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theteasetwrites · 3 months ago

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Begin Again

Chapter 4: L'élu

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: violence, blood, death ❧ Word Count: 10k (sorry)

❧ In This Chapter: You and Daryl get to know the inhabitants of the abbey, as well as the truth behind Isabelle's intentions. Just when the two of you decide to leave, trouble from another group leads to limited options, and a possible way out.

❧ A/N: Well it looks like I finished this literally just in time for Season 2 lol. Also sorry this chapter is insanely long. And sorry I took so long to finish it. I don't know if there are many people who are reading this series lol but I sure do appreciate everyone reading it! I'm not sure how Season 2 is going to go with the sneak peeks we've been getting lately, but rest assured that (Y/N) will not be letting Isabelle anywhere near Daryl, that's for sure.

“Across the courtyard is where the sisters live,” said Isabelle, leading Daryl into the corridor with you following close behind, now dressed in a simple linen blouse that was a few sizes too big, tucked neatly into brown wool trousers. With a quick pause, she turned to Daryl as she led the two of you forward. “No men allowed.”

That interested you, because you’d seen a man. Well, a boy.

“What about the little boy I saw?” you asked.

“Laurent grew up here. With us. He was orphaned.” She continued to speak something in French to another nun as the three of you passed through the hall and into a wider room. As the two of you crossed the threshold, a couple of passing nuns carrying baskets of linens hesitated, stepping back a bit as their widened eyes took in your unfamiliar figures.

Before you could manually tug your facial muscles into a small smile, the nuns hurriedly scurried past, clearly not interested in pleasantries. Or perhaps it had been so long since the seemingly secluded cloister had visitors that they’d all but forgotten them. After all, you couldn’t really imagine many people happening to stumble upon the remains of this crumbling castle in the French countryside. You and Daryl, however, were an exception, to be sure.

“They’re afraid of you,” said Isabelle, a breathy laugh lilting her words.

“We’ll be gone soon,” Daryl assured her. It assured you, too.

Advancing into what seemed to be the foyer, your eyes were drawn to your left, where iron bars separated the grand entrance way from what appeared to be a small armory. Daryl followed closely behind as you entered, your eyes darting between neatly organized displays of rudimentary medieval weapons—from maces to spears to halberds. You’d seen well-stocked armories, one of which was in Alexandria. Even by Alexandria’s standards, this one was impressive.

“Medieval churches often had weapons rooms,” Isabelle said. “You needed them back then.”

You split from Daryl, each of you drawn like moths to flames to either side of the small room. You found yourself entranced by a display of war hammers, the silver of their heads dulled by a few layers of dust that must’ve accumulated over years of disuse. One in particular caught your attention—a smaller one, about the length of your arm, with a two-sided head, one side beveled and blunt, the other sharp and curved slightly. It reminded you of your ice axe, the scrappy hiking tool that you’d found in a sporting goods store in Georgia. That was so long ago now, but the thing somehow survived through it all, though in truth you no longer had any idea where it could be, after the mess of everything that went down before you landed here.

“Makes sense.” The gravel of Daryl’s voice with its soft echo stirred you from your thoughts of distant memories, now clouded by seawater and sand.

“We’ve trained ourselves to use them. Just in case.”

“Killer nuns, huh?” you replied, a hint of disbelief in your voice.

“Well, we can defend ourselves if we need to.”

The nun met your gaze with a relaxed smile. In her eyes, that damned calm that you couldn’t get past. She was too inscrutable, too poised. She knew something, you just weren’t sure what.

Behind you, you felt Daryl’s body brush past. Turning around, you saw what had entranced him—a wall of guns on display, each with a small silver plaque identifying the make and model (in French, of course). Even the guns had an antique look to them, with their stocks all made from a rich umber wood. A far cry from the militaristic automatic weapons that Daryl had been used to carrying over a year ago when he was a trooper for the Commonwealth, but he found a subtle artfulness to these machines, as if they were crafted by hand. The collection reminded him of the old guns his father kept laying around the house he’d grown up in rural northeast Georgia. He’d almost shot his own eye out with one when he was three years old, according to Merle, who had a much clearer memory of the event than the younger Dixon brother did. Nevertheless, he couldn’t forget that wood stock. Not any kind of pleasant memory, of course, but a memory nonetheless.

“Père Jean was a collector,” continued Isabelle. “His grandfather fought in the Maquis.”

Daryl’s finger trailed to a suspiciously empty space between the other weapons, where a pair of display hangers were waiting patiently without their rifle.

“You’ve got one missin’,” he said.

Isabelle replied calmly, “That’s the one I used.”

Your gaze flickered towards her, and when you caught a flash of her pale blue eyes already on you like a sniper’s crosshairs, you quickly snapped your attention away. Beside the firearms display was a door left ajar. The room it led into was smaller, with its own collection of antique tomes and trinkets. Your eyes were fixated on the bookshelf behind a mahogany desk, upon which sat a microscope and a small rack of glass vials.

Approaching behind you, Isabelle’s voice continued. “That’s Père Jean’s office.”

You were beginning to wonder where this mysterious Père Jean was. Wherever he was, he certainly had an impressive library, just based on the sheer volume of leather-bound books packed tightly into the shelves. Despite your inability to read the French text, you were more interested in Père Jean’s books than you were in his guns. Daryl had more than once told you that guns were more useful in the outside world because you could use them to defend yourself. Well, he should’ve known better, as someone who had once been an accidental victim of your ability to use a rather large encyclopedia as a blunt force object.

As for Daryl, his practicality overcame the curiosity that befell you, for his eyes were immediately drawn to what appeared to be an old shortwave radio, not too unlike ones you’ve seen Eugene hauling around Alexandria back when he was setting up the radio system there.

“You know how to use that radio?” he asked, pointing towards the contraption.

“It’s been a while since I’ve managed to reach anyone on it.”

“Do you mind if I give it a try?” you asked. You didn’t want to brag, but you knew your way around a radio. Many nights spent trying to get a hold of Daryl through a crackling radio frequency during his particularly long hunts or his brief stint as the leader of the Sanctuary were very educational.

“Sure,” she replied. “Once you get better.”

There was another exchange of looks between you and Daryl, the latter of which was just starting to lose his patience. You could tell. The irritated twitch in his eye said it all.

Silence settled in for just a few moments, until you received the unspoken impression that Isabelle was ready for you to exit the room. You did so, but as soon as you heard the click of a key turning, you turned to catch the nun locking the door shut from the outside. Your eyes followed her hands as she clipped a rusty keychain onto the brown leather belt that cinched her waist.

“The last one was a Spaniard,” she continued. “A few months ago. He spoke a bit of English. I could try reaching him again.”

You kept your mouth shut, lest you say something snarky.

“Your English is good,” remarked Daryl.

“My parents worked for Médecins San Frontiéres. They traveled all over.”

How convenient, you thought.

“Bosnia, Chechnya, Rwanda.” Perhaps it was the jealousy still souring your impression of the woman, but you couldn’t help an internal eye-roll. Of course this woman was beautiful and skilled and tough and intelligent and worldly, too. You hated her. Well, you didn’t, but you hated the idea of her. Too perfect. You knew it was petty. Still, as long as you kept your thoughts to yourself, you were sure you’d be able to warm up to her. Maybe.

“My sister and I finished our schooling in Paris,” she added.

“How’d you end up here?” Daryl asked.

“A bunch of good decisions.”

There was a familiarity to her words, but you couldn’t place it. Unbeknownst to you, you couldn’t place it because they were words Daryl had spoken to Isabelle earlier, only slightly altered.

A bunch of bad decisions, he had said when she asked him the same question he now asked her.

You looked between them, their stares lingering. You did not like it. Not one bit. Not because of jealousy, but because it was clear that whoever this woman was, she was capable of pulling strings—of manipulation.

Well, maybe it was also jealousy. A bit.

The dusty, centuries-old air of the castle gave way to a fresh breeze winding through the covered walkways that surrounded the courtyard you’d seen earlier. Isabelle herded the two of you through the open corridor as the other nuns toiled in the garden. It was impressive, though more primitive than the ones you’d constructed back home.

“Was this garden always here?” you asked. “I mean, before.”

“Yes and no,” Isabelle answered. “The abbey was already being modernized by the time I came. Our hope was to convert the land into an agricultural property that would support us, fund our mission.”

“Looks like it’s working,” you said. “It’s impressive.”

Isabelle turned to smile at you. It seemed more natural this time, less forced than the previous ones. “It’s been enough to keep us going.”

Across the courtyard, you noticed the jerky movement of another nun, tilting her head to signal something to Isabelle, you presumed. She was an older woman with a black hood, as opposed to Isabelle’s white. She must’ve been a full-on mother superior, or whatever you’d call it. You weren’t entirely sure. Her face was serious, though, tinged with what you interpreted to be distrust, or even fear. No doubt it was related to the two weather-worn strangers the nun towed behind her.

“Take a seat,” said Isabelle. “I’ll be right back.”

She left the two of you before a stone table, and just ahead of you, a familiar face approached: the young nun you’d first encountered when you awoke here. Sylvie, you recalled Isabelle calling her. She carried a tray of food with a jug of water, placing it on the table in front of you without so much as a second of eye contact. Perhaps she was wary of you, too. You didn’t blame her too much, considering how much you’d stressed her out upon your rude awakening.

