We've Become Desolate

Chapter 1: Fire And Fury

The sound of Rick's boots on the concrete perks Daryl's ears, but doesn't completely bring him out of his whirlwind thoughts, nor does it make him stop pacing the floor. He's nearly worn a hole into the ground at this point, but it's the only thing that's keeping him from just flying the coop and taking off; he doesn't have the faintest idea of where he would go, he just knows he wants to be out of here.

The footfalls end at the cell's entryway, but Daryl doesn't look up at Rick. He can't bring himself to meet those placid blue eyes, because he knows that one glance would be his undoing. He's made such progress from those early days in Atlanta. He's no longer the surly asshole that most people didn't give a damn for. No, he's a changed man now, someone Rick and the rest of them respect, and Daryl's pretty sure that none of them would take too kindly to him beating Rick into the ground. Because that's what he feels like doing right now. He wants to hit Rick the same way Rick hit Tyreese, only difference is there's no one around now to stop him from going too far, no one who'd even stand a chance of pulling him back once he actually got started. So he looks everywhere but at Rick's face, because even though he does want to hurt the man, he doesn't really want to do anything that rash.

"What d'ya want, Rick?" Daryl spits out, stopping his pacing to stare at the wall.

He's not completely giving Rick his back, but he's damn close. Rick can just barely make out the slope of Daryl's nose and jawline, along with a wall of wispy hair.

"Just want to talk." Rick speaks calmly, and that only works to make Daryl angrier. You'd think after the decision Rick made he'd be a bit more emotional, or at least a little more passionate.

"Ain't nothin' to talk about. You made yourself clear."

Rick sighs, searching for the words to say to make the redneck willing to listen to him, but no words come to mind. He wants to just reach out and grab the man's bare shoulder, spin him around and force him into looking back, but he knows that would only make Daryl recede further into his shell.

"I know." Rick says. He made himself very clear, and now he's wondering if maybe that wasn't the right thing to do. "I want you to talk, is probably what I should have said. I need to know what you're thinking, Daryl."

Daryl actually lets out something akin to a laugh, a snort blowing from his nostrils. "What I'm thinkin' don't mean a damn to you. What the rest of 'em woulda thought, that didn't matter neither. You wanna be back up on yer high horse, makin' the decisions for all of us, then fine. But don't pretend to care about my opinion."

Rick shakes his head, looking down at the small ring Carol had given him, staring at its slowly ticking watch face. He's wearing it on the pinky finger of his right hand, though he sure as hell doesn't know why. Maybe he feels like he owes her that much, to wear the token she bestowed to him as she parted.

"She was a murderer, Daryl."

Daryl stays silent for a while. He knows that what Rick has said is right, he knows deep in his heart of hearts that Carol had made a change for the worse. And if it were anyone else in the world he'd be able to let it slide, to cheer Rick's decision and stand behind it. But it's not just anyone else in the world; it's Carol.

"In this life who ain't." Daryl murmurs, his words almost inaudible; Rick strains to catch them.

Neither of them speak for several minutes, simply stand at odds with one another and wait for the other to do or say something.

Surprisingly enough, it is Daryl who speaks up. "It was Carol, Rick. Carol. Maybe what she done ain't right; I certainly ain't gonna defend her. But ya shoulda at least let her come before the rest of us, let us all decide. And, if in the end of that trial majority said she outta go, well I coulda lived with that. But this decision you made all on your own… well, that just ain't right, Rick. It wasn't yer call to make."

And Rick knows that Daryl is right, too, and that's the real kicker. He took up a position he had long since resigned just because it suited him to do so. He still thinks it was the right decision, and no one will ever be able to convince him differently, but he also thinks now that maybe the way he handled things wasn't the best. Just like when Shane broke the locks off the barn and let the captive walkers loose for the showdown of the apocalypse. His motives were right, but his actions were wrong.

Rick's just beginning to realize that part of himself now, and he wishes that he'd just let her come back with him, wishes he'd just presented the case to the group and let the chips fall where they may. Carol wouldn't have objected. She was guilty, but she wasn't trying to get off the hook for it. She would have been honest about what she had done and why she had done it.

But there's nothing he can do now but try to patch up the mistakes he's made.

Daryl's eyes stray to the floor beside the bed as he waits for Rick to leave, and that's when he sees it. There's a worn and withered Cherokee Rose in a beer bottle pressed between the wall and the foot of the bed. It's long since dead, but it's still recognizable. And Daryl knows that's the same exact flower he gave to Carol after she lost Sophia. He is taken aback by just how long she has kept it, even though it is no longer as beautiful as it once was.

The rose, that's what makes up his mind. He can't just sit here in the prison, pacing holes in the floor of Carol's cell, while she's out there on her own. And he even knows where she'd go, too; the rose at her bedside proves it.

Without a word Daryl slings his crossbow over his shoulder and brushes past Rick, barely even noticing the way the man flinches out of his way.

"Where are you going?" Rick asks, practically having to shout after him.

"To get Carol."