Walking Dead Blackbird Song

Beth fiddles with a shred of her orange tramp pack, torn away by some hazard long since passed. The ratty thing had been on her back for days now – more than she dared to count. Sighing through the smoke of a dying fire, she remembers the first day the pack burdened her shoulders.

"Get moving, we're burnin' daylight," Daryl ripped through the brittle undergrowth, his usual hunter's tread giving away to heavy, crunching footfalls.

Beth saw his reason for haste – through the canopy of tall, pale shagbark hickory trees, the sun was sinking towards the crest of the valley, casting shadows on one side of the river and illuminating the other. Within a few hours, the stars would be out and a frost would chill the air and anything unfortunate enough to be out of shelter.

Beth moved to keep up, her hands at her face to deflect the spindly branches that slapped at her in Daryl's wake. "We're only getting' firewood. How much time do you _need_?"

He slung his crossbow higher on his shoulder and grunted his response, "Just get movin'."

Biting back the taste of an acidic response, Beth did as she was told.

_Pack your things, leave somehow_

_Blackbird's song is over now_

"We ain't running no errand, are we?"

Daryl stopped where he stood. Beth saw the fists clenched at his sides. "What the hell a' you talking about?" He turned to squint at her, a glint of irritation in his steely eyes.

"We've been walking down river for the better part of an hour now, and we ain't stopped once to get this firewood." Beth put her hands on her hips, expecting a rise out of Daryl. Usually her questioning got under his skin. All the same, his dominant silence usually got under hers.

He stood his ground, unwavering in the long, thorny stare he gave her. When he finally turned his back and strode on, Beth felt the last of her cocky resolve disintegrate. She grit her teeth until her jaw ached, irked that he silenced her into submission. Hands twitching, she stalked after him.

_Mouths are dry, river runs_

_Hands are tired, preacher's son_

It's been an hour, Beth was sure of it. The shadows had grown longer and the sun kissed the top of the valley. Her brow furrowed – they were too far from camp and sauntering around in the woods in the dark was dangerous. What was Daryl dragging her around the place for?

Obviously, getting the firewood wasn't a priority anymore. Beth crossed her arms around her stomach and weariness grated behind her eyes as she began to feel the first nip of cold. A sweater wouldn't go amiss, and neither would an explanation.

Just as she opened her mouth to demand one, Daryl came to a sudden stop. To busy conjuring her complaint, Beth slammed straight into his shoulder. Fatigue, pent up irritation, and a fresh spark of anger pulled a severe "What now?" past her lips.

They stood at the edge of a clearing, where Beth could see the pastel sky through the trees and smell the spicy rot of leaves beneath her feet. A crow burst from the hickory branches above them, croaking an ugly cry as it swooped overhead. The open space was eerie and the lack of trees in every direction was, strangely, oppressive.

Without warning, Daryl showed Beth the back of his hand, a silent command to stay where she was. She lingered by his side, watching as his discerning gaze swept the clearing, followed by the shaft of his crossbow. He took a deliberate step forward, silent as hunter's instincts settled in the set of his shoulders, down to the soles of his shoes. Beth found his change from her surly friend to a deadly, fluid weapon enthralling and her breath froze in her lungs as Daryl prowled onward.

Vigilant, he scanned the trees one last time before lowering his rifle and striding further out into the clearing. His guard was down – it was safe, but Beth found his antics anti-climactic.

She trailed him through the wet, patchy grass. "You expectin' somebody?"

"No," he said slowly, still watchful. "Just mindin' we don't get caught."

Beth hardly had time to exclaim the heavy "_What?_" that sat on her tongue before Daryl stopped suddenly, stooped, and ripped up the corner of a hidden tarpaulin. Dirt, grass and fiery leaves flew as he shook it free. Wordlessly, Daryl scooped up a large lump of orange from the exposed hole and dumped it in Beth's arms. As he turned to retrieve the second one, Beth realized the bundle was a full tramping pack. She dropped the thing like it burnt her skin.

"What the _hell_ is this?!" she hissed.

"That, Beth," Daryl slung his own pack on his shoulders, "is your stuff," he said simply.

"My _stuff_?" Her hands clenched at her sides, "You wanna tell me _why_ my _stuff_ is buried an hour away from camp, Daryl?" She knew he was waving the bait in front of her face and she didn't care. If she could get an explanation out of his jibes, she'd bite.

"We're leaving."

"_Excuse me_?" she growled, impatience working its way into her gut, dragging confusion and fury behind it.

"You heard me," he stepped closer, "we're leaving. Pick up your shit; we can talk about this later. We gotta get the hell outta dodge before-"

"_No_, Daryl!" she spit. Beth hadn't been this angry in years. She closed the distance between them and snatched a trembling fistful of his shirt. "We can talk about this _now_ – or I swear, I will turn around, head back to camp and tell Roy about this _stupid_ idea of yours!" She felt like a child, threatening to grass on him like that.

