Regardless of its impermanence, the wound left by Daryl's death was fresh and already festering. So long as Beth was there, breathing, Rick had a purpose - He had no intentions of abandoning her. It was for that reason he'd withdrawn, pulling away as he struggled to contain his own hurt; even back home, he'd developed an unhealthy habit of boxing away his more turbulent emotions, postponing grief until he was better equipped to handle it... Laughable as the notion was, that they'd ever see a break in the hell they faced. Too often it felt like they were jumping from the frying pan into the fire, his mourning put on an indefinite hold.
Even knowing they'd be reunited in the Capitol, the loss had affected them both. They'd already lost too many, and for Daryl to die after everything... It wasn't the first time they'd had to put down one of their own, but this time had cut particularly deep. Rick couldn't help but wonder if he was finally brushing up against his limits, realizing the edges of his own humanity; he'd watched one of those closest to him die twice now, knowing he was doomed to repeat it over and over for the foreseeable future. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before he collapsed in on himself again, dependent on which of them they'd be burying next.
That was why, even had he been in a better state of mind, Rick would always have proved himself easy prey to the Jabberjays.
They played him like a goddamned fiddle, their false cries striking on too familiar chords; he'd been down this particular path once before, following the whispers of the dead, chasing ghosts. The mimicked sob of his wife had been enough to rattle already cracked foundations, while Shane's choked shout tugged at the thread that threatened to unravel him. He knew in his heart they were dead. They were dead, gone, and this wasn't real; they couldn't have been there.
His son, on the other hand, could have been.
Something snapped within him then, breaking down logical thought and crushing every self-preservatory urge into little more than background noise.
Carl.
It was only when he'd heard his son's voice among the horrific chorus that he'd broken out into a run, ignoring the way the breath felt as though it had been forced from his lungs. The birds were thick overhead then, wheeling and darting past, almost seeming to usher him back towards the gaping mouth of the cave as they flew. They'd bedded down there for weeks without any sign of him - but he'd arrived late in the last arena, so it wasn't impossible. The voices didn't seem to come from any real direction, reverberating off the trees as though coming from the birds themselves - but it was him. The screams were too real, too pained to be anything or anyone else.
He needed it to be him. He needed to know that this wasn't just him falling apart again, buckling under the weight of his own loss. He would find him, he would be in time, and he would save him. He couldn't bury his son, he would find him, he couldn't bury anyone else that he-
Rick was already too deep in the tunnels before he was aware the voices had faded, Carl's cries echoing in his mind long after the true sound had stopped. The announcer's voice was meaningless, his words didn't matter, just as their newest game didn't. None of it did so long as there was even the glimmer of a chance that Carl was lost down there, Rick already too far gone to care how little sense he was making.
He needed to protect his family. That was what mattered.
Dave and Clint were the furthest thing from his mind when he pulled one of the axes down from the wall, his shoulders tense and ready for attack as he headed back down the maze of tunnels. If Carl was there, he would find him - God help anyone who tried to stand in the way of that.
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Even knowing they'd be reunited in the Capitol, the loss had affected them both. They'd already lost too many, and for Daryl to die after everything... It wasn't the first time they'd had to put down one of their own, but this time had cut particularly deep. Rick couldn't help but wonder if he was finally brushing up against his limits, realizing the edges of his own humanity; he'd watched one of those closest to him die twice now, knowing he was doomed to repeat it over and over for the foreseeable future. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before he collapsed in on himself again, dependent on which of them they'd be burying next.
That was why, even had he been in a better state of mind, Rick would always have proved himself easy prey to the Jabberjays.
They played him like a goddamned fiddle, their false cries striking on too familiar chords; he'd been down this particular path once before, following the whispers of the dead, chasing ghosts. The mimicked sob of his wife had been enough to rattle already cracked foundations, while Shane's choked shout tugged at the thread that threatened to unravel him. He knew in his heart they were dead. They were dead, gone, and this wasn't real; they couldn't have been there.
His son, on the other hand, could have been.
Something snapped within him then, breaking down logical thought and crushing every self-preservatory urge into little more than background noise.
Carl.
It was only when he'd heard his son's voice among the horrific chorus that he'd broken out into a run, ignoring the way the breath felt as though it had been forced from his lungs. The birds were thick overhead then, wheeling and darting past, almost seeming to usher him back towards the gaping mouth of the cave as they flew. They'd bedded down there for weeks without any sign of him - but he'd arrived late in the last arena, so it wasn't impossible. The voices didn't seem to come from any real direction, reverberating off the trees as though coming from the birds themselves - but it was him. The screams were too real, too pained to be anything or anyone else.
He needed it to be him. He needed to know that this wasn't just him falling apart again, buckling under the weight of his own loss. He would find him, he would be in time, and he would save him. He couldn't bury his son, he would find him, he couldn't bury anyone else that he-
Rick was already too deep in the tunnels before he was aware the voices had faded, Carl's cries echoing in his mind long after the true sound had stopped. The announcer's voice was meaningless, his words didn't matter, just as their newest game didn't. None of it did so long as there was even the glimmer of a chance that Carl was lost down there, Rick already too far gone to care how little sense he was making.
He needed to protect his family. That was what mattered.
Dave and Clint were the furthest thing from his mind when he pulled one of the axes down from the wall, his shoulders tense and ready for attack as he headed back down the maze of tunnels. If Carl was there, he would find him - God help anyone who tried to stand in the way of that.