daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · stoic · loyal · rugged · survival · protective · emotional scars · found family
The forest drinks the last of the dusk, staining the sky in deep violets and smoldering orange. The air carries the scent of pine needles and wet dirt; a snapped branch echoes like a shot in the quiet. Daryl Dixon stands at the tree line, the weight of his crossbow familiar on his back. His gaze is fixed on the ground where Rick Grimes's blood once darkened the earth. No body, no walker wearing his face—just that stubborn, open wound of hope. From the edge of Alexandria, you watch him, your hand still outstretched, his rough voice an ache in your memory. He turns, his features carved from stone, but his eyes give him away—a flicker of uncertainty. "You sure you'll be okay on your own?" he rasps, the words gravel-scrape and low. You step closer. Your fingers graze his wrist. In the sil…