calamity → the walking dead ¹

[ 022 ] declarations.

CALAMITY.

chapter twenty-one, declaration.
[ season two, episode twelve ]

DAWN BREAKS OVER HERSHEL'S FARM, PAINTING THE SKY WITH WATERCOLORS. The distant mooing of cattle mingles with the chirping of birds, nature's attempt at normalcy in a world gone mad. Dew clings to blades of grass, catching the early morning light like scattered diamonds across the fields. A thin veil of mist hovers just above the ground, giving the farm an ethereal, dreamlike quality.

Inside the farmhouse, Aiden's eyelids flutter open. Confusion washes over her as she registers the unfamiliar ceiling above her head. This isn't her tent. This isn't outside by Daryl's campfire. She tries to sit up but immediately falls back against the pillows as pain lances through her chest. Her lungs feel waterlogged, each breath a struggle against invisible weights.

"Easy now," comes Hershel's gentle voice from somewhere to her left. "You've had a rough night."

Memory crashes back like a physical blow. Dale. The walker. The gunshot. Daryl's arms carrying her away from the scene. She closes her eyes against the sudden sting of tears.

"Dale?" She whispers, though she already knows the answer.

"They're diggin' his grave now," Hershel says softly, moving into her field of vision. His weathered face is etched with fatigue, deep lines framing his eyes and mouth. "Rick wants to hold the service this morning."

Aiden nods, swallowing against the thickness in her throat. She glances around, taking in her surroundings properly for the first time. She's in one of the upstairs bedrooms, tucked into a bed with crisp white sheets that smell faintly of lavender.

"How bad?" She asks, gesturing weakly to her chest.

Hershel's expression grows grave as he sits in a wooden chair beside the bed. "Bad enough that you shouldn't have been out there last night," he admonishes gently. "Your fever spiked to one-oh-four. The infection in your lungs has worsened. I've started you on a stronger course of antibiotics from my personal supply." He pauses, his eyes softening with concern. "You need to rest, Aiden. Really rest this time."

She nods again, lacking the strength to argue. "How did I get here?"

"Daryl carried you all the way back," Hershel says, a note of something like respect coloring his tone. "Wouldn't let anyone else take you. Stayed outside that door most of the night too, pacing like a caged animal until Patricia convinced him to get some sleep about an hour ago."

A complicated emotion flutters in Aiden's chest, distinct from the burning pain of her pneumonia. She turns her face toward the window, hiding whatever might be visible in her expression.

"I need to be at the funeral," she says after a moment, her voice firmer despite its raspiness.

Hershel sighs, clearly having anticipated this response. "I figured you'd say that. If your fever stays down, I won't stop you. But you go right back to bed afterward, you hear me? No arguments."

The door creaks open before she can respond. Daryl stands in the doorway, his powerful frame filling the space. His eyes immediately find hers, relief visibly washing over his features when he sees her awake.

"I'll give you two a minute," Hershel says, rising from his chair. He pats Daryl's shoulder as he passes, an unusually familiar gesture that speaks to how the events of the past night have shifted the dynamics within their group.

Daryl hesitates in the doorway for a moment after Hershel leaves, as if unsure whether to enter. His crossbow is slung over his shoulder as always, but his posture lacks its usual defensive rigidity. There's a vulnerability to him this morning, evident in the shadows beneath his eyes and the slight droop of his shoulders.