The Long Road

Carl's POV

One month

It had been a month since Athena vanished - since Daryl and I ran into each other again.

A month of dust, false hope, and long nights marked only by the sound of a pencil dragging across worn paper and the steady crackle of the fire. Daryl hadn't said much - not that he ever had - but now even his silence felt different. He used to be quiet with purpose. Now, he was quiet like a man gripping the edge of a cliff with bloody fingers.

We'd followed the truck's tracks for the first two weeks, bouncing from back roads to the old logging trails that cut through the foothills like spiderwebs. They were faint at first - just the whisper of rubber across packed dirt, the occasional fresh groove in the mud that told us someone had come through recently. Daryl could read them like scripture. Tire width. Tread depth. Even the slight drag on the rear right - he said the axle was loose, probably bent. Every new mark reignited that burning hope in his eyes. The kind that made my chest ache just to look at.

But hope's a dangerous thing when it burns too long.

Now, we weren't even sure we were following the right truck anymore. The tread had disappeared three towns back when the rain turned the earth to soup and left nothing behind. Since then, Daryl's been working off gut instinct alone, drawing and redrawing routes on his hand-scrawled maps. He keeps them folded in the glove box of the car I'd hidden years ago - a beat-up Honda Civic I'd stashed under a tarp behind an old ranger station near the river.

Sometimes, I'd catch him tracing his finger over the same line again and again, like if he touched it hard enough, it'd give him an answer.

We were somewhere near what used to be Chattahoochee Hills now. We'd been heading pure west at first, but then the trail veered southwest, and we followed. The irony that we've ended up back in Georgia isn't lost on either of us.

We've come a long way from the Accotnik River where Daryl and I reunited by chance, where I'd spent the last five years searching for my dad - where I'd lived during the loneliest years of my life, watching the water carry old trees and sun-bleached bones downstream.

That's where I found Dog.

He'd been skinny and shaking, limping along the bank with a busted paw and patches of fur missing. Looked like he'd gone through hell and then some. I never planned to keep him, but he followed me anyway, so I figured hell - might as well. Most people would have mistaken him for a German Shepherd, but I knew better - our neighbour, Mrs Weidenbenner, had a Belgian Malinois when I was a little kid - I recognized the breed instantly - Malinois are smaller than German Shepherd's with denser coats.

Playing with him sometimes makes me feel seven years old again - back when the world was different. Though I never gave him a real name - just "Dog." He didn't seem to mind. There was something in his eyes that reminded me of Daryl, actually. Wild, sure - but not born that way. Someone had loved him once. You could tell.

Now he was my shadow. Quiet. Watchful. Loyal.

Daryl took to Dog pretty quick. Not in the pet-him-on-the-head kind of way, but in that Daryl Dixon way where you just start to notice he always puts the food bowl down before his own or tosses a scrap from dinner without thinking. Lately, he's been using a sweater of Athena's - one she'd left behind in the theater of the Kingdom - to try and get Dog to catch her scent.

It hadn't worked. Not once. Not even close.

Not that it stopped Daryl from trying. Every other day, he'd hold the shirt to Dog's nose and whisper something under his breath before pointing off into the trees. "Go on. Find her." Dog would sniff, bark once like he was trying to play along, then circle and lay back down by the fire. The first few times, Daryl said nothing. Just nodded like he expected it. But the last time, when Dog looked back and whimpered instead of running, Daryl walked off into the woods and didn't come back for hours.

When he did, he looked more tired than I'd ever seen him.

He's not eating. Not really. Just pushing around whatever I heat up from a can. He sleeps maybe two, three hours a night - less when he feels like we're close. I see him staring at the maps in the firelight instead, lips moving silently. Marking roads we've already driven twice. Circling back to towns we already checked.

If I were anyone else, I'd say he'd lost his damn mind. But I get it.

Because everyone said the same thing about my dad. That he couldn't have survived the blast on the bridge. That it was a mercy if he was gone quick. But I didn't listen. I knew in my gut he was out there somewhere. I felt it.

Just like Daryl feels Athena's still alive.

He can't let her go. Not after everything. Not after the way she changed him. I've known Daryl since I was twelve, and he was never the kind of guy who let anyone in. But Athena broke through all that. Made him softer in the ways he didn't even realize. She looked at him like he was more than a weapon, more than muscle and scars. Like he was worth loving. That kind of thing... it changes you. It makes you human again.