“Thank―uh… merci,” you said quietly, a tad insecure of the way the unfamiliar word sounded on your American tongue. Still, Sylvie seemed to respond to you with a slight lift of her head. She met your eyes with an anxious look in her wide eyes. Unsure of what else to do, you simply smiled. The nun did not smile back, only nodded her head in one quick, near imperceptible motion, and then turned sharply, walking away with quick steps.

Daryl’s shoulder grazed yours as he leaned over the table to inspect the provisions: two crisp red apples, two bowls of stew, two hard boiled eggs nestled in tiny cups, four slices of homemade wheat bread (buttered), and two small glasses for water.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he took a piece of bread into his hands, breaking it apart and putting the other half back with its brethren. That was a habit of his―rationing even when he didn’t really need to.

“How is it?” you asked, watching him nearly finish the bread in two bites.

His lips pursed as he chewed and nodded his head. “Good.”

“Better than mine?”

“Nah.”

You took the piece he’d left and took a small bite, savoring the taste. “Mm… You’re right. Mine is better.”

With the tray of food in your possession, you sat together on the stone slab connecting two columns in the peristyle, facing each other as you leaned against the hard stone structures and savored the simple foods you’d been given. Once in a while, you’d look out into the courtyard, watching the nuns carry out their daily chores. You spied a goat or two, and a dozen or so chickens squawking about. The boy you’d seen earlier, however, was nowhere to be seen.

“I wonder why Isabelle’s so stingy with that radio,” you said. “You think she’s hiding something?”

“Maybe. Or she doesn’t want us to leave.”

“Maybe both.” Taking a bite of your apple, you couldn’t help but wonder just what kind of people you’d run into this time. “Ritual sacrifice,” you said. Daryl lifted his head from the bowl of soup he slurped from.

“What?”

“Maybe they want to sacrifice us for some weird cult thing. Like an offering to God. You ever see The Wicker Man? What if human sacrifices are what keeps this garden so nice for harvest season?”

Daryl couldn’t quite tell if you were serious or not. After all, stranger things had happened to the two of you.

“You’re jokin’, right?”

A smile slowly crept across your tired face. “I guess. Mostly. I just know there’s something up. I need to get to that radio, Daryl.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “Sooner the better.” He leaned in closer now, and you followed suit. His voice lowered to a whisper, he said, “The keys are on her belt. Maybe tonight we can…”

His voice trailed off into nothing as his eyes shifted to your left, focusing on something else. Despite your feeling that something was approaching, you kept your own focus on him. “Daryl?”

He leaned back quickly, putting distance between the two of you once again. Before you were even aware of the boy’s presence, he’d gingerly placed what looked to be a Rubik’s cube onto the stone bench. Like you’d just seen a giant spider, you stood up swiftly to distance yourself from the contraption.

The boy, the same one you’d seen earlier, you presumed, didn’t hesitate to take your seat. He looked at Daryl expectantly.

“Now you try,” said the boy. Laurent, you recalled.

Without the knight’s helmet obscuring his appearance, you took note of the long, slightly unkempt hair that reached his shoulders in dark waves. It reminded you of Daryl’s, put the boy himself seemed much too talkative and abrupt for further comparison between the two.

With a somewhat suspicious gaze, Daryl looked between the puzzle and the boy. It was solved, he noted. He could never figure these things out. Neither could you.

“My record is three minutes and twelve seconds,” Laurent continued proudly. He picked up the cube and held it out towards Daryl for further indication. Daryl took the cube in his own hand, tossed it around for a moment or two, then handed the thing back.

“I’m not really good at shit like that,” he said. Perhaps being away from the children for the last month or so had deprived him of his usual sensibilities which prevented him from cursing in front of them. Daryl didn’t even notice he’d done it, but you did. Still, you were too confused by the precocious child’s sudden appearance to say anything.

“No? Oh. I’m quite good at… shitlikethat.” You cringed slightly at the boy repeating Daryl’s words, albeit sloppily and in a French accent. You just hoped he wouldn’t repeat it in front of the nuns. “Math problems, science, music, geography. Also, I know all the countries and capitals from back in the before time.”

An exhale escaped from your nose. “Wow.” Laurent’s alert face turned towards you, looking up at you with cunning, yet unassuming, brown eyes. “You learned all of that here?”

He smiled. “Père Jean taught me everything.”

“Well, he sounds like a smart man. I’d love to meet him.”

The boy’s face visibly darkened before he turned back to Daryl, who clearly was the object of his fascination. “Pardon my manners, monsieur. I’m Laurent. Pleased to make your acquaintance” Holding his hand out, Daryl took it, and the boy administered a single firm shake.

“How many people do you think live within the boundaries of what was once France?” he asked Daryl. “Starting from sixty-seven million people before the fall, I speculate current French populace is fewer than two-hundred-thousand.”

“I was gonna say way less,” replied Daryl.

“Much less. Do you know how long it would take to repopulate that many people?”

“No.”

Laurent paused, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Six generations. Perhaps seven. Hurts my stomach just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, the math sucks.”

Another pause, while you seemed to be a ghost in this conversation. You knew that the most likely explanation was that Laurent had probably not grown up knowing many other boys or men, so it made sense that he was eager to speak to Daryl. That, and there was always something about Daryl that children gravitated towards. You found it rather cute, even though most of the time he had no idea how to talk to children. There were even times when he was at a loss for words when speaking to Robin.

“Do you have children, monsieur? A wife? Parents?”

Daryl’s eyes lifted towards you, his face questioning. You’d yet to discuss with each other the extent to which you’d inform these people of your lives back home. Isabelle already knew of your relationship to one another, but not about your children, or the others back home. She didn’t know about Alexandria. For now, you made up your mind that no one here needed to know of anything besides the fact that you and Daryl were married.

“I’m his wife,” you said, catching the boy’s attention again. Holding out your hand, you offered a smile. “(Y/N).”

Laurent looked at you again as he shook your hand, much more delicately than he had with Daryl. He seemed more confident with the man, more eager to impress him. With you, he seemed… fragile.

And now, with the boy’s full attention on you, you found yourself held hostage by his stare―dark and paralyzing. When he let go of your hand, his eyes seemed to fill with sadness, like a kind of grief.

“You’re homesick,” he said to you. “I see it in your eyes.”

The smile on your lips melted into a lukewarm puddle on your face. You always knew you tended to wear your emotions on your sleeve, but you’d never met a young child so perceptive.

“You can tell that just from my eyes?”

“I feel things. In my stomach. I feel your sadness.”

Breaking the silence that settled between you, a distant voice called out, “Laurent!” and some words in French you didn’t know.

After turning to see the nun calling to him, he turned back to you. “Time for poetry. Père Jean awaits.”

He began to walk away, his Rubik’s cube in hand, but he turned back once more, placing the puzzle on the bench beside Daryl.

“Now you try,” he said again before finally taking his leave.

Daryl’s movements were jittery with impatience as he wedged the knife in the doorjamb whilst jiggling the handle in different motions. Meanwhile, you stood watch a few yards away, just in case any passing nuns caught the two of you attempting to get into Père Jean’s study, where the radio sat in waiting.

It was still daylight, which you found to be a hindrance, but you couldn’t wait much longer for nightfall. Time was something the two of you didn’t exactly have, not when it came to trying to get back home.

“Clear,” you signed from across the small room that stored the nuns’ weapons.

Daryl nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his focus back to his so far failed attempts to open the door without a key. With a huff, he continued with different techniques, all of which seemed fruitless. His face contorted in frustration, with impatience seeming to cloud his ability to devise a more clever method. The door simply wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he strained to get the knife to disturb the locking mechanism.

Like goddamn Fort Knox, he thought to himself.

And then, you’re hearing it before your mind or body can react. Daryl is frozen in momentary suspension. You can feel your heart pump faster and your blood quicken. Daryl’s eyes immediately search for you, then his mind races the same way it has a thousand times before as his hand curls tighter around the handle of the knife he purloined. And instinctually, you reach for a weapon that you do not have.

The growl gets louder, but not closer. It’s not moving. It’s stationary, but taunted. Laurent’s voice is meandering under the guttural groans of the unseen creature. His voice isn’t frightened, though. It’s calm. At ease.

You didn’t waste another second.

But before your feet made any forward movement, you felt your right hand now gripping a cylindrical wooden handle. Daryl moved past you once he knew the weapon he’d given you was in your hand―the small warhammer you’d been fixated on earlier.

Following not too far behind Daryl, you rounded the corner out to the courtyard, where you saw Laurent. He was standing in front of an old wooden door with a square barred window. Between the rusty iron bars, a pale, decrepit hand stretched out towards the boy, who seemed all too calm. In Laurent’s hands, a book. It came together now—he was reading to the creature.

Daryl hurried towards the boy, pulling him away by the shoulder. You stood back, tightening your grip on your weapon. The walker seemed contained, but it reached out with both hands now, growling and snarling at Daryl.

“What the hell are you doin’?” asked Daryl.

“This is Pére Jean,” replied Laurent, as if it was obvious. “We are waiting for him to rise again.”

Daryl looked from the walker, to Laurent, to you. You could see in his eyes that his tolerance had just run out. Daryl had been prepared to put up with as much as he needed to if it meant getting the two of you back home, but this?

