[ xxviii. i killed a man today ]
november 5th, 2010
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ASTRID, RICK, GLENN, AND Hershel arrived back at the farmhouse at the break of dawn, and immediately, they were ambushed with a wave of worry by those who had stayed behind. The old, creaking house seemed to disgorge its several occupants all at once, spilling them into the open yard and onto the porch like a flood.
Meanwhile, the Lancaster woman still found herself wedged uncomfortably between Rick and Glenn, a trio of unease as Hershel toiled in the cramped backseat, tending to the injured kid's mangled leg. The boy's name turned out to be Randall, a name that held little importance to Astrid right now—but very likely would in the future.
The car's engine fell silent, and before the group within could fully gather their thoughts, Rick exited the driver's seat. Astrid followed in his wake, her feet falling to the grass, silently observing the embrace of the sheriff's own wife and child who enveloped him. Elsewhere, Maggie's arms found Glenn in a desperate grip.
Amidst the many reunions, Astrid's gaze wandered, her eyes settling next on Daryl Dixon. She crossed the distance to him, brushing past his guarded stare as if compelled by some force beyond herself. His eyes held hers every step of the way.
"Where were y'all?" The hunter wondered, a demand tinged with suspicion. He scanned Astrid's form, dissecting her appearance. "Is that blood?" He questioned, his tone sharp.
Astrid's stare followed his, landing upon her own attire. Her gray coat was smeared and stained with deep hues of blood, her hands bearing the same tacky residue of lives she had both taken and fought for.
How could she possibly explain herself?
Astrid's voice caught while she attempted to respond, to weave words into an explanation that could capture what she had gone through and been forced to endure. But before she could form a proper sentence, T-Dog interrupted. "Who the hell is that?" He demanded, alarmed.
A sea of eyes turned toward the backseat of the vehicle she had arrived in. Astrid did not bother to look back as she cleared her throat and brushed back her hair from her tired eyes. "That's Randall," She replied stiffly.
All attention converged on entirely on the boy, an unconscious figure blindfolded, seemingly harmless, yet clearly guarded. He was looked upon as if he were a puzzle piece that did not yet fit. And perhaps never would.
Hershel's command soon broke the spell, redirecting their attention again as he ordered Randall to be taken into the farmhouse, his injured leg becoming a focal point once more. Once the kid was unloaded from the car and moved out of sight, Rick took charge, ushering in a group meeting amidst the growing circumstances.
Astrid found herself trailing Daryl as they ascended the porch steps. Their shoulders brushed against each other as they walked, an inadvertent touch amongst the rush. In the heart of the farmhouse, they positioned themselves against the far wall of the dining room, the long table before them now a centerpiece of decision and tension.
Shane, ever the provocateur, shattered the silence first with a voice that dripped with skepticism and challenge, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. "Why's he here?" He questioned disapprovingly. "He's a liability."
"He would've bled out if we left him behind," Rick insisted from the head of the table.
"It's gotten bad in town," Glenn shared. It was an honest statement—but one that Astrid felt still dangerously underscored the dangers that now lurked beyond the farmhouse's refuge.
"So, what do we do with him?" Lori prompted. It was a sharp and sure invitation to grapple with the complexities that the arrival of Randall had unearthed. They could not simply just take him back where they had found him—could they?
Rick's intention to respond to his wife was forestalled by the return of Hershel from the back hallway, his red hands bearing the marks of his efforts. He attempted to wipe the blood away on a towel, but its stains clung deep to his frail skin. "I repaired his calf muscle as best I can, but he'll probably have nerve damage," Hershel informed. "He won't be on his feet for at least a week."
"When he is," Rick responded briskly, "we give him a canteen, take him out to the main road, and send him on his way."
"Isn't that the same as leaving him for the walkers?" Andrea questioned. At least someone was showing some concern for the kid.
Shane's irritation stabbed like a dagger. "You're just going to let him go?" He snapped, incredulous. "He knows where we are!"
"He was blindfolded the whole way here," Rick explained sternly and matter of fact. "He's not a threat."
"Not a threat?" Shane repeated. His words were a damning indictment, a reminder of the stakes they now faced with the line they had crossed. "How many of them were there? You killed three of their men, you took one of them hostage, but they just aren't going to come looking?"
