SURVIVE.
❝ Let the end of the world be
inside you, then you don't
need to fear the end
of the world out there. ❞
THE WALKING DEAD.
DARYL DIXON.
BOOK ONE of the LANCASTER SAGA.
[ SEASONS 1 - 3 ]
******
I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its...
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[ xxxviii. a rhythm mastered ]
june 21st, 2011
➸➸➸
SEVEN LONG AND EXCRUTIATING months had crawled by since the collapse of the farm. Seven months on the unforgiving road. Seven months with stomachs growling from emptying rations. Seven months without the solace of promised security. Seven months since Astrid Lancaster's belief in survival began to crumble.
That hope had all but disintegrated one merciless month into the journey, as she and her ragtag group battled through the relentless winter, moving from one forsaken house to another, barely sheltered for more than a few days at a time. Now, Astrid's existence was a ceaseless marathon to outpace danger, her comfort eternally forfeit, her gun always within a heartbeat's grasp.
Despite such hardships, however, Astrid and Daryl's bond had deepened. After so many long days and nights, their separation had become almost inconceivable. He protected her, and she protected him, a partnership born from their opposing traits that somehow yielded a perfect symmetry.
Over the months, Daryl's own trajectory had shifted, too, aligning him closely with Rick, his transformation into their leader's right-hand man a sign of their evolving brotherhood. Astrid had also cultivated her own connections over time within the group—her devotion to her fellow survivors becoming the fiercest kind of kinship. They were her sanctuary. Her only sanctuary. And she would move heaven and earth to keep them from harm.
Yet, safety remained an elusive illusion on the unending road. Day in, and day out, the same routine persisted.
Astrid trailed behind Daryl. Her hunter and she had methodically scouted an abandoned house, accompanied closely by Rick, Glenn, Maggie, T-Dog, and Carl. The others from their group held their positions outside, awaiting an all-clear signal. With a nod, Astrid acknowledged Rick's readiness by the door, and the piercing whistle that escaped his lips marked the green light.
One by one, survivors began to infiltrate the house. Carol and Beth led the procession, bearing the weight of their provisions. Lori followed, her bulging belly evidence of impending motherhood, her due date looming ever nearer. Last to enter was Hershel, his sorrowful gaze lingering on a dead walker slumped in the hallway before he retreated into the dim living room.
The group settled onto the worn floor and decrepit furnishings, their fatigue palpable as they sought rest and sustenance—even if only for a moment. Astrid found herself on a torn couch next to Glenn, while Daryl perched on the arm of a dilapidated chair, plucking feathers from an owl he had just felled upstairs.
"Here, Astrid." Glenn handed the Lancaster woman a small packet of sugar. "I know it's not much, but it's something," He supplied, after previously passing one to Maggie.
"Thanks," Astrid murmured, tearing open the packet with her teeth and allowing the sweetness to burst upon her parched tongue. She chased it down with a gulp of water, her senses momentarily consumed by the meager indulgence.
