Walking Dead Tale of the Wolf

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead. If I did, my life would be significantly more interesting.

**A/N:** Hello, and welcome, to those who have taken time to check out this story. I'm not much of a writer, but the idea for this has been bugging me for _months_, and it wouldn't leave me alone till I did something with it. So, here we are.

I feel that this story has a strange twist to it that I haven't seen before− though who knows? I could be wrong− and it was inspired by a few different fics that I've stumbled upon and liked a great deal. I'm not sure if anyone is going to like the idea of this, and I'm not sure how well it's going to work out, but I'm hoping something good will come of it.

Also, I need to warn anyone reading, that I only have vague ideas as to where I'm headed with this, and that my muse is a very fickle beast, so I can't promise any kind of posting schedule. I apologize greatly for that.

**Important Story Info:** This story is staring before the zombie apocalypse in the year 1995, with Daryl being 17. There will be a time skip into the ZA, though I'll give fair warning as to when that'll be happening.

~oOo~

Feet treaded almost silently across the ground, despite the leaves littered there, carrying a young hunter through the woods. His smooth pace and the bend of his knees, meant to lighten the impact of his boots, spoke of long practice and confidence. In his hands, which were already calloused from time spent using them, he held a crossbow. His grip was firm yet gentle, almost loving, as he held it down by his side, ready to bring up at a moment's notice. Bright blue eyes were trained on the ground, picking out each disturbance of leaves that indicated the path of his quarry. Nearly falling into his eyes, straight, light brown hair glinted in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Slung over one shoulder was a rope, two rabbits he'd managed to catch strung up on it by their hind legs. While one lay across his back, the other was at his front, each step he took causing them to shift against his body alternately.

Since the young man was only trying to feed himself, what he had was enough to ease his hunger, but a glance at the suns position in the sky told him that it was only about mid-day, and he was reluctant to leave the woods only to return to his less than savory 'home'. And that was putting it nicely.

So, he was going to try and catch something else, another rabbit in fact, and judging by the freshness of the pellets he stooped to examine, he wasn't too far behind the critter. After another endless minute or maybe two or three, he didn't quite know of tracking, a quiet crackle of leaves was heard not too far ahead. Slowing his steps and raising his weapon fully, he lowered himself into a crouch and crept forward cautiously, least he take a wrong step and alert his prey to his presence. Coming up to a low tangle of bushes he peered over them, instantly spotting the cottontail. Luck was on his side and its back was turned to him as it munched away on a patch of foliage. A spike of adrenaline shot through his veins, making his heart hammer in his chest as he caught it in the crosshairs of his scope. Taking a deep breath he squeezed the trigger on the exhale, sending the bolt whizzing through the air and straight to his target, pinning the rabbit to the ground by its head.

Going to retrieve his kill and bolt, one side of his mouth began to rise, and was followed by the other a fraction of a second later, until a full smile spread across his face. Squatting down he used a hand to grip the body, while the other grabbed the arrow, and he pulled the two apart: an unpleasant sucking noise accompanied the action. A red rag was pulled out of a back pocket and used to clean the bolt. Next, the game joined its companions on the rope, coming to rest against the young man's hip. Adjusting everything to his liking, he set off into the woods in hopes of finding another promising set of tracks to follow.

As disagreeable as others may have found it, days like these were the only ones that really made Daryl Dixon feel alive.

Ever since he could remember, his grandpa, Norman, had been bringing him out into the woods as often as he could get his hands on his youngest grandson. Every weekend of the school year, and every summer between grades, he would take him out into the Georgia wilderness. From day one− when Daryl was still doe eyed, trusting, and eager to please− he had been teaching the boy. And teach he did. Knowledge of everything nature and survival he knew, he passed on; how to walk near silently, tracking, and the different signs and calls of all the local animals; disassembling, cleaning, and using an array of weapons; how to make a variety of shelters; what was edible, what would make him sick, and what would kill him; how to find fresh water, and ways to treat it; how to read the weather… The list was endless.

To say he was eager to learn would have been an understatement. By the time he was five he had already heard countless stories of everything from wild hunting trips, to camping excursions that had turned into trials of survival. The way his Grandpa had told the tales− whose main characters had been the eldest Dixon and his sons, Daryl's father and uncle− left the boy with a sense of awe and reverence. While some kids had fairy tales and Bible stories, he'd gotten gory, suspenseful family history. So, by that first time he was taken out he was more than ready to become one of the Dixons of legend.

Starring at the ground since he'd started off into the woods again, he came to a halt as his keen eyes spotted a section of ground that showed signs of an animal's passing. Giving them a closer look he realized that luck was on his side when he recognized the tracks of yet another rabbit. Smiling slightly he trekked on, keeping the trail in his sights.

An hour or so passed by quickly, at least that's what it felt like to Daryl, before a new development brought him up short. It seemed he wasn't the only one hunting the critter. Looking at the original trail he could see where the cottontail had broken into a run, obviously startled by something. Glancing around, he spotted another set of tracks coming in from the right and joining with those of his quarry. Crouching to examine the new prints, his first thought was that it was some kind of domestic dog. Giving them a closer look he shook his head to dismiss the conclusion, thinking to himself, _Nah, too big ta be some mutt._ The pad of the foot was shaped differently, and the toes were more spread out than any dogs would be. A light bulb went off then and a grin stretched across his face; it was a canine alright, specifically a wolf.

