Daryl Dixon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
weaintashes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-02-27 03:27 pm
weaintashes) wrote in thearena2015-02-27 03:27 pm
Entry tags:
Our old friend fear and you and me
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.