Our old friend fear and you and me

[weaintashes]

Who| Beth, Daryl, Rick. (Possible cameo reaction from Luke later, if he wants.)
What| Daryl's death.
Where| Their cave camp.
When| Week 4.
Warnings/Notes| Gore and violence, some of it against tigers. Death, of course.


The attack comes shortly before dawn, when the world is still hidden in shadow, save for the flickering ring of light provided by a dwindling campfire, reflected in muted shades of amber and gold on the faces of the trio surrounding it. Reflected in the glowing eyes of the silent predators circling closer. The coat pattern of the nearest tiger is uniquely recognisable, the scars along its head and shoulders unmistakable — the very same one Daryl and Rick had escaped from once before. When it ventures into their camp now, another tiger of slighter stature accompanies it, possibly its sibling or mate.

The ensuing chaos is violently decisive.

These are intelligent hunters, and immediately single out Beth — the smallest of the group, thus perceived as the easiest prey — as their target. In his attempt to knock Beth out of the way, Daryl has no choice but to put himself directly in the path of the lunge meant for her, and is knocked off his feet before he can even brace himself for the impact. He goes down hard beneath the bone-crushing weight of the tiger driving him into the frozen ground, instinctively trying to protect his head and bringing his knees up to make it more difficult to reach the most vulnerable parts of his body. Against a predator several times his size and hellbent on killing him, it's all but futile.

Despite his companions' best efforts to help him while also contending with the secondary threat, the tiger mauls Daryl, his layers of winter clothing offering minimal protection from the rending claws and oversized fangs. But the position also leaves the tiger's unprotected belly exposed, which Daryl's quick to take advantage of even as the beast tears into him — he lodges his hunting knife deep into the tiger's chest and frantically jerks, ripping through fur and thick muscle, aiming to mortally wound his attacker and hoping at the very least to slow it down. He spares little thought for himself during the struggle, a part of him already accepting that he may not survive this. All that matters is finishing off the threat before it has the chance to turn on the others.

He isn't sure how it ends, just that it does. The suffocating weight of the tiger leaves him. Rick and Beth are reduced to blurs of colour and motion in his greying peripheral vision — they're both alive, and that knowledge is enough to ease his mind.

For a time, he's lost to a blinding haze of pain, overwhelming all of his senses and leaving him in a semi-conscious state. When he next regains awareness, the tigers and their bone-rattling roars are gone, and the star filled sky has been replaced by the familiar stone roof of the cave they've been living in for the past several weeks. There's the scent of pine, wood smoke, damp earth, all rendered faint beneath the thick stench of gore. For the moment he's alone.

He's kneeling slumped against the cave wall in a widening pool of blood, arms clutching his ruined midsection. Small tendrils of steam rise from the heavy flow of blood as it hits the frigid air. Every breath, every movement is punctuated with a wave of intense pain, forcing him to clench his jaw against the sounds of agony he can barely suppress. Without needing to check himself over he's aware of the extent of his injuries, can feel organs shifting against his blood-slicked hands through his torn open abdomen, the sting of deep lacerations across his face and neck, the not unfamiliar sensation of cracked ribs grinding against each other — and knows his time and strength are both limited.

With unsteady, shaking hands and singular purpose, he begins stripping off his knives, tattered parka, jacket, winged vest, snow boots, anything that will be potentially useful for those he'll be leaving shortly; knowing neither Rick nor Beth will have the presence of mind to do it after he's dead. Pragmatic to the end.

Comments

cw: gore n' stuff

[burningdaylight]

At the hiss of something sliding against snow he whirls around, machete flashing in his grip, eyes just as steely and ready - and finds himself staring at a droid coming his way, so out of place among the wind-swept snow dunes and creaky pines. He notices the body trailing behind it a moment afterwards. A dark tangle of hair fanned out. A long, dotted line of reddened snow-turning-slush.

Luke steps back, breath pluming.

It takes him a moment to realize that the slimy, purplish mass bulging from the tribute’s suit are unraveling coils of intestine pushing out though torn meat. It’s a train-wreck from there upwards, too familiar and too terrible to tear his gaze away from before he’s seen what there is to see. The man has been carved up into ragged flaps of meat and graying skin, the stark white of naked bone peeking underneath. There’s a strangely neat slit at his temple, too, blood streaking his cheek and jaw - and as soon as Luke lets himself look into the man’s ruined face he understands why.