He can't lose her.

We've been through Rome, Rockmart, and a dozen little towns that don't even have names anymore. Every stop gave us just enough to keep going - scuffed tire marks in a gas station lot, a wheel track through wet leaves, a smashed tail light on the roadside that could belong to the right vehicle. But it's all maybe. All almost.

All not her.

A few nights ago, we thought we had something solid - fresh tracks heading south, toward an abandoned rail line. Daryl barely waited for the engine two cut out before we were running through the woods, flashlights cutting through the dark. We found a trailer. Parked. Cold. Empty. Daryl climbed into the back and stood there in the silence, staring at the broken straps and empty crates like maybe, just maybe she'd be lying in one of them.

She wasn't.

He didn't say a word. Just climbed out and sat on the tailgate while Dog curled up next to his boots.

He didn't cry. He won't let himself.

But I saw the way his shoulders hunched forward, like he was folding in on himself. Saw the way he rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye like it was just dirt, not grief. He sat like that for a long time, quiet as the dead, until the fire burned down and the sky turned gray with morning.

I think about saying something. Telling him we'll find her, or that he needs to rest, or that I understand. But Daryl isn't the type you comfort. He doesn't want words. He wants results.

And so we keep moving. Map by map. Mile by mile. Until the road ends. And then we start again.

~

The fire was dying. Just coals now, glowing faint like the last breath of something that used to burn bright. It was cold tonight - colder than it should've been for late summer - but neither of us had bothered to say anything about it. Daryl stood across from me, head bowed, jaw tight, staring into the orange embers like they might spit out a map with Athena's location drawn in firelight.

Dog had curled up next to me, nose tucked under his paw. Every now and then his ears twitched, like he was dreaming of something better than this.

I passed Daryl a can of beans I'd heated over the flames. He took it, nodded once in thanks, but just held it between his hands like he needed the heat more than the food.

"You look exhausted," I said.

He grunted. "'M'fine."

"Daryl," I said again, quieter this time. "You're running yourself into the ground."

He didn't argue. Just sighed, and after a second, dropped down onto the log beside me. He looked thinner than he had a month ago. Gaunter in the face. The dark circles under his eyes weren't going away. Not even fading. Just deeper shadows.

I didn't say anything for a while. Just let the silence settle between us. Sometimes, words got in the way. But tonight felt different. Like something had to give.

"Judith," I said finally, poking at the fire with a stick, "she was asleep when I left Alexandria that first night. She cried when she found out, Michonne told me, but she gets it. She knows I need to find Dad. RJ's too young to really remember me. But it still makes me feel bad, knowing they're back there without me."

Daryl was quiet a long moment. Then, soft - so soft I almost didn't hear him - he said, "Yeah."

I glanced at him. He wasn't looking at me - just watching the fire. Still holding the can in both hands, untouched.

"Miss my kids, man." He finally said, his voice close to breaking.

"I know," I replied softly.

Daryl turned his head, jaw tightening. He blinked once. Then again.

"Feel like I left 'em," he said, real quiet. "Like I walked out on 'em. Like my old man always did to me 'n' Merle."

"You didn't," I tried to reassure him. "You haven't."

He shook his head. "But I did. I ain't there. Ain't been there for weeks. They might think I ain't comin' back. That Ath ain't. I know they're safe with Merle - but it ain't the same."

I felt something twist in my chest.

Daryl sniffed hard and wiped his sleeve across his face, rough and fast, like he could scrub the hurt off if he just tried hard enough.

"But I can't stop," he muttered. "How the hell am I supposed to look our kids in the eye and tell 'em I gave up on their mom?"

I reached over, didn't touch him - he's not really the type - but I let my hand rest on the log near him.

"She's alive," I said. "You know it. In your gut. Just like I do with my dad."

Daryl nodded slowly. "Don't know if it's faith or desperation no more."

"Maybe it's both," I said. "But we're gonna bring her home. And I'm gonna find my dad too, someday. Then we're all gonna sit down in that damn kitchen in Alexandria, eat Michonne's weird stew, and watch Sawyer chew on table legs like he's teething again."

That made him huff a quiet laugh. "Ya heard about that, huh? Boy's part beaver."

"Yeah, well, you raised him... Michonne might have mentioned it when she visited once."

He finally looked at me, eyes red but steady. "Ya ever think we're just holdin' onto ghosts?"