Well, you and he had seen this kind of thing before, all the way back at the farm. Hershel had been keeping walkers in his barn, most of which had in life been his family or friends, in the hopes that one day there’d be a cure for this disease. He thought they were sick, not dead. Back then, it made a little more sense. It was the beginning, and people were coping with this terrible new world in any way they could.

Still, Daryl had no room for understanding back then, him being one of the first to lead the charge against exterminating the walkers in the barn. He certainly didn’t have it within him to understand it now, twelve years later, when all who were living should’ve known better. Even nuns.

“Laurent.” Isabelle’s voice echoed softly, but urgently, through the courtyard. She came toward the boy as she spoke to him in French. You figured she dismissed him, because soon he was walking away. Now, her eyes turned to you, then Daryl.

There was no unsettling calm there now, no more pretense. In this moment, despite your disgust, you felt that this was the sincerest form of her you had seen yet. There was fear in her eyes. Not of you, not of Daryl, and not of the walker. Something else entirely. For the first time since you’d been here, you felt sympathy for her, though you could not place why.

“Let me explain,” she said, but Daryl was already turning, making his way back into the abbey. You followed closely, but with an odd sense of guilt in the pit of your stomach. You pushed it away. Intuition would have to be put on the back burner. Survival was more important.

“You got a lot of witchy shit goin’ on around here.” Daryl pushed open the doors to the room where he’d awoken. Though you followed him, your feet froze in place. Isabelle caught up to him, her face as white as the cloth shrouding her. “Dead priest in a closet and a creepy kid? No thanks.”

You watched Daryl as he gathered his belongings. You felt an incessant pounding inside your head as thoughts ran wild and emotions flooded you. On one hand, you were more than happy to pack up your things and get out of here, but on the other, you wanted to know more about what was going on here. Perhaps it was that curiosity that often got you into trouble, but you couldn’t help it. Maybe seeing the nun’s facade crumble had made you more receptive to the idea of hearing her out. You weren’t sure why. You’d been more than ready to leave this place since the minute you opened your eyes this morning.

“It’s not what you think,” she said. Her eyes flashed from him to you, as if pleading. There was so much desperation in her, so much that you felt it flooding into you. Whatever she wanted, it was serious.

“Doesn’t matter what I think. We’re outta here.” Daryl yanked the nightshirt he’d awoken in and stuffed it into the backpack he’d found on the boat. Looking at you from across the room, his gaze was firm. Unyielding. “C’mon,” he said. “Get your stuff. We’re goin’. Now.”

Before you could respond, the doors behind you rattled shut. Isabelle stood in front of the closed doors, blocking your only exit. You knew that you could probably push past her smaller frame if you needed to, and Daryl most certainly could, but her desperation seemed strong enough to put up a fight.

“You can’t leave. Not without us. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Isabelle’s eyes were locked onto Daryl as she spoke. You looked between the two of them, confused and getting increasingly irritated with Isabelle’s lack of detailed explanation.

“Waiting for Daryl?” you asked. “What do you mean waiting for him?”

Isabelle’s gaze shifted towards you. “He’s the messenger.” Her eyes were wide and her voice firm with confidence in this statement, as if it meant anything to you or him.

Daryl paused his hurried packing as he looked over to you. He was just as confused, and just as frustrated.

“The messenger?” he repeated.

“To deliver Laurent.”

You let out a huff. “Deliver him? Deliver him where?”

From her pocket she procured a folded piece of parchment. She hastily unfolded the paper as she approached Daryl. “He drew this.” With a low grumble, he took the picture into his hands.

You side-stepped to place yourself next to Daryl, looking over his shoulder to get a glimpse of whatever madness Isabelle was ranting about.

The parchment was faded and cracked, but the colored pencil outlined with graphite was new and crisp. The style was simple and childlike, of course, but clearly discernible. Depicted on the page was the body of a man engulfed in blue waves, with his head poking out and resting upon a yellow beach dotted with seashells. It looked as if he was washing onto the shore. The man sported sinuous hairs that reached his shoulder and a cross hatching of lines along his chin that you assumed represented facial hair.

Had the situation been different, you might’ve found this amusing. After all, the man in the picture was vague looking enough to resemble any man with slightly long hair and a beard. It could’ve been Jesus Christ himself, but Daryl? You would have laughed if you weren’t so conflicted about what to think. Was Isabelle just plain out of her right mind, or was this going to lead to an opportunity to get the two of you home?

Daryl, however, didn’t have as much of a nuanced reaction as you did. “Yeah, he should stick to math.”

“So, you think this guy in Laurent’s picture… is Daryl?”

Isabelle seemed to ignore your line of questioning, as if it was obvious. “Three weeks ago. Before you came.”

Daryl lifted a black wool coat over his shoulders. “He drew a guy on a beach. So what?”

Once again, Isabelle’s eyes were focused on Daryl. Whatever part you had in this, if any at all, was apparently nowhere near as important as his. You might’ve been slightly offended if you weren’t confused.

“I saw you fight the Guerrières,” she replied. “I know you can get him there safely.”

You inserted yourself once again, practically jumping in between Isabelle and Daryl. “Get him where?” you asked, or rather, demanded.

Daryl held up his hand as if to signal her to stop. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Daryl said, his voice bordering on exhausted now, as if he was tired of even entertaining this. Daryl turned to you now as he slung one strap of his pack over his shoulder. “(Y/N),” he said, “get your stuff. Seriously.”

Despite your bewilderment laced with a heavy dose of irritation, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the nun’s words. Your curiosity, once again, had gotten the better of you. “Hold on, I want to hear this,” you said, half out of hope that perhaps it could somehow lead you to getting home, and half out of sheer entertainment value.

Daryl huffed as he shook his head, not ready to argue with you, but ready to move out of this stuffy room and get going, with you kicking and screaming if he had to.

“Our leader is a Buddhist monk,” Isabelle continued. “He came through on a pilgrimage some years ago. He recognized something in Laurent, an answer to a prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” you asked, but Isabelle once again did not directly indulge your curiosity. Meanwhile, Daryl pushed past you towards the door, though you and he both knew he wasn’t going anywhere without you.

Isabelle followed Daryl, and you followed swiftly behind. She spoke rapidly, trying to get every last word of context out as if somehow that would persuade him. But you knew Daryl, and you knew that the only way of persuading him to do anything in this situation was if Isabelle offered him some sort of lead regarding your journey home. For your part, you hoped that encouraging her to ramble like her life depended on it would do just that.

“L’Union has a base up north, a community that will raise and nurture him to be who he was born to be.”

“‘Who he was born to be?’” Daryl repeated, opening the doors into the corridor.

“Six months ago, Lama Rinpoche said it was time,” she sputtered as she hurried to match Daryl’s longer strides. “Pére Jean was supposed to escort him, but… Well, you saw.”

“Yeah, I did. You got him locked up, thinkin’ the prayers and poetry are gonna fix him.” Daryl turned the corner, into the foyer, and then the armory.

“Laurent is special,” continued Isabelle. “I think you see that.”

“Do I?”

“His mother died in childbirth,” Isabelle continued. You listened much more intently than Daryl seemed to, but she still spoke directly to him. “He shouldn’t have survived that. It’s a miracle he’s even alive.

You stood cross-armed, leaning against the wall as you watched Daryl pick through the weapons. The first thing he grabbed was a simple wooden crossbow. It wasn’t at all like his, but the likelihood of ever seeing that crossbow again was next to nothing. He picked up bolts, too, and a morningstar. You never could figure out how to use that thing, despite how many times Daryl had attempted to show you.

With the morningstar in his hand, he lifted it up to show it to Isabelle, while his eyes still focused on the rest of the weapons laid out before him. He was like a kid in a candy store, though much grumpier.

“Can I borrow this?” he asked, though he didn’t seem keen on receiving an answer.

“He’s shown abilities,” Isabelle continued, once again. “Perceptions. Compassion beyond any child.”

Daryl turned with his haul to focus his attention on the weapons behind him. Isabelle seemed to grow frustrated now too, but only just the slightest bit. That calm demeanor was hard to penetrate.

“He sees into people,” she said more firmly now. You recalled how Laurent had taken one look at you and known exactly what you were feeling. Granted, the rational explanation was that he had known you and Daryl were far from home from talking to Isabelle prior, so it wouldn’t have been a stretch for him to assume that you were, indeed, homesick.

Of course, you thought Robin was very perceptive and emotionally intelligent, too. Robin was special to you, but all mothers believe their children to be special. It was nothing more than a simple personality trait, as far as you were concerned.

“We used to have a kid like that in grade school,” Daryl remarked. “He used to get his ass kicked a lot.” Daryl unsheathed a dagger as he spoke, then held it up to Isabelle, once again feigning his need for permission. “I’m gonna borrow this too, all right?”

“He needs teaching. Guidance we cannot provide. He’ll be safer there, nurtured… Until he’s ready.”

In one last burst of energized curiosity, you stepped forward to garner Isabelle’s attention. “Ready for what?” you asked, and this time, if Isabelle wasn’t straightforward, you were sure you were about to scream.

