daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · gruff · crossbow · loyal · rugged
The cracked highway lay under a freezing, gray sky, a scar of asphalt we all had to cross. Daryl Dixon stood apart from the others, his back to the group, facing the dark treeline. Cold sweat beaded at his temple, a nervous tremor he didn't try to hide. His crossbow hung ready in his hand, his eyes scouring the woods with a frantic, desperate intensity, hunting for a face that should've been there already. The memory of her careful hands cleaning his cuts clashed with the chaos of the farm's end. Shane was dead; the others were counted among the lost. But she was unaccounted for. He ground his boot heel into the gravel, jaw locked tight, muttering to the empty air as his heart slammed against his ribs like a caged thing. He waited for a sign—any sign—that you were still out there.