I thought about it. Thought about the bridge. The explosion. The moment everything changed.

Then I shook my head.

"No," I said. "I think we're holding on to family. That's never a mistake."

Daryl didn't say anything right away. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and exhaled slow.

Then he opened the can, took one bite, and winced like it hurt - but swallowed it.

He chewed on it a while, then turned to me. "M'sorry I ain't helped ya more. Lookin' for yur old man... shoulda."

"Daryl, you had a one-week old baby when it happened. How could you have?"

He shrugged. "Still shoulda done more."

"Nah. You spent more days out there with me than anyone over the years. Just because you headed back to your family at the end of each one doesn't take away from you being out there helping me."

He sighed heavily. "Ath used to sometimes say I should stay out with you for longer, few days at a time. She knew I wanted to."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you?"

He shook his head. "Because if I was gone, 'n' somethin' happened to 'em - I'd never forgive myself."

"Maybe Athena wanted a break from you." I teased."

"Yeah, maybe..." he trailed off, then- "Nah. She didn't really want me to be gone... she'd have worried non-stop." He took a deep breath. "But that's my Ath, always thinkin' of everybody else first."

His voice cracked on her name, and I wondered what he'd do if I attempted to hug him - but decided against it.

"Fuck," he continued. "I gotta find her... Can't not."

"We will." I breathed. "I know we will."

~

Two months

Another month had passed since we first hit the road, and it felt like time had stopped moving.

Most days, Daryl barely spoke. He kept his head down, hunched over maps that were falling apart from too much folding and rain. His eyes were sunken in now, the shadows beneath them darker than the blood stains on his worn jeans - we'd run into a shit-ton of walkers the other day. He still only slept a few hours a night, if that. When he did lie down, it was never fully. Just a lean back against a tree, or the corner of a half-collapsed building, his crossbow always in reach.

I watched him waste away one rolled cigarette at a time, lighting them with shaking hands, puffing like they were the only thing keeping him tethered. His hair had gotten longer and messier, his face seeming more lined by the day. He looked like a ghost of the man who'd left the river with me that day.

But even ghosts don't work this hard.

I'd lost track of how many small towns we'd scoured by now. Abandoned highway camps, overgrown backroads, truck yards. We followed tire tracks that disappeared in the rain. Found wheel ruts in the sand near an old ranger station, only to discover they were weeks old. We even found an overturned van in a ravine and climbed down, hearts pounding, hoping to find a sign - any sign - but all we found were bones and rot. Not hers. Wrong shape. Wrong clothes.

Daryl didn't even react anymore when it wasn't her. He'd just nod and keep walking.

Dog was the only one who could coax anything out of him. The mutt stayed glued to Daryl's side, loyal and silent. At night, I'd see Daryl reach out just once to run a hand over Dog's back, like he needed the reminder that something in the world still gave a damn.

And me? I kept quiet. I didn't ask if he was okay, because I already knew the answer. But I was watching. Every day, watching.

Today started the same as all the others: grey light, damp air, an ache in my legs that never went away.

We'd been walking an old side road that ran through the woods east of Jackson Creek. The asphalt had long since cracked, weeds bursting through in every direction. Daryl was ahead, map in one hand, his jaw clenched like always.

Then Dog stopped.

Hackles up. Nose twitching.

Daryl halted instantly. He crouched low, scanning the road ahead. I followed suit, my hand drifting to my pistol.

Dog gave a low, questioning growl and darted toward the trees.

"Shit," I hissed and chased after him. Daryl didn't need to say a word - we both followed.

What we found wasn't Athena. Not yet.

But it was something.

At the edge of a wide clearing, Dog was circling the carcass of a deer. Fresh kill. The meat had been stripped clean, but not by walkers. There were clean knife marks across the hide, the kind of work that took time and experience.

Daryl crouched beside the carcass, frowning. "Was done yesterday. Maybe the day before."

"Not animals?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nah. Not clean enough for a butcher, but not sloppy either. Somebody's huntin'. Somebody alive."

My chest tightened. We hadn't seen signs of another person in days - weeks, even. But here was something. Maybe a small group. Maybe just one.

Daryl stood and scanned the treeline. His eyes narrowed.

"Tracks," he muttered. "Headin' south."

We followed the footprints. Men's boots. Wide-set stride. Fast moving. Judging by the spacing and depth, they'd been carrying weight. Maybe meat. Maybe gear.