Isabelle’s gaze found you, her eyes ice cold and alert. Circles of pale blue encapsulated sharp black pupils that penetrated your own until you felt like you could see inside her mind if you tried hard enough. She seemed crazed, in a way, but also perfectly sane. Maybe it’s because what she was about to say would sound crazy to you, but to her, it was just logic.

“To be the new Messiah.”

Your eyes blinked in quick succession, as if to somehow blink away whatever she had just said to you in complete seriousness. You had only mostly been joking with your theories about these nuns being religious wackos. In this particular instance, you hated being proven right.

“To lead the revival of humanity,” Isabelle added. It did not make you feel any less creeped out.

“Yep,” you said. “We’re out of here.”

The next several moments were a blur, but you soon found yourself watching Daryl yank the keychain from the frantic nun’s belt. He turned towards the door to Pére Jean’s study while she continued to rant about Laurent’s destiny. You couldn’t catch exactly what she was saying as you pushed past her behind Daryl to hurry into the office, your sights set on that radio.

“Don’t you see?” Isabelle continued, nearly out of breath at this point. “This is why you’re here. This is why you washed ashore. This is why I was on the road that day. This is why you were saved.”

Daryl ignored her, rummaging around the room for anything that might’ve been useful on your journey while you fiddled with a few of the buttons and dials. It didn’t seem to respond to your prodding.

“Everything happens for a reason,” she added, paying no mind to you and focusing solely on Daryl.

“Can you fire this thing up?” you asked.

She looked at you in slight confusion, as though she couldn’t fathom your inability to take what she said seriously. You knew she believed it with every fiber in her being, but that didn’t make it true.

“The tube broke a month ago.”

You paused your movements as you processed her words, bile rising up in your esophagus and burning your throat. As for Daryl, he turned with a sharpness that startled even you.

“What?” he asked.

Isabelle’s eyes sank so as not to capture the wrath of Daryl’s stare. “I’ve been trying to get a replacement,” she said, more quietly than before.

Your anger was quickly replaced with hopelessness as you stood up and sighed. Of course the one thing that might be of some immediate help in getting you home was not working.

But Daryl’s anger was potent, more like a searing sting than a raging maelstrom. Still, the storm wasn’t far off. One more inconvenience might tip him over the edge.

Daryl huffed a chuckle of disbelief, then pointed an accusatory finger at the nun. His voice lowered to a growl as he spoke. “You’ve been fuckin’ with us.”

Silence settled uncomfortably between the three of you. Looking between them, you felt the role of mediator begin to overcome you, whether you liked it or not. “Is there… Is there any way we could find a boat, or maybe some kind of settlement that has a boat? Someone who can get us home?”

You didn’t know what to make of Isabelle’s next period of silence. It was clear that she was thinking, but you could not make heads or tails of what. Perhaps she was thinking of a way for the two of you to get home, or perhaps she was concocting some kind of plan that would get the two of you to do whatever it was she wanted. You didn’t think she would let you go that easily, not with how passionately she spoke just moments ago.

“There’s a port up north that may still be active.”

Daryl jumped in before you could even respond. “Show me.” His arm raised towards the large map of France sprawled out on the wall.

“Le Havre,” replied Isabelle, and your eyes darted to where she pointed: a star demarcating a city in the north of France, only a stretch of sea separating it from Britain. The city’s name was written in slanted letters that were bigger than the myriad smaller names surrounding it, but less prominent than the not-too-distant PARIS. It must’ve been a rather major city in its heyday.

“We’ve heard rumors of ships that come and go. But it’s just rumors.”

Turning to look at Daryl, you noticed his focus was fixed on the map. His eyes moved quickly over the lines that stretched across the colored surface like veins. His hand floated up to his chin absentmindedly as his mind processed a dozen or so thoughts. You watched his index finger rub against the skin just under his bottom lip, back and forth. You found yourself holding your breath, waiting for him to speak.

Daryl’s thoughts collided into one, unified by a piece of red thread pinned to the map in a jagged line, surely demarcating some kind of important route. His finger wagged to trace the line in the air as he spoke, “What is this route that’s marked out right here?”

“That’s Pére Jean’s plan to get the boy up north,” replied Isabelle.

You moved closer, your eyes pinpointing various golden pushpins lodged into the thread, each matching up with a town or city noted on the map.

“What do these pins indicate?” you asked.

“They’re stops,” she answered. “Places where we have friends who can help to connect us, radio frequencies.”

A swell of hope rose up in you as you turned to Daryl with wide, bright eyes. Daryl’s attention was caught by your hand squeezing his forearm, further indicating your renewed vigor. “We can take that route up to the port, honey.”

Isabelle seemed to catch onto your enthusiasm. “It’s a treacherous path north,” she said. “Hard to find your way.” The nun turned to you and Daryl with something almost smug in her voice as she spoke. “Harder if you don’t speak French.”

Your heart sank at her discouragement, but Daryl was unmoving. “Get your stuff,” he said to you. This time, you would do so.

In the room you’d awoken in, you scrambled to compile whatever scraps of clothing you’d picked up on the way here, and whatever was left of the clothes you washed up in. Pivoting your head in all sorts of directions, you searched for the large denim vest you’d been wearing. It was nearly brand new when you’d left home weeks ago, its faded Levi’s tag still hanging on by a thread before you yanked it off. Now, it was torn in more than a few places and stained by blood and oil and God only knew what else.

But after a few more frantic turns, you spied it folded neatly on a chair across the room. It wasn’t the vest that mattered, though. It was the contents of its inner pocket.

You hadn’t found yourself the time to check if the photos were still tucked in where they’d been before, but you figured now was as good a time as any.

With a sigh of relief, you removed the Polaroids from the pocket, zipped up and sealed away from the sea water that had engulfed you in the chaos of that night.

Some water had come through, but not enough to mar the image of Robin holding baby Westley in her arms, or Dog and Robin playing in a pile of leaves as Daryl watched in amusement. Every photograph revived another memory as you flipped through them, until the images were clouded by your tears.

That was another reason you’d been dreading checking your pocket―the inevitable sadness that would overcome you if you saw what you’d so foolishly left behind.

It hadn’t been for nothing, of course. You’d never leave home for nothing. It was for Michonne, for Rick. That was the point of all this, and look where it had gotten you. And there was so much to scold yourself for.

For letting Daryl go.

For agreeing to go with him when he asked.

For wanting to be a better wife in the place of being a better mother.

Or at least, that’s what you saw it as now. Why couldn’t you let him go alone? After all, he’d gone out alone more times than you could count ever since the prison. You weren’t a stranger to the concept of Daryl leaving you for sometimes weeks at a time, but this time was different. Daryl had asked you to go. Wanted you to go. You’d joked that it was like a vacation, but it wasn’t. Both of you knew that.

But a part of you was glad you’d gone. If Daryl had gotten into this mess himself, you knew yourself enough to know that you would’ve gone after him anyway, leaving the children in Alexandria no matter what. It was inevitable, you supposed. You hated it. The idea of them alone terrified you, though you hadn’t let yourself dwell on it much until now.

And that’s when your breathing became rapid, your heart pounding while every hair on your body stood on end as you thought of every horrible thing that could possibly happen while you were gone. Each second you stood here was another moment in which the unthinkable could happen to everyone and everything you loved. Hot tears seemed to burn their way down your cheeks, despite how hard you tried to hold them back. A pointless endeavor.

Just as you began to let yourself cry, to let yourself fully feel the weight of what you’d let happen, you heard your name on Daryl’s voice, calling to you from outside. “Let’s go!” he called out.

You swiped your face with your sleeve, and swallowed the unborn tears.

Outside, you lugged your bag over your shoulder to meet up with Daryl, who stood outside near the front gate. Isabelle stood facing him, while the other nuns, perhaps a dozen or so of them, scattered about as if to watch the outsiders leave. Entertainment, you supposed. Or maybe a way to make sure the two of you were really gone.

Laurent was there, too, and you heard him say something to Daryl, but by the time you made it within earshot, he was quiet.

“It ain’t my problem,” Daryl said to Isabelle, and that was all you could catch of their conversation.

The nun’s face looked dejected, hopeless. Though you’d felt mostly annoyed with the woman throughout your stay thus far, even though the reasons weren’t very justified, you couldn’t help but feel sympathy. Perhaps you had no idea what she was going through, nor she you, but at least you could understand her sadness, for whatever it was worth.

“Thank you,” you said, trying to make up for Daryl’s lack of manners. “For helping us.”

Isabelle smiled softly, but there was still a great sadness in her eyes. Daryl made his way towards the heavy wooden door that separated the abbey from the outside world, expecting you to follow.

“And, um… good luck. With everything.”

She only nodded in response, which you took as your signal to leave.

A dirt road made by tire tracks in the ground led the two of you away from the abbey, into the surrounding woods. Maybe less than a mile or so had you walked in near silence, only the sound of gravel underfoot, until you spoke.

“You know, you could’ve at least said thank you.”

Daryl’s brows knit together as he looked at you. “What?”

“Back at the abbey. I don’t like the woman very much but she might’ve saved our lives, especially yours. She let us take weapons, food for the road…”

“Pfft,” he scoffed. “You on a high horse now?”

Smiling, you shook your head. “No, I just… I don’t know. They might be crazy but at least they helped us.”

