48 hours maximum, not leaving the already (more or less) cleared squares of terrain, staying close enough to Alexandria’s walls – that’s the deal for two days out on his own. Alexandria has no people to spare and with them growing crops and vegetables leaving the safe walls to track down some game and add meat to the daily menu is not really high up on the list of priorities anymore. Going alone is not a problem, hasn’t been for the past five months that he’s been doing this, and he can't help but wonder if Michonne allows it because she knows that the promise of rabbit stew or deer jerky isn’t the only reason for him to pack up for a trek through the woods.
Whether we’ll make it or not, we’re in this together.
It’s a promise made years ago, but even after all this time and all the things that happened it is just as true as it had been back then. Solid. Foundation that would hold out and carry quite a bit more weight, should need be.
Aaron runs the pad of his forefinger over the A that he has carved into the trunk of an old tree, then brings his knife up once more to add a horizontal line underneath it and a vertical one on the A’s right. Borders. The lower right corner of the quadrant is where he’s planning to stay in for this time around. A message for the other restless wanderer he knows must be still out here, roaming the woods, still searching, not giving up either – and that parallel actually sparks a smile as he stubbornly finishes his symbol. Almost six months of doing this, of taking down stray walkers, hunting, and leaving his marks, and Aaron is under no illusion that the other man could be still unaware of his presence. If he doesn’t want to meet that’s all right, no pressure. But that doesn’t mean Aaron’s going to stop his symbolic nod-of-the-head as he’s passing by, letting the other know that he’s not forgotten.
After completing his symbol Aaron continues his trek through the wilderness, careful and slow so that he wouldn't disturb possible game. The woods are quiet this time, almost too quiet for Aaron’s liking, but there’s no point in turning back and changing the course. This trip is just as much about checking and keeping the terrain clean as it is about hunting, and so he simply presses on. No birds, he notices, almost no sounds other than the whispering of dried leaves under his feet as he makes his way over to the clearing. He knows what he will find there long before the familiar stench of rot clouds his senses, and when he can finally spot them, he’s relieved it’s only a group of three. Three rather old ones, three who must have died and turned ages ago. This he can deal with.
With his knife already drawn and using his metal-protected left arm like a shield, he approaches the two walkers staggering in his direction. Number three seems to be stuck in what looks like a huge blackberry bush from the distance, but that’s likely not going to keep the struggling dead in place for long. Grimacing as his knife slips through the mushy skull of the first walker, spattering the metal of his prosthetic and the front of his Henley with gooey blood and filth as he pulls it back out, Aaron turns just in time to see the second walker trip over a branch and stumble-leap in his direction. Prosthetic going up and blocking the attack, it’s almost easier to fight walkers now, with that safe barrier of metal between his scarred skin and stinking walker teeth. Using his momentary advantage Aaron puts his knife to the undead’s temple, sliding it all the way in with an angry grunt.
Two down, one more to go. And the last one is still stuck it seems - which makes it considerably easier, allows Aaron to catch his breath as he rounds the bushes to take the last walker down.
Once he's done. he takes a quick look around, scanning the line of trees and bushes at the edge of the clearing. Nothing. He can feel himself relax a little as the absence of gargling and grunting stretches into the more familiar quiet of the woods. No more crunching of old leaves and dead branches under careless feet, no ripping and tearing of old cloth as someone (something) makes their way through thorny undergrowth.
Safe - for now, at least.
He sighs, lowering his gaze to his dripping knife, his sticky right hand, the messy front of his shirt. There’s a small river a little further into the woods, a chance to clean his hand and wash some of the gore off of his face without having to touch the two water bottles in his pack. Looking at his bloodied knife, he chooses the tree next to the blackberry bushes, this time carving an A that is slightly darkened by walker-blood into the tree’s trunk, and then adding two little waves next to it. ’Off to the river, just so you know where to expect me, mate….