As she ranted, Beth could see Daryl's building irritation had reached boiling point. Despite his calm face, Beth could see his clenched fist quaking and the mad twitch in his left eyebrow. His low voice did nothing to hide his anger. "You don't want to go back there, Beth."

Something hot roiled in the back of her throat. "The hell I do!" she yelled in his face, social graces be damned. "We've been running for two years, Daryl, _two years!_ It was a stroke of god damn luck that we found Roy and the others. And you just wanna up and leave?!" Her chest heaved with exertion, and she renewed her grip on his shirt, "Go t' hell."

Something shifted in Daryl's eyes, something feral and cold. It sparked fear deep in Beth's stomach and suddenly she was aware of the lack of space between them. Usually the scent of forest floor, motor oil and something distinctly Daryl was a comfort, but now it pressed against her like a knife on her throat. Nearly in his mid-thirties, Daryl had at least a decade on her and he wasn't a man you'd want to meet in a dark alley, but he'd never been cruel. Heaven knows he'd never raise a hand to Beth, but her instincts screamed to run nonetheless. She stumbled back, but he caught her forearm before she could fall. He held his grip, tight enough to leave bruises.

"You're damn right I want t' leave." Daryl's voice was a hiss, his wrath thickening his southern drawl like hot tar.

She wished he'd yell. His quiet fury inspired a terror so powerful she felt frozen, despite the nausea that writhed in her gut and the tears that wet her cheeks. "I don't want t' run," she choked, staring at her hand now resting feebly on his chest.

There was a heavy silence for a long moment, with nothing but rough, shaky breaths to fill the air.

"Roy's trouble, Beth." The edge in Daryl's voice was gone, replaced by the caution he might use to speak to a frightened animal. Of all things, grand displays of emotion made him skittish, with tears at the top of the list.

His grip on her arm loosened, held her in place like a centre of gravity rather than a vice. "The things I saw.." His brow furrowed and he lowered himself so she had no choice but to look him in the eye, "The things I found.. Beth, they had girls – young girls, barely eighteen – they had 'em tied up, beaten blue- _Raped_. Jesus Christ! They'd been takin' those girls-"

The ground beneath Beth's feet turned to wet sand and she felt her knees give out, but it was all far away, underwater or at the bottom of a deep, dark hole. Daryl caught her for a second time; put his hands on her waist to hold her upright, like he was terrified she might dissolve under his fingers. She found his eyes and he came into focus like the light at the end of the tunnel. The apprehension, the dread and the warmth she saw in his usually steely demeanour broke her heart. "No," she cried, as a fresh wave of nausea racked her bones, "No-"

"We had to leave, Beth, I couldn't save 'em. Heaven knows I wish I could." Daryl swore loudly, his profanity blunt with regret. "Hell, if they ever touched you, I'd never be able t' live with myself. I-I just wouldn't," he coughed, looking a little surprised with himself.

Beth stood shivering, the world a little more cold and heavy with the revelation of what she'd fled from. She felt her faith peeling like old paint, another shred of hope – hope that not everything was lost to the corruption, the filth, and the death that clung to the earth like a layer of grime – falling away. For so long they'd been running – from something, to someone, or just for something to do. They'd hardly found someone to call friend let alone some place to call home. Roy and his group had been a real break for the two of them. Beth nearly scoffed – more diamonds in the dirt, crushed to coal.

As she shook, Daryl drew a sweater from the orange pack, forgotten at her feet. He stood, a good foot or two taller than her, and pulled it over her head, helped her arms into the sleeves.

He brushed her cheekbone with his knuckles, caught a tear with his thumb. "C'mon," he said softly, a bit of his standard curtness returning.

He hefted the pack off the ground and placed it on her shoulders. Beth let it settle willingly, gripped the straps and tried to shake off images of what Daryl was leading her away from.

She was surprised when he held out his hand to her, but took it gladly. With a small smile and a nod, she set off after him.

_Don't be scared, I'm still here_

_No more time for crying tears_

Beth sighs and pushes the ratty bag to her side.

She hears the scuffle of feet and looks up to see Daryl regarding her with a quizzical squint from across the fire. He saunters over, holding out a hot can of something-or-rather as he drops down next to her. "You're lookin' pretty out of it tonight. You 'right?"

"Just thinkin'."

He drapes an arm over her shoulders and gives an acknowledging grunt in the way of a response.

She smiles, despite the can of beans scolding her hands. "We're gonna be okay, ain't we?" she asks casually. She leans into his side just a little and turns to look at his profile.

All the horrors they'd seen, the friends they'd had to leave behind, the hunger, the pain and the endless list of things they'd both rather not think about. Beth forgets them all, just for a second.

God knows she was tired of running. Left to her own devices, she would have dug herself a nice comfy grave a long time ago. But she has Daryl, who, despite his bow and knives and macho-surliness, needs her as much as she depends on him. She'd follow him through a damn mine field if it meant he was waiting on the other side.

He looks down to her now, smiles, and leans into her just a little bit, too.

"We're gon' be fine."


End file.

Walking Dead, Angst, Friendship