Hey friends!

Here's a little angstastic drabble inspired directly by an AMAZING piece of Caryl fanart on Tumblr, courtesy of user morphinepudding! It's just perfect. Go look it up ^.^

I also want to note my inspiration for my title: The Arms of Sorrow, by the band Killswitch Engage. A heavy but feely metal song. Highly rec'd.

I disclaim all the things, as always, and be assured that this ficlet is completely speculative in nature.

Enjoy!

It was midday, he figured, by the time he found his way back.

It was midday, and a foggy, rainy haze had turned the world around him dark. It wasn't much different from the way he felt, if he really thought about it.

But he didn't want to think about it.

His boots were getting caught in the mud with every step. It didn't help that his legs were burning from the running, running, running…

It didn't help that every couple of feet he had to stop and turn around, look behind him to both ensure he wasn't being followed and remind himself of just exactly how he'd escaped in the first place:

Merle had done it.

He'd sacrificed himself to give Daryl a chance.

And just one chance it was-after they'd beaten each other to hell and back in that rowdy circle of angry, dumbfuck townsfolk—as they laid on the ground in each other's blood, and the one-eyed asshole called 'The Gov' mentioned something about dragging them away to be done in, that Merle opened his eyes, met Daryl's own and ground out,

"Go on, now, little brother. Run."

So he had.

He isn't quite sure how he made out of the gates, but something in the distant hysterical laughter mixed with whooping curses told him Merle had kept on fighting long after he'd broken through the crowd, long after he'd head-butted a man down for his bow and ducked away into the alleys to work his way out of that damned-to-hell town forever.

The sky turned dark and the bottom fell out halfway back to the prison.

The shouts and gunfire grew more and more distant, muffled by the occasional gust of wind and the waterfall-effect of the pouring rain around him.

His skin was cold. His bones were aching.

He couldn't shiver. He couldn't think.

He just kept trudging on, running, pausing, gasping, running again.

He did what his brother told him, just as he always did…

Only this time, he wasn't just doing it for Merle.

Through the brown muck and grey fog he could see them dashing through the gates, Rick gripping his pistol in hand and wiping the other across his face in disbelief. A bag was strapped to his back. Rifles poked from the top.

Daryl met the man's eyes through the deluge and knew they'd been prepping to come after him.

A shout sang to his ears. Daryl blinked away from Rick's relieved smile as something slammed into his chest.

Not something.

Someone.

Not someone.

Carol.

His name slipped into his brain, carried by her voice, clear, but cracking-and then mumbled, because the woman was pressing her face into his shirt and her arms were wrapping around his neck and he couldn't remember how cold he was anymore.

He couldn't remember which black eye hurt worse.

He couldn't remember how hard it was to breathe from being kicked in the ribs, and he couldn't remember if Merle had been grinning or growling when he'd told him to run. His muscles jumped, awake and suddenly burning, and the heavy weight of his soggy clothes seemed to disappear as he pulled the warm body against him and lifted.

The grey world spun.

Daryl felt his strength surge and fall and surge again.

His brother's voice whispered in his brain and her name was on his tongue.

He fell. Dropped her and pitched forward as the grey turned to black.

He can't remember who caught him. But he knew she never let go.