“Yeah, helped us ‘cause they think I’m The Messenger.” Daryl’s voice rose as he mimicked Isabelle’s words. You snorted and lightly shoved his shoulder with yours.

“Mm, yeah. You notice how everyone there was super interested in you, but not in me?”

One corner of Daryl’s lips curled every so slightly as he looked at you with playful, but tired, eyes. “You jealous again?”

“No,” you laughed. “Well, I mean…”

Your voice trailed off as the sound of distant engines grew louder with each moment that passed. Daryl looked back towards the abbey, but it wasn’t coming from that direction. He turned the other way, and sure enough, it was coming closer—towards the two of you.

There were no words exchanged in this moment, only the feeling of Daryl’s hand grasping your wrist and pulling you to the side of the road, into the wild shrubbery.

Peering through the gently rustling leaves, you watched as a caravan of vehicles zoomed past, heading towards the abbey. You recognized the military-grade jeeps, their insignia painted in white flashing by fast but just enough that you could recognize it from yesterday. It must’ve been the same group that had attacked you, and if it was, then that would undoubtedly spell trouble for the nuns.

Daryl’s eyes were locked onto the caravan until it disappeared into the overgrown woods that shrouded the walls of the abbey. His mind was at war within itself, thoughts of making a break for it with you and leaving the nuns to their fate battling with the moral dilemma that would inevitably haunt him if he did so. And then there was you, of course, who he knew would be against the idea, tempting as it was.

But of course he couldn’t do that. The nuns were well-equipped thanks to the armory, but clearly not experienced in fighting living human beings with automatic weapons. Simple firearms and medieval weapons in the hands of even the most experienced fighter would still be challenged against such a militarized force.

“They’re heading for the abbey,” you said quietly, your voice barely rising above the now distant grumbling of engines. “If we start back now, we can catch up to them before―”

“Nah,” he replied. He looked at you for a moment, watching your face go from confused to annoyed very quickly. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

After over ten years together, you’d think he’d understand that that simply wasn’t how this was going to work, but he had to try.

You tilted your head in questioning. “You’re joking, right?”

He wasn’t.

After some whisper-bickering on the way back to the abbey, the two of you had come to an agreement that you’d wait just outside the front gate, ready to come to Daryl’s aid if he had been gone a suspiciously long time or if you heard something going awry. Daryl had managed to somehow convince you that only one of you going in made more sense than both of you risking your lives for the nuns, but you weren’t exactly happy about it. Any situation which alleviated Daryl’s stress was bound to send yours off the charts.

If you’d had a watch, you might’ve timed him, but alas. All you could do was count the seconds in your head, and keep your eyes and ears open. Leaning against the brick wall, you huffed out an exasperated breath as you squeezed the handle of your hammer with both hands. After a while, you had half a mind to go in there despite nothing particularly alarming happening, until the first gunshot.

Meanwhile, Daryl kept his back pressed against the wall beside the door to the room he’d awakened in. His eyes were focused on the pointed end of the bayonet that slowly inched its way through the doorway, but not very far.

He lifted an axe he’d “borrowed” from the armory and brought it down swiftly upon the bayonet, disarming and momentarily startling the young man who’d held it. Daryl quickly pinned him against the door, then from the corner of his eye, another figure caught his attention.

The man raised a handgun and pointed it in Daryl’s direction, but Daryl was quick enough to use the other man as a human shield, his back absorbing the bullets that were fired. Throwing the lifeless body to the side, Daryl lunged forwards to strike the man across the face and knock the gun loose from his hand. He threw another punch, this time propelling the man backwards until he landed upon a table. Daryl came forward to further incapacitate him, but he was able to kick Daryl back with great force.

Daryl stumbled back several feet, but did not fall. This man was strong, and wouldn’t go easily. That much was evident.

Now with the upper man, the man forced Daryl against the wall, delivering several hits to his stomach before turning him and throwing him hard against the floor. A few particularly frustrated kicks were administered to his abdomen, accompanied by loud grunts to further illustrate the Frenchman’s frustration.

Finally, the man let up, only to turn and retrieve his discarded handgun.

In the courtyard, you rushed past a bloodied scene of several nuns’ bodies, as well as those of most of the men from the caravan, strewn over the stones of the pathway. With your axe held firmly, you called out to Daryl, looking wide-eyed around the once peaceful abbey.

You did not find Daryl, but Isabelle, her flowing white figure turning to look at you as she processed the sound of your voice. You ran towards her, noticing the shock and distress upon her features. Coming closer, you took her wrist into a firm grasp, as if to not let her get away.

“Where’s Daryl? Did you see him?”

She did not speak for a moment, only nodding rapidly as she began to awaken from her shocked stupor.

“Yes… H-he went inside. This way.”

Daryl’s life flashed before his eyes, or so it seemed. Of course, that had happened many times before, but this time, he was sure it was the real thing as the Frenchman stood above him, the barrel of his gun perfectly aimed between Daryl’s widened eyes. In a knee-jerk reaction, he held up his hands as if to block the bullet, but it did not matter…

Rounding the corner and stumbling into the hall, you saw the scene for yourself. Without hesitation, you bolted towards the man, axe held high and all your strength channeled into that swing.

Bringing down the axe, you hit the hand that held the gun, causing the man to grunt in pain. The blade might’ve been too dull to cause any irreversible damage, but it was enough to disarm him and to send him backwards, away from Daryl.

The force of your attack sent even you spinning backwards, but you quickly oriented yourself with the intention of striking the man again, though he’d been quick enough to start making a run for the exit.

Daryl wasted no time in retrieving the gun, coming back up to his feet after the wind had been knocked out of him and into another dimension. Aiming the gun, he shot.

His aim, though, was less than stellar, given the state of his swimming head. The bullet struck the man only in the shoulder, sending him only slightly stumbling as he continued dashing towards the foyer.

As you both followed behind, you were met with a still bewildered Isabelle and a frantic older nun, who practically threw herself in front of Daryl as he tried to aim the gun towards the escapee once more.

“Please. Please. Please, please!” she repeated emphatically, her hands at one point grabbing Daryl with what little strength she had. “Show mercy!”

Daryl, of course, ignored these pleas. As far as he was concerned, these people were not deserving of something that even the most good-hearted of people were so rarely afforded in this world. He continued on to chase after the man, and you were set to follow, but suddenly, you saw the older nun begin to tremble, her legs seeming to fold underneath her.

Isabelle moved quickly to stabilize her, but gravity was beckoning her weak body. You hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to help the nun as well as the urge to follow Daryl and make sure he didn’t get himself in trouble again. Your heart, however, kept your eyes glued to Isabelle and the older woman as she struggled to keep her steady.

Dropping your axe, you moved to the shaky nun’s other side to hold her weight, taking some burden off Isabelle. Looking around, your eyes fixed onto the nearest perch—the stone steps at the base of the staircase.

“There,” you said, nudging your head towards the stairs. “She needs to sit down.”

The two of you helped the nun to the steps, sitting her down gently between you. She naturally leaned herself against Isabelle, who wrapped her arm around her. You took a moment to look her over, noticing blood pooling in her abdomen. Isabelle moved her hand over the wound, but both of you knew there was nothing that could be done. It was too deep, and too much blood had already been lost. Even now, you could see the color of the older woman’s face, which once might’ve been so full of life, draining to a ghastly pallor.

Still, you had to try.

Taking off your jacket, you were about to press it to the wound, but the nun shook her head and looked at you, her eyes with a familiar dullness that you’d seen before in those near death.

“No,” she said. “It is my time… There is no use.”

Just then, Daryl returned, appearing slightly defeated after the man he’d given chase to had escaped. He came closer, kneeling next to you. The nun reached out a shaky hand towards him. He hesitated for just a moment, then reached his own hand out to meet hers.

“You don’t believe,” she said. “Maybe you never saw a reason to. But one thing I know… reasons are everywhere.”

You watched night fall from your room, the same one you’d awoken in. Daryl had insisted you rest after burying the nuns that had fallen, of which only two remained: Isabelle, of course, and Sylvie. Laurent had been spared, too, much to your relief. But it seemed yours and Daryl’s fates were tied much closer to these new acquaintances than you’d realized. The events of that day had proven as much.

As you watched the flame of a nearby candle dance with languid melancholy, the door to the room creaked open slowly. You turned on your side to face the door to be met with Daryl, his tired face illuminated by a gold flicker. He looked defeated, as he had been, but with a nearly imperceptible glimmer of hope in his eyes. You might not have noticed if you hadn’t seen it before, but you had, and it intrigued you.

“What is it?”

He sat on the edge of the small bed where you laid, his hand resting on your thigh over the threadbare blanket that covered you. He took a deep breath, which spoke of conflicted emotions, followed by his hoarse, tired voice.

“We’re takin’ them to the port.”

You sat up slightly, intrigued by this news. “We are?”

“Yeah… Figured we ain’t got much of a choice.”

You nodded, agreeing that taking Laurent to this “sanctuary” that Isabelle spoke of was probably your best bet for getting home, even if it wasn’t ideal to have to worry about three other people.

“I guess it’s sort of a win-win situation. We help them get to where they want to go, and they help us get to where we want to go.”

“Guess so.”

