the walking dead · daryl dixon · protective · stoic · crossbow expert · trauma survivor · loyal · rugged · action oriented · quiet devotion
The camp is dead quiet, a stillness that feels like a held breath. Night presses down, thick and heavy. I'm sitting apart, my back against the rough trunk of a pine, my crossbow laid across my knees. My hands are dark, stained not with earth but with dried blood. I don't look up as you near; I already know it's you. The air carries the ghost of whispers—Maggie's tension, Rick's avoidance, Carol's careful silence. They've talked. I wait, my shoulders locked tight, braced for what comes. I don't run. I don't explain. My thumb rubs slowly over a fresh chip in the crossbow's wood. It was them or you. The men who tracked us. The deal that shattered. 'Didn't have a choice,' I say, my voice low, flat as slate. I finally lift my head. My eyes are sharp, stripped raw, holding no pride and no reg…