"They left him for dead," Astrid interrupted. She could still hear the kid's false allies screaming their useless apologies in her ears. "No one is coming, Shane."
"We should still post a guard," T-Dog suggested from his place seated in one of the chairs at the table.
"He's out cold right now," Hershel reminded them, "and he will be for hours."
"You know, what? I'm going to go get him some flowers and candy," Shane retorted, a bitter mockery laced with scorn. He suddenly began moving towards the front exit of the farmhouse. "Look at this, folks, we're back in fantasyland!"
Hershel's own frustration found its release, a pinnacle of simmering rage that manifested in the forceful throw of the towel he had clung to. The elder man's steps were resolute, a pursuit after Shane that echoed the urgency of his words. "You know, we haven't even dealt with what you did at my barn yet!" He called. "Let me make this perfectly clear, once and for all—this is my farm. Now, I wanted you gone. Rick talked me out of it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. So do us both a favor and just keep your mouth shut." The atmosphere seemed to shiver with the weight of his snap, a demand for respect that had been long overdue.
Shane's response was a mixture of defiance and derision, a scoff that seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the home. Then he slipped outside, and the door slammed behind him with a deafening finality. The dining room was left in a stunned silence, realizing quickly that this meeting had certainly come to an end.
Astrid was one of the first to break away. Desiring clarity, she pushed off the wall without another glance at anyone around her, and, following Shane's wake, crossed the threshold of the farmhouse's front door. She rounded the wrap-around porch, emerging at the rear of the house, where the man now stood on the steps, his gaze locked on the shed that would eventually become home to their young captive.
"You okay?" Astrid asked. She approached with caution, as Shane had not seemed to hear her voice—not until she was directly beside the man, looking up at him. His response was a weary sigh.
"I'm fine," Shane answered. It was a fragile veneer of assurance, a response that belied the storm the Lancaster woman could so easily see stirring within him. "I'm just sick of Rick putting this group in danger all the damn time."
"What do you mean?"
"He spent all this time searching for Sophia, who was long gone." Shane's words were like shards of glass, each syllable cutting through Astrid with a bitter edge. "He wouldn't kill the walkers in the barn when we first found out about them. And now, he brings back a hostage from a group who's bound to attack us sooner or later."
Astrid frowned, and her eyes narrowed as she attempted to navigate the labyrinth of his discontent. "Rick was just doing what he thought was right," She offered. "Like you would have done it any different?"
"I would," Shane replied darkly. "We would have spent two days searching for that little girl, not a damn week. We would have killed those walkers in the barn on sight or else we would have just left the farm. As for that kid—" He scoffed, breaking off momentarily. "I would have left him behind."
"Shane—"
"Wasn't he shooting at you?"
"He was following orders," She defended. "He's just a kid."
"A stupid one," He remarked coldly.
Astrid nearly rolled her eyes. "Look, Shane, I get what you mean. I know that Rick hasn't always made the best calls—but it's because he's a good person. Good people shouldn't have to make these kinds of calls," She attempted to reason. "And I know you're a good person, too. But you both are completely different people with completely different mindsets and approaches to problems. There's a reason that Rick was made a sheriff, and you were made a deputy."
"Excuse me?" Shane said.
But Astrid did not bow beneath the man's growing anger. "People follow Rick because they trust him," She said. "If you want people to start turning to you, you need to give them something worth following."
"Rick is bound to get us all killed," Shane argued.
"You can't know that," Astrid countered.
"I know that we're going to have a war on our hands if we keep this kid around," Shane said. "People are going to get hurt. People are going to get killed. I can't stand the thought of something happening to you or anyone else."
"Nothing will happen to me, Shane."
"You say that now."
Done with the conversation, Shane's subsequent glare was a mixture of many emotions—of concern, frustration, and an underlying fear that he clearly dared not voice. With a determined stride, he turned on his heel and stalked off the porch, each step a manifestation of his troubled thoughts.
Astrid followed Shane's retreating figure, her eyes tracing the contours of his form until he vanished from view. With a heavy sigh, Astrid finally tore her gaze away from the open fields of the farmland property, her eyes shifting to the porch beneath her. She lowered herself onto the wooden steps, the surface cool. Her bloodstained fingers traced absent patterns on the worn wood as her mind grappled with the complexities of Shane Walsh's increasingly erratic behavior.
