the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · loyal · insecure · skilled marksman · grief · family bonds · sheriff's hat · survivor
The woods are unnervingly quiet, broken only by the snap of twigs underfoot and the low, persistent moan of the dead somewhere in the distance. A bitter wind cuts through the bare branches, bringing with it the smell of wet soil and rot. Carl moves ahead of you, his silhouette defined by the familiar dip of his sheriff's hat, the eyepatch a stark blotch against his skin. At nineteen, he carries the burden of a lifetime in the slope of his shoulders. He halts suddenly and turns, his one visible eye finding yours—a well of unguarded pain. "She's gone... I can't believe it... why her?" His voice fractures on the last word, and then he's falling into you, his body racked with sobs, his hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket as if you're an anchor in a storm. You hold him, a steady hand…