Though the expectation always lives inside him, his gut curdling with a sick, sinking dread, somehow he’s never ready to find someone he knows among the dead. Somehow it’s always a surprise, like a cold slap. It feels like it was only yesterday when Daryl had done what he could to save him, whispering to him of the price of helping him cheat death. And now he’s being dragged like a sack of trash to the edge of the street and all Luke can think of as he stares helplessly is that this, like every aspect of the arena, was carefully orchestrated. This was the Capitol’s vengeance.

His chest tightens, eyes going dark.

Daryl deserved better than this.

Everyone dead or alive in this goddamn rat-maze did.

He blinks and glances up, a muscle rippling in his clenched jaw while he looks long towards the caves.

WELP HERE WE GO

[schnapp]

Sometimes, Beth hates herself just a little bit. It's there in the way she says: I wish I could change, with longing in her voice. She knows that she isn't like Michonne, or Carol or even Maggie. But she tries anyway, tries hard not to be weak or a burden. It's what Dawn used to tell her - that some people just weren't strong enough to survive in this world. She had rejected that with a toss of her head and a hard expression, all bravado and stubborn belief. I ain't weak. I'm gonna make it.

She never asked him to save her, but he does. He moves just a few seconds before she even realizes what's going on, and Beth curses herself yet again. For being too slow, for not paying attention for the two seconds it takes for everything to go wrong. She's got a knife out as soon as the attack happens, stabbing at brightly matted fur wherever she can in the chaos.

And then it's over. It's over, and her first response is to go to him, to put her hand over his slick hands, looking down as if trying to assess the damage. Her dad taught her a couple of things, taught her how to look after people. But -- there's a part of her that knows at the back of her head that it's too late for Daryl. She doesn't want to believe it.

"Hey, you shouldn't be movin'," she whispers soothingly to him, choking back tears. "We're gonna take care of you. I promise."

[rictator]

There was only one way this would end. Rick knew it then, what he would have to do; the thought still made him sick, the knowledge weighing him down like lead in the pit of his stomach. No matter how many times they did this dance, no matter how many people they'd lost along the way, this part never got any easier. He'd already died once at Daryl's side, but he hadn't had to outlive him - nor had he been the one to pull the trigger.

This time, it had to be him.

It had all happened in an instant. As much as Rick would inevitably blame himself, there had been nothing any of them realistically could have done. Whether it was chalked up to lack of foresight or vigilance, dumb luck, or an inability to protect those who mattered most to him... It didn't matter. Tigers were built for this, killers by design - It had been out of their hands the moment they'd caught their scent.

For his part, Rick had been struggling against the smaller of the two animals when he'd heard the commotion behind him, narrowly escaping a similar fate; the claws had caught the outer layers of his parka, snagging in the down filling without catching anything vital. The pained snarl of its mate had likely been his saving grace, distracting it long enough for Rick to sink his own blade into the animal's neck. Not enough to bring it down, but enough to force it back - and long enough to see what had transpired behind him.

It was a haze, after that.

What he did know was that he'd finished off Daryl and Beth's work with the first tiger, blinded by his own desperate, futile rage. Beth had been the first one at his side, trying her best even though it was obviously too late. Returning to the cave had been their safest bet with the other cat still out there, though it had been an arduous journey to say the least. The roof over their heads had bought them precious minutes, allowing them options - though none of them particularly good ones. The damage had been done, and all that was left was to decide when enough was enough. Rick had no desire to watch Daryl suffer, and even less to watch that suffering prolonged should he turn.

For the moment, he'd chosen to hang back, allowing the other two their space. No amount of time would ever be enough, and he knew neither of them would ever want to say goodbye - but at least they had this chance. It didn't matter that death was impermanent here; it was no less real, nor did it do anything to lessen the hatred he felt towards the Capitol for forcing him to watch this.

The soft rustle of Daryl's movements snapped him back into the present, and he watched with a tense sort of wariness in case things had begun their expected downward spiral. In the last arena, Daryl had briefly explained how the Capitol salvaged the bodies, and it took only a few seconds before he understood what it was he was trying to do.

Trust Daryl to be thinking of them as he was bleeding out.

"Beth's right," he piped up from where he stood, struggling to keep his tone even. He took a few steps towards them, knowing damned well that he was failing miserably at containing his own emotions. "We're not going anywhere."