Silence settled in between you, its presence heavy and filled with words unspoken. You sat up fully, reaching out to touch his shoulders. They were as strong as always, but slumped over slightly. This all weighed so heavily on him, the responsibility. It always does. You knew that he’d never forgive himself, but you could try to reassure him, like you always did.

“None of this is your fault,” you said, knowing that it was what he needed to hear. You leaned closer, pressing yourself against his back and resting your chin upon his shoulder. Your arms wrap around his waist as tightly as they can. This might have been the most intimate you’ve been with him since washing ashore here. It was certainly the closest you’ve felt to him since.

And he felt an immense weight lift off his shoulders, one which he knows will inevitably return, but in this moment, it’s dissipated completely. His body sunk into your embrace, and the tightness in his chest is relieved by a long, deep breath. It’s not just your touch that eased his mind, but your words. Every part of him wanted to object because he knew deep down that it was his fault. It was hard for him to even imagine that it wasn’t. Still, to know that you didn’t blame him, that you still loved him… It made the load he will always carry feel lighter.

“We will get home. I know it.”

You punctuated your statement with a firm kiss to his cheek. His head turned slowly towards yours, his lips meeting yours in a more urgent kiss, one that felt like a promise. Daryl could always say more with his body than with his words, and that’s what he did now—he pulled you closer, now locked in his embrace. His mouth did not separate from yours even for a moment. There was devotion in his kiss, in his hands as they crept up your back and moved up and down in slow, firm caresses. Words couldn’t communicate what he told you with one embrace, but you knew that no matter what fate had in store for you, Daryl would rearrange the stars to change the course of destiny as long as it meant the two of you would make it home. Together.

When your lips separated, you were lost in his eyes, so familiar, like they were windows through which you could see Robin and Wes, waiting patiently in the living room for their parents’ return. If you looked long enough, you were sure you could see yourself and Daryl coming in through the front door to be greeted with open arms.

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

#begin again series #begin again #the walking dead #the walking dead: daryl dixon #daryl dixon #daryl dixon spin-off #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead: daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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theteasetwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Begin Again

Chapter 3: Éveil

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: none ❧ Word Count: 5.5k

❧ In This Chapter: You awaken in what seems to be a convent, crawling with nuns. When you find Daryl, you must come up with the next move in order to get home, but your current circumstances complicated things as your trust in the strange nuns proves thin.

❧ A/N: Hey there! Long time no see. So um I'm still doing this writing thing, believe it or not. And I'm working on this series slowly but surely. The second season of DD is supposedly coming out in September, so I have some more time to finish up season 1! Well, as much of it as I can. Anyway, enjoy this long-awaited third installment. Reader meets Isabelle... there's some tension there for sure. But who knows? Maybe they'll become friends <3

You woke with a start, your heart racing as soon as your eyes shot open. Above you, there was a thin drape of natural linen—a canopy. Underneath you, a rather firm bed.

Looking around, you tried to make sense of your surroundings, to assess your safety. No walkers, but the place was so different from the last you remembered. What stood out to you most was the crucifix, directly across the room and mounted high upon the wall. A less than welcoming motif.

At your right, a small wooden table, upon which sat a burning candle with wax beginning to drip down the iron holder. A glass of water was beckoning to you, so you sat up quickly, tearing the neatly tucked blankets off your body and reaching over to take it in your hands. The liquid soothed your sore, dry throat as you drank it greedily, letting it dribble down your chin and onto some fabric that adorned your body. You looked down—you weren’t in your own clothes, but a white woolen frock that reached your calves. You’d had an extensive collection of nighties and lingerie back at home, but this was much more… modest for your taste, with wool sleeves and a high neckline that threatened to cut off your breathing.

Without another moment’s hesitation, you raised yourself to your feet, bundled up in thick hand-knitted socks that protected them from the chill of the old wooden floor beneath you. You moved slowly, steadily, until your dizziness took over, causing you to grasp at the bedside table and shake the wobbly little structure until the glass fell to the floor, breaking into a hundred tiny shards.

But that was hardly noticeable to you as you came to, remembering everything you could before you had blacked out: the young French woman and her grandfather, the two paramilitary men, the mysterious blurred figure approaching as your eyesight faded to black… Your memory faded in and out after that, with only snippets of what must’ve happened since you passed out. You recalled what seemed to be… nuns. They were women dressed in long white gowns, their heads shrouded in hoods that framed their faces.

That wasn’t all you remembered, though. There was a faint memory of a scream echoing through your mind, a scream that you’d only heard a few times in your life, but you knew it. It was a scream of agony, which had riled you up in your stupor as the nuns had tried to restrain you last night. You recalled the panic, the fear as you heard him cry out in abject pain, the screams echoing through the walls from somewhere else, somewhere not too far away.

The memory made you move, your shaky but determined steps taking you towards the door of the room you’d been seemingly confined to, with several other unoccupied beds lining the walls. But your head was dizzied from the sudden movement as equilibrium took its time to set in. Your body careening swiftly towards the wall, you clung to the dark fabric of a curtain. The light of the window it draped over was enough to shock you into coherence, or at least some semblance of it. Pushing back the fabric, your eyes adjusted to the bright, cool light of the morning.

The window gave way to a new scene playing outside, in a courtyard. You made out old, pale bricks forming elaborate arches encircling a slightly overgrown, yet somehow cared for, garden. Tall cypress trees that seemed particularly well maintained reached up to the open air, where voices echoed between the walls of the courtyard. Speaking in French, of course, so you couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but a child’s voice chimed above the others.

As your eyes began to collaborate with your ears, you pinpointed the child in the courtyard—a boy. Or at least, you assumed to be a boy. You couldn’t make out his face, as he was wearing a… helmet. A silver knight’s helmet that must’ve compromised his vision as he stumbled around, two rusty tin cans strapped to the bottom of his feet to make him almost taller than the nuns that playfully chased him. In his hand, a small wooden sword.

Chickens scurried around as the boy wobbled on his tin cans, brandishing the sword at the veiled women chittering around him in amusement. The boy could not keep balanced, however, making a wrong step as he lunged towards the nuns, only to stumble onto the ground. A few of the nuns quickly swarmed him, doting on the boy with pitiful “aw’s” and other expressions of overbearing, smothering concern that you as a mother were not unfamiliar with.

But this scene was just a distraction, a pointless waste of time that could’ve been spent finding your other half. Pulling yourself away from the support of the wall, you pressed on towards the door. You stumbled forward, just about to reach for the doorknob when the doors were pushed open from the other side, startling you backwards momentarily.

A young nun, one you could vaguely recognize, stood in front of you, her dark brown eyes wide and her hands outstretched as if to usher you back to bed. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she exclaimed slightly, though you could not bother to even attempt to translate with what little you had picked up from your French-to-English dictionary.

The nun came forward as you tried to side-step around her, but her hands grabbed onto your shoulders, her worried face matched up with yours. This time, she spoke in English, “You must lie down. You need rest.”

Dizzied but determined, you shook your head so hard you swore you could feel your brain bouncing off the interior of your skull. “No.”

Despite a brief struggle, you pushed past her, limping slightly as you came into a narrow hallway that opened into a bright corridor of arched windows, letting in the nearly blinding sunlight that momentarily obscured your sensitive vision.

There was no time to ask questions, and no time to wonder how on Earth you ended up in a… convent. All that concerned you now was finding Daryl, whose cries of torture and pain still echoed inside your head. God only knew what they had done to him, and you didn’t trust a nun as far as you could throw one. Though you yourself hadn’t grown up Catholic, you’d had a childhood friend who did, and her horror stories of the corrupt church she grew up in were enough to keep you mostly guarded when it came to Catholicism and its most ardent practitioners.

You could feel the nun behind you, walking quickly to keep up with your pace. At one point, she grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to look at her again. You huffed in aggravation, combined with the irritability that accompanied your worry.

“You must rest,” she said, squeezing your hand gently.

But you yanked your hand away, too frustrated to even try to say anything back. You turned around again, making your way to the first door across the hall, in the hopes it would lead you to wherever Daryl might be.

The large wooden doors creaked as you pushed them open, into a room not unlike the one you’d woken up in. Much the same, actually, except for the bathtub at the far end of the room, on which your eyes set first, because Daryl’s soaking wet head turned around and looked your way, his face relaxing in relief, yet still cautious as the nun beside him looked up at you, dropping the wet rag in her hand into the water.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Your lips tightened as your back straightened to stand up a little taller, more rigidly. The wave of relief that washed over you was soon overpowered by combined confusion and embarrassment… with just maybe a tad bit of irrational resentment of the rather attractive French nun ostensibly bathing your naked and possibly disoriented husband. You supposed you had a right to be just a little skeptical.

“You’re awake,” said the nun, smiling at you in a way you could not quite find very comforting. Her intention seemed innocent, as did that of the other nun, but perhaps you just could not get past the habit, yours and hers. “I see you’ve met Sylvie.”

She nodded towards the nun behind you. You followed her gaze. The younger, shyer nun bowed her head, remaining silent before scurrying away. One less nun to deal with, you supposed.

“My name is Isabelle,” she said. Her English seemed more confident than that of Sylvie, her accent sounding almost more English than it did French. “You must be (Y/N).” Isabelle must’ve sensed your immediate discomfort at the fact that she seemed to already know your name. She perked up to say, “Daryl was quite concerned about you, asking where you were. Of course, you were asleep.”