Alone in the woods for weeks - then months - on end, it was like Daryl could cease to exist for short periods of time while never losing sight of his task, just as long as a familiar face didn't bring him back. He could almost disassociate from it all, from what had happened, from himself, letting the whisper of wind in the leaves and the steady non-presence of the living world try to drown out the memories that were still drowning him. The guilt that was pulling him farther under all the time. That tried to drown him every day, that remained starving and dangerous with every week that passed without him being able to put Rick to rest. He'd failed him so badly in the end and had spent each day failing him again in this final way. Failing Michonne.
At first, retreating to the woods had been purely practical. He'd been searching and it made sense to keep moving.
Now it was the only way Daryl knew to stay alive.
He'd only noticed Aaron's marks when he'd returned from following the river all the way to the ocean and back, and by then Daryl had been so depleted and forlorn that it was an impossible thought: seeking Aaron out. Seeking anyone from that life out. He certainly couldn't respond to his messages in even the smallest of ways. Daryl hadn't even been leaving recognizable camps for his people to follow when he'd stayed around the area right after Rick's disappearance.
But he'd run a thumb across the first marking he'd found nonetheless, felt its raw newness in the wounded bark, and had felt a sort of silent gratefulness. He wasn't sure for what, but after months on his own, it almost felt like someone, after such a long time, was whispering his name to him somehow. He'd had no doubt who had left it, but for a long time, Daryl allowed the marks to be nothing more than a little tether, silently keeping him from floating away.
Until the day he'd been coming back through the familiar territory again and found the still-leaking pile of the dead under another of the familiar markings. The fetid blood in the carving was still tacky to the touch and when he pulled his fingers back Daryl could almost feel a weight on his chest. It was a heavy knowledge that a friend was so close. He knew Michonne still came out as often as possible, he'd run into her somewhat recently when she'd looked just about ready to pop, but it's not her he expects to find at the river as he finds himself making his careful way along the same path Aaron has just taken. Even without the marking, Daryl would have known where to find him. Aaron is a good woodsman, but Daryl is still the better tracker.
And he's quiet as a hunter when he comes upon the clearing. He doesn't mean to be, but he isn't ready to be seen first. It hurts just to look. Aaron is crouched at the riverbed where the water burbles up over some flat rocks, the curve of his shoulders even more familiar than the metal arm winking in the sunlight, and Daryl is forced to relive every memory of Alexandria at once in the few seconds it takes Aaron to finish rinsing his face and turn to check around himself for safety. When he does, Daryl raises one hand awkwardly, feeling all the time like a ghost asking for some sort of recognition. He wonders if his voice will work if he speaks. He doesn't bother to try it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I.
Whether we’ll make it or not, we’re in this together.
It’s a promise made years ago, but even after all this time and all the things that happened it is just as true as it had been back then. Solid. Foundation that would hold out and carry quite a bit more weight, should need be.
Aaron runs the pad of his forefinger over the A that he has carved into the trunk of an old tree, then brings his knife up once more to add a horizontal line underneath it and a vertical one on the A’s right. Borders. The lower right corner of the quadrant is where he’s planning to stay in for this time around. A message for the other restless wanderer he knows must be still out here, roaming the woods, still searching, not giving up either – and that parallel actually sparks a smile as he stubbornly finishes his symbol. Almost six months of doing this, of taking down stray walkers, hunting, and leaving his marks, and Aaron is under no illusion that the other man could be still unaware of his presence. If he doesn’t want to meet that’s all right, no pressure. But that doesn’t mean Aaron’s going to stop his symbolic nod-of-the-head as he’s passing by, letting the other know that he’s not forgotten.
After completing his symbol Aaron continues his trek through the wilderness, careful and slow so that he wouldn't disturb possible game. The woods are quiet this time, almost too quiet for Aaron’s liking, but there’s no point in turning back and changing the course. This trip is just as much about checking and keeping the terrain clean as it is about hunting, and so he simply presses on. No birds, he notices, almost no sounds other than the whispering of dried leaves under his feet as he makes his way over to the clearing. He knows what he will find there long before the familiar stench of rot clouds his senses, and when he can finally spot them, he’s relieved it’s only a group of three. Three rather old ones, three who must have died and turned ages ago. This he can deal with.