He had not been like this in Atlanta. He had been careful, and calm, and collected in his decisions. Had he always been a hothead? Perhaps. But never had his anger controlled his entire being such as it had in the past several days. Never had Shane been so malicious in the past that his first instinct was to slaughter an entire undead family—regardless of how much it might damage relations with those who hosted and gave them shelter when no one else would or could.
So, what had changed?
The world beyond the porch seemed to disappear as Astrid wrestled with her thoughts, her fingers tightening and then loosening their grip on the wood beneath her. She tried to make sense of Shane's fears, his convictions, and the battles he fought within himself that she could not possibly understand when she knew so little of him. She searched for the common ground that had once united them in the days of the Atlanta camp, a shared understanding between strangers turned allies that now seemed to slip further away again with every passing day.
But it appeared she was not the only one losing their connection to Shane. His disloyalty to Rick had stirred an ill feeling within Astrid, too. From what she had heard, and had seen, Shane and Rick had been inseparable since their earliest days of life, a supposed bond as strong as family ties.
It was this history that made Shane's newfound doubt in Rick so perplexing. How could he so quickly lose faith in someone who had treated him like a brother? Astrid's mind replayed the moments when she had witnessed Rick's unwavering loyalty to Shane, the lengths he had gone to ensure his friend's safety and well-being, tiered closely even with his own wife and son.
Yet, in recent times, she had now also witnessed the growing tension between Shane and Rick. Their differences in leadership, conflicting viewpoints, and the pressures of survival had strained their once-unbreakable bond. Astrid knew that their world had changed drastically since the outbreak, but she struggled to reconcile the Shane Walsh she knew with the one who now so openly questioned and disregarded Rick's decisions and intentions.
As the wind rustled through the leaves and the distant sounds of the world carried on, Astrid's gaze remained distant, lost. She could not help but wonder what had led Shane down this new and unnavigated path. Was it fear for the group's safety? Frustration with the challenges they faced? Or perhaps a deeper, unspoken wrath that had festered beneath the surface of the man for too long?
Astrid was unsure. And she hated not knowing.
A faint shift in the air soon alerted Astrid to another presence beside her. She did not need to look up or turn her head to know who it was; a feeling deep within her resonated with a quiet certainty that only familiarity could evoke. Daryl had joined her on the porch.
Astrid was beginning to realize that she might know the hunter anywhere, regardless of how silently he crept up on her.
Still, a part of Astrid found herself torn by Daryl's intrusion. Irritation simmered, a spark of annoyance that flickered in response to his sudden presence. Part of her yearned to unleash a cold, biting sneer at the hunter for his audacity. After all, he had seemingly wanted nothing to do with her following Sophia's funeral—an overall stark contrast to the shared search they had faced together. So, what had prompted this unexpected change, come morning?
A fierce desire to demand an explanation burned within her, to confront Daryl about his shifting behavior. They had stood side by side through most tragic parts—from Atlanta to the farm, and his recent actions felt like a betrayal of their growing bond and friendship.
But beneath her irritation, a smaller, more tired part of Astrid did not want to fight anymore.
In the midst of this internal tug-of-war, Astrid waited in silence as Daryl settled down beside her on the porch. A space of almost a foot separated them. No man's land. Yet, despite the divide, Astrid mustered the courage to bridge it, to breach the gulf that had opened between them.
"I killed a man today," Astrid announced softly. Painfully. She pulled her hands into her lap, fingers digging into her own flesh. "That's whose blood this is."
"You 'lright?" Daryl asked her, just as quiet. His tone was devoid of any emotion. Astrid could barely tell if he was on her side. She was bewildered by the response, and for a moment, she struggled to continue. She did not want to continue.
"I tell you I take someone's life," She attempted to begin. "And the first thing you ask is if I'm the one that's alright?"
"Why should I care about the other person?" Daryl retorted. "They ain't here."
Astrid turned her head to look at the hunter, and it felt as though her heart was being torn in two as she finally gave life to her guilt. "Because I'm a murderer," She confessed. "I'm a monster."