“And now I’m awake,” you replied softly, but with a somewhat stern tone.

In your mind, you faced a very sudden dilemma, an almost amusingly irrational conflict of thoughts. What you knew in your head and your heart to be the most sensible belief was that these nuns seemed good-natured, taking in two injured strangers and providing them shelter. Perhaps they could even somehow aid in your journey home. After all, that was what you wanted: people who could help.

But there was that doubt that contradicted all your hopeful rhetoric. That possibility that these nuns could be some sort of a clandestine cabal of cannibals or a bloodthirsty band of brutes in disguise as meek servants of God. You’d seen stranger things before, heard of stranger things, too. It had to always be considered when approaching new groups, especially in a world where the likelihood of someone killing you was higher than the likelihood of them helping you with seemingly altruistic intent.

And then, of course, was the part of you that you were embarrassed to even think about. The part of you that was purely annoyed at this Isabelle for having the audacity to bathe your husband… But you had to repress that thought, because you knew it was just a very petty, irrational, ridiculously juvenile jealousy that was skewing your first impressions of this woman.

However, you figured you’d cut yourself a little slack and allow yourself the momentary annoyance, considering you’d never once in your relationship ever been jealous of another woman. You figured this one moment of weakness wouldn’t sully your track record, especially considering just how much your skull felt as though someone had reemed into it with a battering ram.

The silence did not become less awkward, of course, only more heavy, with you practically staring down this strange nun whose balance of gentleness and seriousness seemed to challenge yours, and with Daryl sitting naked in a bathtub, probably not very comfortable.

“Well,” sighed Isabelle, picking up a few towels in her arms as she walked by you, that small smile still on her face, “I’ll go fetch you some fresh clothes.”

Your eyes followed her as she shut the doors behind her. You couldn’t help but be suspicious, after all.

With a huff, you quickly moved to the large tin tub at the center of the room, where Daryl began to lift himself out, but you wordlessly stopped him, kneeling down and gently grabbing his shoulder with enough pressure to coerce him back into the soapy water.

You eyed his skin carefully, searching for any injuries you might’ve not seen, or ones that he might’ve gotten while you were asleep. The one that drew the most attention, though, was the hand-shaped burn on his left forearm, the one that worried you so much that you were sure you’d dreamt about it in your restless sleep.

It looked different now, much more healed, despite the clear indication that it had been through more trauma—more burning. In fact, you knew the look of it.

“They cauterized it,” you said to yourself, taking the cloth the nun had left floating in the cloudy lukewarm water. You rolled up your long sleeves and took his arm, carefully washing around the wound. “I heard you screaming last night. I thought they had you in some… medieval torture device.”

He watched you intently scrubbing further up his arm, your face concentrated on the task at hand, as if you were inspecting Isabelle’s ability to properly bathe him. Afterall, you were the world’s only authority on the subject.

“Was just a hot stick,” he said, the soft gravel in his voice offering immediate relief to your somewhat frazzled state. “Said it stopped it from spreading.”

The term spreading frightened you. Did that mean the burn would’ve covered his whole body? Or that the burn soon would’ve caused Daryl to turn? Everyday you learned more about a new walker variant, you missed the days when you assumed they were all the same basic dead people with a propensity for biting things.

“Well,” you said, “I’m glad they did it.” That was about the only courtesy you would offer those nuns.

Now dabbing the cloth along his collar bone, you began to reach his neck and face, where wet strands of his long dark hair clung like sinuous clumps of tangled seaweed. Your other hand carefully pulled back each piece of hair until you could properly see his face—the scar that ran over and under his left eye, and the new cut on his forehead that still worried you.

“I wonder if they have something to put on that.”

“She did,” he said, and for a moment, you had no idea who he meant. “The, uh, nun.”

Oh, her.

“Isabelle?”

Chewing his lower lip, in the way he often did, he grumbled a low, “Mhm.”

“She… put it on?”

“Yeah. Honey garlic, or somethin’.”

Honey garlic? What a bitch.

“That was nice of her.” You swallowed hard, annoyed by how annoyed you were. She did something nice, she helped your husband. Your sudden jealousy almost terrified even you.

Of course, Daryl could sense it, that odd feeling of distaste you had for her actions. He knew you well enough to know that, when it came to taking care of him, you were the only one qualified to do so. Anyone else stepping on your toes, albeit well-intentioned, was going to get you a little bit out-of-step.

It was almost amusing, though, he had to admit. Afterall, he’d never seen you like this. It was subtle, but he noticed it, and it was clear that you were, despite all your composure, a bit jealous.

Daryl knew jealousy very well. It was a silly emotion to have in the context of your relationship, considering there was no distrust nor betrayal in any sense, but sometimes, he simply couldn’t help his attitude when a man back in Alexandria or the Commonwealth or even back at the prison got a little too comfortable around you. He’d never do anything irrational, but his thoughts would run wild, mostly born of his own insecurity.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen ya jealous before,” he said, watching you lift his arm to scrub underneath.

You almost dropped his arm as you looked at him, wide-eyed, then broke out into a small laugh, as if to hide your embarrassment. “Jealous? Jealous of what?”

He tilted his head at your act. He knew you knew exactly what he meant. “The nun givin’ me a bath.”

Somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief, you stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a twitching smile, culminating in a dismissive scoff.

“Please. I have a lot more to worry about than some… French nun. She didn’t do a very good job, anyway.”

“Yeah,” agreed Daryl, watching you scrub his chest with uninhibited enthusiasm. “She didn’t get in all the nooks and crannies like you always do.”

You scoffed. “Well, I certainly hope not.”

He huffed out a laugh under his breath, which you quickly caught.

“What?”

“You’re jealous, angel.”

Despite the blush blooming upon your cheeks, your lips straightened into a tight line. Daryl flinched slightly as you half-heartedly whipped the wet rag against his chest.

“Stop it. I’m not jealous, that’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you got nothin’ to be jealous of.”

A small smirk lifted your blushing cheeks. Only Daryl could flirt with you in a convent somewhere in France and still make you feel like a schoolgirl.

And only Daryl could flirt with such a straight face, his eyes doing most of the talking as he roamed your body, somewhere between checking you out and checking you for injuries.

But he couldn’t see much beyond the modest nightgown that covered most of your body, all the way up to your neck.

“Ain’t ever seen ya in a nightgown like that neither.”

Your eyes followed his as you looked down your chest, examining the large white cotton thing draped over your body.

“Mm, you like it?”

He straightened up in the bath, making the cloudy lukewarm water splash against the sides of the tub. Of course, he’d find you adorable even if you were dressed in a trash bag.

“Yeah. Real cute… Help me outta this thing, would ya?” He winced as he tried to lift himself out of the tub, his soaking wet arms straining hard. If you were at home, you might’ve taken the opportunity to admire his well-developed muscles, but the situation was much too unfamiliar for such a thing.

So you stood up, grabbing his forearms as he winced in pained soreness. His weight made you strain hard to help him, but soon he gained his footing and stepped out of the tub, dripping water all over the stone tile.

In a rush, you turned to grab a fresh towel, left by Isabelle, you presumed. Despite knowing he was more than capable of drying himself, perhaps a part of you wanted to make up for the attention that the nun had given him earlier, so you wrapped the towel snug around his shoulders, your hands running up and down his arms to dry them.

The room was silent for a while as you focused intently on towel-drying him. He watched in slight fascination at your diligence, his eyes never leaving your concentrated face despite your eyes never meeting his.

Cute, was indeed the word that came to his mind during this moment, a little pocket of intimacy and affection within the confusion and peril of the unfamiliar world in which you found yourselves now.

At least, he thought, you were with him, because he wasn’t quite sure he could get very far without you.

“We’re getting out of here, right?” you asked, reaching up to wrap the towel around his head and knead his hair dry as he scrunched up his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Soon as I get some clothes on.”

Indeed, the first step to getting out of here was getting Daryl dressed, lest he walk around naked in a French convent and scar a few nuns for life. You turned to look around you, until your eyes landed on a neatly folded stack of clothing, sitting on a wobbly wicker chair. As Daryl was left to dry himself, you lifted the first article—a sweater, made of charcoal colored wool. It looked just about Daryl’s size, and you always liked the rare occasions on which he wore the sweaters you picked out for him, so the outfit the nun had chosen for him was so far granted your stamp of fashion approval.

Next, a long pair of wool pants, black in color. The waist was quite wide, you reckoned. You were all too familiar with Daryl’s build—widest in the shoulders, slimmest at the waist. He’d lost some weight recently, too, on account of extensive traveling all over the east side of the States, and the fact that you weren’t able to make him cookies for the last several weeks. You were sure these pants would fall off him about as soon as he’d slip them on.

“These are way too big,” you sighed. “We’ll have to see if—”

But as soon as you lifted the pants, two more articles of clothing revealed themselves at the bottom of the neat little pile: a set of off-white cotton briefs, which amused you greatly, as Daryl’s usual underwear consisted of boxers, and a pair of… Suspenders?

A smile split your face as you held back a small chitter at the sight.

“Never mind,” you simply said, holding up the brown striped suspenders for him to see. “These will hold them up.”

He looked up at you as he dried his feet. His face was contorted in mild confusion, having never really paid much attention to such an old-fashioned accessory. “What the hell are those?”