Without giving it much thought he started off again, following the torn up path the two animals had left in their wake. Logically, Daryl knew there was a fat chance he was going to find either of them− seeing that they had a head start and were much faster than him− but he had plenty of time, and was reluctant to pass up the opportunity. At the very least he wanted to see if he could find out whether or not the wolf had managed to catch its prey.

As he walked, Daryl's mind began to wander, his thoughts on the lupine he was now tracking. He had felt some inkling of interest towards wolves as a young child, having heard the story of his Grandpa hunting a pack once, but it wasn't till a few years later that the inkling turned into something more.

During the summer before fourth grade, a young Daryl he been out hunting deer with the oldest Dixon deep in the Georgia woods. Seeing as how it was only the first day of their trip, the two were still looking for a set of tracks to pick up when they stumbled upon something extremely unexpected. Being the better hunter, Norman spotted them first, stopping his grandson and pointing to a clearing some thirty meters ahead of them. At first the boy hadn't seen anything, and was about to say as much when movement caught his eye. It had taken him a moment to realize what he was seeing; wolves, of different sizes and colors, were huddled together, worrying over something on the ground. Through a gap in their moving bodies he saw it was a deer that the pack had taken down. Looking closer, he had watched as they tore into their prey; bloody muzzles being shoved into the carcass, and sharp teeth tearing off chunks of meat to be swallowed.

It had been nature at its finest; predators, catching their prey and devouring the reward so they could live to hunt another day; true survival. Watching them had sent a rush of adrenaline through Daryl, and he'd felt a primal surge in his chest.

An abrupt change in the trail brought him out of his thoughts and he stopped to study the area. The ground was a mess of leaves, an obvious sign of a struggle, and closer inspection revealed bits of blood here and there. A hint of a smile graced the hunter's lips as he drew the conclusion that the canine had finally gotten its prey. Looking around, he picked up the wolf's trail, and followed it once more.

Pressing onward, it wasn't too long until the distinct sound of running water could be heard up ahead. Slowing his pace, Daryl checked the freshness of the prints and concluded that he was very close to his target. Not far in front of him a thick tree stood, and he slowly approached, using it as cover. Peering around it, his eyes scanned up and down the river before quickly zeroing in on what he was looking for. There, on the bank across a large creek, lay the wolf. Staring at it, his sharp eyes took the creature in. Judging by its size, it was an adolescent, a female, or both. Its pelt was a deep brown, fringed with black and bits of white. Squinting to get a better look at its eyes, he was startled to see that they seemed to be a bright blue. Shaking his head in disbelief, he unthinkingly took a step to bring himself out into the open.

A twig snapped beneath his boot, and Daryl silently cursed himself as the wolf jumped to its feet, swinging its body around to face him. He watched as its hackles rose, and it curled its lips back to expose its fangs, gums and tongue. Expecting the canine to bolt, he was shocked when it didn't. He was also distantly surprised to realize that he wasn't afraid of lupine, and he took the opportunity to study more of it. Focusing on its eyes again, he realized that he was right the first time; they were in fact blue, almost unnaturally so. Its body, which he could see much better now that it was standing, looked strong at a glance, however, a closer look proved otherwise. Even through its shaggy fur, which was dull and lank, Daryl could see the outline of its ribs, and its eyes looked a bit shrunken in their sockets. 'Starving' was the first word that came to mind, and he realized that was probably the exact case.

A slight pang of pity echoed in his chest as he observed the state of the great predator before him, and he briefly wondered if it had a pack, and whether they were fairing just as badly as this one. Glancing down at himself, he made a snap decision. Moving slowly, as to not startle the wolf, he bent and set his bow on the ground, never taking his eyes off his companion. Straightening, he worked at the knot securing one of the rabbits that hung on his front. Successfully untying it, he paused before taking a few cautious steps forward. Following his every move, the canine watched him with wary eyes. Deeming himself to be close enough he stopped, pausing before pulling the rabbit back underhand, and tossing it across the creek where it landed a good ten feet from the carnivore.

Again, Daryl was expecting the animal to run, and was amazed that it didn't. Actually, it didn't move at all, continuing to stare at him in its threatening manner. Sensing that it would be a standoff otherwise, the hunter retrieved his bow, and kept eye contact as he smoothly backed away into the trees. Once he was far enough, he quickly and silently circled back to observe the animal from a different spot, curious about what it would do now that he was gone. Crouching behind a tangle of bushes, he peeked through a gap in the branches and watched as it relaxed. After a moment it turned to the fallen rabbit and approached it slowly, giving it a thorough sniffing once it was close enough. Seeming to pass muster, the creature briefly looked in the direction he had disappeared before grabbing the cottontail in its mouth and trotting its way up stream. Smiling fully, Daryl shook his head at the odd encounter, stepping out from behind the bushes and heading the opposite way of the wolf.

**A/N:** So, you know, tell me what you guys think! There will be more of our wolfy friend in the next chapter, and a look into Daryl's home life. Also, these chapters will hopefully get longer as we go.


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