With his knife already drawn and using his metal-protected left arm like a shield, he approaches the two walkers staggering in his direction. Number three seems to be stuck in what looks like a huge blackberry bush from the distance, but that’s likely not going to keep the struggling dead in place for long. Grimacing as his knife slips through the mushy skull of the first walker, spattering the metal of his prosthetic and the front of his Henley with gooey blood and filth as he pulls it back out, Aaron turns just in time to see the second walker trip over a branch and stumble-leap in his direction. Prosthetic going up and blocking the attack, it’s almost easier to fight walkers now, with that safe barrier of metal between his scarred skin and stinking walker teeth. Using his momentary advantage Aaron puts his knife to the undead’s temple, sliding it all the way in with an angry grunt.
Two down, one more to go. And the last one is still stuck it seems - which makes it considerably easier, allows Aaron to catch his breath as he rounds the bushes to take the last walker down.
Once he's done. he takes a quick look around, scanning the line of trees and bushes at the edge of the clearing. Nothing. He can feel himself relax a little as the absence of gargling and grunting stretches into the more familiar quiet of the woods. No more crunching of old leaves and dead branches under careless feet, no ripping and tearing of old cloth as someone (something) makes their way through thorny undergrowth.
Safe - for now, at least.
He sighs, lowering his gaze to his dripping knife, his sticky right hand, the messy front of his shirt. There’s a small river a little further into the woods, a chance to clean his hand and wash some of the gore off of his face without having to touch the two water bottles in his pack. Looking at his bloodied knife, he chooses the tree next to the blackberry bushes, this time carving an A that is slightly darkened by walker-blood into the tree’s trunk, and then adding two little waves next to it. ’Off to the river, just so you know where to expect me, mate….
no subject
At first, retreating to the woods had been purely practical. He'd been searching and it made sense to keep moving.
Now it was the only way Daryl knew to stay alive.
He'd only noticed Aaron's marks when he'd returned from following the river all the way to the ocean and back, and by then Daryl had been so depleted and forlorn that it was an impossible thought: seeking Aaron out. Seeking anyone from that life out. He certainly couldn't respond to his messages in even the smallest of ways. Daryl hadn't even been leaving recognizable camps for his people to follow when he'd stayed around the area right after Rick's disappearance.
But he'd run a thumb across the first marking he'd found nonetheless, felt its raw newness in the wounded bark, and had felt a sort of silent gratefulness. He wasn't sure for what, but after months on his own, it almost felt like someone, after such a long time, was whispering his name to him somehow. He'd had no doubt who had left it, but for a long time, Daryl allowed the marks to be nothing more than a little tether, silently keeping him from floating away.
Until the day he'd been coming back through the familiar territory again and found the still-leaking pile of the dead under another of the familiar markings. The fetid blood in the carving was still tacky to the touch and when he pulled his fingers back Daryl could almost feel a weight on his chest. It was a heavy knowledge that a friend was so close. He knew Michonne still came out as often as possible, he'd run into her somewhat recently when she'd looked just about ready to pop, but it's not her he expects to find at the river as he finds himself making his careful way along the same path Aaron has just taken. Even without the marking, Daryl would have known where to find him. Aaron is a good woodsman, but Daryl is still the better tracker.
And he's quiet as a hunter when he comes upon the clearing. He doesn't mean to be, but he isn't ready to be seen first. It hurts just to look. Aaron is crouched at the riverbed where the water burbles up over some flat rocks, the curve of his shoulders even more familiar than the metal arm winking in the sunlight, and Daryl is forced to relive every memory of Alexandria at once in the few seconds it takes Aaron to finish rinsing his face and turn to check around himself for safety. When he does, Daryl raises one hand awkwardly, feeling all the time like a ghost asking for some sort of recognition. He wonders if his voice will work if he speaks. He doesn't bother to try it.