[weaintashes]

By the time Daryl had finished removing what he could, his breathing had been reduced to rapid, shallow panting, and it was a fierce struggle to stay coherent against the pain, against the creeping exhaustion that he knew would soon pull him under. He might not be dying peacefully, but at least he wouldn't be alone, and that knowledge was immeasurably comforting.

"Been thinkin' about Charlie," he admitted with a wheezing, breathy exhalation that could almost be a laugh. "Must be lonely. M'gonna... gonna be with him. Don't you worry about me." His response was delayed, his reactions sluggish; he was dimly aware of Beth's hands, but it took him several moments to realise what she was doing. Once he did, he moved one of his hands to cover hers, managing a weak squeeze to offer what little reassurance he could.

The sound of Rick's voice had him looking up, and he almost regretted it with the way it set the world spinning around him, his vision swimming. He caught himself with a hand braced against the ground, and the chill of it soothed the torn, raw patches of his skin. Carefully, very slowly, he eased himself the rest of the way down into a supine position, and without even needing to think about it, he reached for his hunting knife, blood-slicked hand slipping several times before he finally got a solid enough grip on the hilt to lift it. He no longer had the strength needed to drive the blade through bone — the necessary measure to prevent him from turning. And it wouldn't be long now.

Tipping his head to the side, the apology was in his eyes when he looked at Rick. He'd have to be the one to do this for Daryl, and couldn't risk losing himself in grief because of it. He had to be there for Beth — they had to be there for each other, hold out for as long as they could. It was all any of them could do. Daryl sought Beth's hands again with one of his, and reached toward Rick with the other, knife falling from his lax grip. He wouldn't pretend the contact was solely for their benefit. He needed it, too.

[schnapp]

She sees the knife, and she knows what's happening. There was once a time when Beth would have refused to believe it. She would have begged him to stay, and tried to staunch the bleeding even as the body underneath her grew cold. But she is not that girl any more, and she has lost enough people to understand that this is something that happens. Something that is inevitable.

But she doesn't want Rick to have to bear the burden of it. She squeezes Daryl's hands a little harder, and chokes back her tears with a dogged determination. We don't get to be upset, right? That's how this works.

"Of course I'm gonna worry about you," she tells him, half-laughing and choking on those tears. But she turns to look at Rick, just for a moment, and then back down at the knife. "I can..." It's just a whisper that hangs between the two of them. Because they both know it has to be done. They love Daryl too much to let him turn. And as far as Beth's concerned, no one deserves that.

She can do it. She can take this burden from him, if he wants her to.

"We love you, okay? Daryl. We love you."

She knows she's speaking for Rick here, too.

[rictator]

Daryl would never have to ask; Rick would have done it regardless. It was never a question of ability or willpower - It was the way things were now. The group had made that pact long ago, steeled themselves for what they'd accepted as grim inevitability. Bitten, stabbed, shot - All roads led to the same destination now.

They'd all die. They'd all turn.

As he lowered himself to his knees, a part of Rick wished that he could forget how fragile Daryl looked in that moment, or how weak he felt as he gripped his hand. He squeezed back when he couldn't, blinking away his own denied tears; this wasn't the way he wanted to remember him, and more to the point, he didn't want to have to remember him. He wanted him to be there when he woke up, a few feet away, alive and breathing and real.

Perhaps it was for the best that Beth spoke for him, as his own words had gotten lost somewhere in his throat; she wasn't wrong in what she said, even if it likely struck a different chord within him than she'd intended. Daryl was his brother, his best friend - but that still didn't begin to cover it. How had it taken him until now to realize that? It wasn't a wonder he was struggling to vocalize his what he felt, when he still wasn't entirely sure himself. There was no question as to whether he loved him - Only in what exactly that meant, and now, he didn't have the time to figure it out.

The Capitol had turned it into a game of Russian Roulette; impermanent as death could be, even that wasn't a guarantee. There was no promise that this wouldn't be the time they chose not to bring Daryl back. The chance was there, the chance that this would be the last time and that Rick had failed him for real. Maybe this time, they wouldn't wake up from this nightmare.

It was what drove him to lock his fingers around the knife, taking the blade before Beth could argue the point. When everything was spiraling out of control, this was one of the few things left that he could do. Even if he couldn't save his life, he could spare him the horrors of what came afterward; he owed Daryl that much.