Daryl turned to face her. There was a strength in his gaze, a steadfastness that seemed to pierce through the darkness that clouded her soul. Astrid could only wonder what he saw in her face, whether he saw the cracks in her façade or the fragments of her shattered self. "You ain't a monster," He told her.
"How would you know?" Astrid challenged, tears brimming in her eyes.
"You just ain't," Daryl said back. He said it like a promise. As if she could hear it.
Astrid looked back to her blood-stained hands, her fingers tracing over the dried marks. "Aren't you going to ask if he deserved it?" She wondered tightly. The ache in her chest intensified with every heartbeat. Why did it hurt to breathe?
"No," Daryl answered.
A beat passed on. Then Astrid shuddered. "I didn't hesitate," She murmured, her mind thrusting back into that horrifying bar all over again. "Because he was going to kill Rick. And me."
Daryl emitted a quiet sound from the depths of his throat. "He deserved it then," He said. Another promise.
Time stretched in the heavy silence that enveloped them. Unseen by both, the once-clear division between them on the porch had slowly lessened. Tears still lingered in Astrid's eyes, teetering on the brink of release. She cast a glance towards Daryl again, examining the harsh, guarded contours of his face, and in that brief moment, a searing question formed in her mind—a question that encapsulated her wonder.
What was it exactly that anchored him to her? What granted Daryl the strength to stay, to not flee from the darkness that covered her like a second skin? Astrid wondered what qualities he saw in her that she could not see in herself, what perspective he held that painted her in a different light—a light that did not cast shadows of guilt and self-hatred.
Astrid found herself on the verge of voicing her curiosity, to ask why he did not recoil from her, why he did not perceive her as the monster she feared she had become. She almost did then. Almost dared to question if he had taken a life before, too. The words danced at the tip of her tongue, poised for utterance. But before she could speak, as if he had glimpsed her unspoken thoughts without even needing to look at her, Daryl answered.
"I haven't." His words hung in the air between them. "But I would. For the right reason. Do you think that answer makes me a monster?" Astrid's head shook softly, a response borne of her own inner truth, a truth she had yet to fully grasp. Unbeknownst to her, the hunter had deftly woven a connection between their confessions, a subtle strategy that sought to end her self-perceived isolation. "So don't treat yourself any different, then."
Daryl's final sentence landed like a lifeline, a lifeline that the Lancaster woman openly clung to as her tears finally fell. A quiet sob escaped her lips—a physical sound, a release of the pain that had long been building within her. Astrid's body began to shake as her tears traced glistening paths down her cheeks, mingling with the stains of a stranger's blood.
Daryl did not move, yet his rugged exterior seemed to soften in the face of her weakened cries. The hunter remained there, beside her on the porch, a silent anchor as she allowed herself to unravel. He would not let her bear this alone.
Eventually, Astrid's anguish subsided, leaving her spent, her body still quaking with the remnants of her sobs. She quietly leaned to her left, her body instinctively seeking support as she laid her head down on Daryl's shoulder. Her tears dampened his flannelled shirt, but he did not seem to mind.
Several seconds passed. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, Daryl raised his arm, his movements cautious, as if he was treading uncharted territory. His hand gently encircled Astrid's shoulders.
It was a gesture from a man not accustomed to offering comfort through physical touch, a man more at ease with the language of survival than the language of emotion. And yet, in that moment, he tried. Daryl Dixon tried to combat Astrid Lancaster's pain for her, to offer a semblance of safety and solace in a world becoming so stripped of such feelings.
Astrid, still so lost in her own head, was oblivious to the complexity of the hunter's actions. All she knew was the warmth of his presence, the solid reassurance he provided as her body leaned further into his. Her breaths slowly steadied beneath his touch.
Even long after Astrid's tears had finally faded away, they still sat, side by side on the porch, enveloped in the cocoon of each other.
Their blue and green gazes remained fixed on the softly swaying fields on the outskirts of the Greene family property, where the morning light painted the sky in hues of gold and pink. It was a fleeting beauty —one that did not belong with the heaviness that would again soon settle within them. The world around them slowly, yet surely, seemed to be growing colder, the air carrying the whisper of the approaching winter months. It was a deadly harbinger—and promise—of harsh trials still yet to come.
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