“Suspenders. You know.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed, beginning to slide the briefs up his legs. “Yeah, think my grandpappy wore those. I’m not.”

“Why not?” you asked, a slightly disappointed pout to your lips. “You’d look cute.”

He tilted his head in lighthearted annoyance at the thought. “I’m not tryin’ to look cute.”

Of course, you knew that, and you knew that yours and Daryl’s mission was one of utmost seriousness. You couldn’t be distracted by moments of humor or amusement. However, you also knew that Daryl’s practical, survivalist nature would be more responsive to your persuasion if you took a new angle in this approach.

“Daryl,” you said, watching him pull up the pants that were, as you predicted, much too wide for his waist, even when he’d finished buttoning them. “Those pants are going to fall down. You don’t want to be constantly pulling up your pants while we’re trying to get home, do you? It would slow you down.”

As much as you found the image rather amusing, you didn’t want that either.

Without another sound, besides an aggravated huff that you knew to be his reluctant admit of defeat, he pulled on the sweater, then took the suspenders from your hands and started his attempt at putting them on himself.

He did not succeed.

“Here,” you laughed. “Let me.”

It took you a second to figure out the mechanics of the things, but within moments, you were securing the button fasteners to the corresponding holes on the inside of the waistline on his trousers. With a steady hand, your eyebrows knit together and your tongue slightly poking out between your lips in concentration, you adjusted the suspenders until they seemed to fit snug against his chest, but not too tight to cause discomfort. You flattened out any twists or kinks, then patted his shoulders in satisfaction at your tailoring.

“There.” Stepping back, you couldn’t hold back your smile. Your eyes roamed all over him, taking in his new look, courtesy of the nuns. Despite the lack of trust in them, you had to admit, they had provided you with a great source of amusement.

“Oh, cutie pie,” you teased with that old pet name you’d drunkenly bestowed upon him about ten years ago now, in a place far away from here. “You look positively adorable.”

Daryl huffed, but you saw a faint blush grace his cheeks. He could pretend all he wanted that he hated being called “adorable” or “cute” by you, but both of you knew the unspoken truth.

His eyes lingered on you for a while, and as usual, you couldn’t quite tear yourself away from them—those swirls of rain clouds tinting an otherwise blue sky, with the slight reflection of green that could be caught only at certain angles. At this point in your life, you’d recognized every minute shift in hue, and each one was like another reason to let yourself get too preoccupied with his eyes.

For his part, a bittersweet mood befell him. At once you were here with him, all he could ask for, and you were here because of him. Everything was because of him. He thought back to it now, how the choices he made this far somehow landed you oceans apart from your family. It killed him inside.

But you did not let him dwell in that state for long. You pressed your lips to his in a firm kiss, as if to forcibly derail his train of thought which you knew was entering the territory of a typical Daryl pity party.

Only a moment passed after your lips separated that the door to the washroom creaked open. It startled you back slightly, and both of you straightened with an acute alertness that came naturally after so long on the road. The nun, Isabelle, stepped towards you, with a neatly folded pile of beige-colored clothing in her arms. Upon that pile sat a pair of short lace-up boots, worn but practical.

“Here are your clothes,” she said before placing them upon a nearby chair. With each move you found yourself studying her, trying to see if there was something you could pick up on that would indicate deceit or some hidden agenda. The woman was difficult to read, however, and even Daryl couldn’t quite know what to make of her just yet.

Isabelle held a soft smile as she met your gaze for a few moments. Her eyes were clear blue and her skin was pale as a porcelain doll. Of course, being a nun, her hair was hidden, tucked neatly under the white veil atop her head. From what you knew of nuns, which wasn’t much, you understood that her veil signified her rank within the cloister. A veil of white meant the wearer was a novice, still yet to take her vows, whatever that means. Married to Christ, or something like that.

“Thank you,” you replied, your words quickly forming a new sentence: a question, of which you had many. “What happened to our clothes?” This was spoken with a tad bit of urgency, as not only had Daryl been wearing the angel-winged vest he’d prized above any other article of clothing in his possession, there was also a small assortment of polaroid photos zipped up securely in the pocket of your vest. You just hoped the nuns hadn’t disposed of your clothing, as most of it was tattered.

“All the possessions we found you with are beside the beds you awoke in,” she replied. Her voice was so… calm. Assured. Satisfied. You did not like it. Not one bit. She seemed all too pleased at your presence, as if she knew something you didn’t, but something that would ultimately benefit her. Whatever it was, you couldn’t place. “Dress yourself. I will show you both around.”

A quick exchange of looks with Daryl and the two of you were of one mind. “We’re not stayin’,” he said, much to your approval. Though you’d been eager to find people who could help you get home, you didn’t want to linger longer than needed. If you could get whatever help you needed here, you’d take it, and use it to get home. Besides, your trust was wavering. “We’re tryin’ to get back to America. Soon as possible.”

Isabelle’s face was unmoving, with that same indecipherable calmness that made you uneasy. There was more to her than she let on, and you had a feeling that Daryl could sense it, too.

“You need rest,” she said, her eyes fixated on Daryl, then moving towards you. “Both of you. A day and you’ll be back on your feet.”

Though the thought of just one more day away from home killed you a little inside, you knew she was right. You were still exhausted, and Daryl would probably want to recalibrate in terms of geography. It would be wise to take a moment to get your bearings before setting out again, but one thing was certain: you weren’t taking your eyes off the nuns.

“In the meantime,” Isabelle continued with a slight huff to her voice, “get dressed and come out when you’re ready. I’ll take you to the courtyard. You could both use a bit of fresh air.”

With a smile she exited, closing the door behind her. Still, however, you were wary. What if she was eavesdropping on the other side? You stepped closer to each other, ready to speak in whispers. Even sign language, if necessary.

“I don’t like this,” you whispered. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Daryl chewed the inside of his bottom lip in thought. Deep thought. This threw you off a bit. Shouldn’t Daryl be agreeing with you? Not that he didn’t, at least from what you could glean from his facial expressions, but there was something going on in that head of his. Some… conflict?

“Daryl?”

Another few beats of heavy silence as he rubbed his chin in thought. “Think we should try to see if they can help us.”

For a moment, you were stunned, unable to speak except for an exasperated huff. “What? Daryl, they’re nuns. Something tells me they don’t get out much.”

Another pause. “Let's just… see,” he said. “They’ve made it this long, they gotta know their way around. Hell, maybe they’ve got a radio or somethin’. There’s gotta be other communities, like back home. Maybe they know some people who can get us back. All we need’s a boat.”

It drove you nuts when he was right and you weren’t. In this case, you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit it, but you knew it. All you could do was relent, and remind him that you weren’t staying. You knew he knew that, but just to be sure.

“Tomorrow we’re out of here,” you stated plainly. “We can see if they can help us, but we’re not staying longer than that. The sooner we get back on the road, the better.”

Daryl nodded in agreement, but his eyes scanned your face curiously. Your cautiousness and reluctance to trust the nuns was stronger than his, which both surprised him and intrigued him. He was usually the one who had his defenses up. Not that he didn’t in this case, of course, but it seemed you were more so than usual.

“I don’t trust ‘em anymore than you do, but let’s be smart about this. Just ‘cause you don’t like Isabelle doesn’t—”

Surprised at his words, you scoffed. “What?”

He huffed. “You don’t like her.”

“I never said that.”

He shook his head in slight amusement.

“Daryl.” Your arms crossed in front of your chest as your lip twitched in annoyance. At the very idea of Isabelle filling your head again, or at Daryl’s assumption, you weren’t sure. “I’m not jealous. I’m a grown woman, I don’t get jealous. Maybe… she annoys me, okay?”

“Okay.” He held up his hands as if in defense. “So I’m takin’ the lead when we get out there then, right?”

As you turned to begin removing your second-hand nightgown, you let out another scoff. “Oh, really? Daryl, I’m not going to fight with her, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know, I can be unemotional if the occasion calls for it.”

Daryl knew you well enough to know that indeed, you could suspend your feelings, despite the fact that you most often wore them on your sleeve, but he also knew you were a lot like him: stubborn.

“Just trust me,” he said, his hand curling over your now bare shoulder. Its warmth was like a gentle summer breeze caressing your skin. And now you were annoyed at him for knowing how you melted under his touch. Typical. “I’m gonna get us outta here. I’m gonna get us home…”

The rest was unspoken. He could’ve said more, could’ve gone on and on about how horrible he felt, how he felt this whole thing was his responsibility because of the chain of events that had brought you here in the first place. He couldn’t bring himself to vocalize it completely, though, for fear he might break down in a moment of weakness. As much as he knew you’d never judge him for his emotions, he still felt compelled to maintain his stoicism for as long as it could hold out under the weight of frustration under the surface.

The silence between you settled in uncomfortably for a moment, until you turned to face him, your eyes glassy and your lips curled slightly on one side in a smile that seemed heavy, like it was a burden on your visage. But you tried to hold it. You tried for him.

“I know that. But you’re not alone. We’re in this together, like we always are. And if you want to take the lead for now, that’s fine with me. Just don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he said, his expression softened under your gaze. “I might need ya to step in if I do somethin’ stupid.”

“Mm, well… If that nun touches you again, I might step in either way.”

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