinion, or at least, it was her hope, that they didn’t have another that day to rival it. A nice, quiet day in a library, then a road trip to track down a psycho killer… Yes. Much better. Very peaceful.

She found the reception area easily enough, her eyes gliding off the monitor of the computer as though it wasn’t even really there. At that stage, the things were fairly useless. Hoping that the good people of Manchester hadn’t completely digitised everything, she began pulling drawers and filing cabinets open, looking for an index of some kind. She found it quickly, placed right atop a box of folders. She waved her hands in the air a few times, trying to clear the dust she’d kicked up, before taking a closer look at the box filled with cards.

“The Complete Book of Self-Sufficiency…” She muttered to herself as she flicked through the contents. “P. P. Permaculture and Restoration Agriculture. There we go. D121.” She picked up the box and the list and began wandering through the shelves, eyes upward, searching for the markers. She realised she was in the DIY section and stopped, looking around for Daryl. She heard the sound of pages being turned rapidly, coming from the other side of the stack. Finding a clear spot on a shelf, she left the index box there and stepped lightly around the corner.

Daryl was standing in front of the DICTIONARY section, a thick but pocket-sized green book in his hands. He was frowning in concentration, his mouth moving with silent words.

“What ya got there?”

He jumped right out of his skin, and swung around to face her. “Nothin’,” he growled, and then tried to shove the book into his back pocket. Fiadh, sensing blood in the water, stalked toward him, her face alight with fun.

“Doesn’t look like nothin’.” She stepped right up to him, their bodies all but touching, and then reached around. She tried to stuff her hand into his back pocket, but he plucked the book back just in time, and then raised it over his head.

“Hm. Too small for smut,” she observed, mouth curving as her eyes trailed from his, up his arm, to the book he was holding just out of reach. She jumped for it, but he moved again and her fingers grazed his wrist instead.

A curious grin began to grow on Daryl’s face as he watched her bounce up and down, trying to grab the prize. “Small things ain’t smutty?” He asked, looking at her with brows raised in a thinly veiled question.

“Oh, small things can be filthy,” she informed him, her hand grabbing a hold of his jacket for purchase. “But this, this…”

She seized her moment. She used her grip to pull him down closer and finally; the book was within her grasp. “Ha!” She declared victoriously, and then spun out of his reach as he grabbed for her and the book.

But she didn’t get very far. Her whole body stilled and her forehead creased into a frown as she read the title.

“Daryl…” Fiadh breathed, turning back to face him. His cheeks were turning bright red, his mouth set angrily.

“S’nothin’. Was just curious, is all.”

“Curious about understanding Irish? Or speaking it?” She stepped back toward him. She held up the book, but she was staring at Daryl.

“Ain’t no big thing. Just thought that if I learned some, an’ you knew it, we would have a way of communicatin’ just us, that nobody else would have. Good tactics, I reckon. An’ I know ya get homesick, an’ I know it’s important to ya, so I thought… ‘Ay. No, Fiadh, stop.” He closed the rest of the distance between them, his face twisting with an unseen pain. He reached out a hand and his knuckles grazed her cheekbone, wiping away a tear.

“You wanted to learn some Irish. For me…?” The lump in her throat was sudden and insurmountable. She couldn’t swallow past it, and her eyes filled with tears so quickly she didn’t have the chance to talk herself out of the onslaught of emotions.

“Ain’t no thing to cry ‘bout.”

It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. And it was the clearest snapshot of Daryl, and the man he was, and who he was to her, that she could ever ask for. And in that moment, she understood what this was.

Very slowly, she pushed herself up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.