I glanced over at Daryl, whose shoulders were suddenly straighter. Not relaxed - never relaxed - but focused.

"Could be nothing," I said.

He looked at me, eyes hard. "Could be somethin'."

~

We tracked the footprints for three days.

Every hour, Daryl grew more convinced. He didn't say much, but I could see it - how he studied the shape of the boot prints, how he ran his fingers along broken branches and freshly bent weeds. It was the most alive I'd seen him in two months.

Whoever we were following moved with purpose. Never stopped long, always kept south, occasionally cutting off-road through areas only someone experienced would try. That told us one thing: this wasn't some wanderer. This was someone who knew what they were doing.

Daryl wouldn't say Athena's name out loud, not yet. But I knew he was thinking it. I was, too.

On the second night, we found an old firepit still warm. Daryl crouched by it, running his fingers through the ashes, then reached out and pressed two fingers to a charred bone.

"Rabbit," he muttered.

I looked at him. "Her?"

He didn't answer, just stared at the coals like they might tell him what he needed to hear.

Dog lay curled nearby, ears twitching, nose lifting into the wind like he could smell something we couldn't.

The third night, we saw smoke.

A thin line against the dusky sky, barely visible over the treetops. Daryl's whole body went still when he spotted it. I think we both held our breath for a second.

"C'mon," he said, and that was all.

We moved faster, Dog bounding ahead of us. Daryl didn't stop once to check the map. He didn't have to. His feet knew exactly where they were going. Hope had taken over now. That kind of hope that either keeps you alive or tears you to pieces.

The cabin was tucked deep in the trees, a squat little thing made of mismatched logs, smoke curling steady from the chimney. There were signs of someone using it - lines of drying herbs strung across the porch, a makeshift rain catch system, clean wood stacked neatly by the side.

Daryl didn't wait.

He climbed the steps in three strides and threw the door open.

"Ath!" he yelled.

I stood just behind him, my heart pounding. Every second of silence made the hope crack a little deeper.

A man appeared in the doorway from the back room. Wide-eyed and holding a carving knife. Grey beard. Weathered. Confused.

"Who the hell're you?" the man asked.

Daryl's breath caught.

He stared, shoulders slumping, something going hollow in his eyes.

The man started to say something else, but Daryl backed away.

"Sorry," I mumbled to the man as I backed away. "We thought we'd found a woman we're searching for."

I caught up to Daryl outside, found him down by the tree line, on his knees in the dirt. Hands clenched at his sides. Dog sat beside him, silent.

I didn't say anything. Just stood there and watched as the roughest, toughest man I've ever known leaned forward and let his head fall.

No noise. No yelling.

He just cried - finally let it out - quiet, shaking sobs that he tried to bury in his arm, like the world might shatter if it heard him.

It broke my heart more than any scream ever could.

I sat down next to him, close enough that he'd know I was there, but not close enough to make him talk. I figured he didn't need words. Just time.

After a long while, he lifted his head and wiped his face with the back of a dirty sleeve.

"Thought-" he started, voice cracking. Then stopped. Swallowed. Shook his head.

"Me too," I said.

Daryl didn't move for a while.

His fingers dug into the earth like it could anchor him to something real, something that wouldn't vanish when he reached for it. I didn't say much - just stayed sitting beside him in the dark. It felt like he'd been walking this tightrope between hope and despair for so long I wasn't even sure which side he was on anymore.

Footsteps crunched behind us.

The cabin man approached, slower this time, his knife lowered. One hand was up - not in surrender, more like caution.

"Ya said ya'll are searchin' for someone?" he asked.

Daryl stood slowly, wiping at his eyes like nothing had happened.

"A woman. Ya seen her? Dark hair, strong, hurt. Couldn't walk far."

The man shook his head. "Ain't seen no woman like that. 'Fraid I'd remember if I did."

Daryl nodded once, jaw tight. I could already see the wall going back up behind his eyes.

"But..." the man said, hesitating. "You said she's hurt?"

"Yeah," I answered. "Bad leg. She'd need help, maybe taken somewhere."

He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced off into the woods like he was making up his mind about something.

"Well, I dunno if it's anything, but there's a group out east, maybe a day's hike. Real private-like. Don't trade. Don't talk. Just... keep to themselves."

Daryl turned, eyes narrowed. "What kind of group?"

"Women," he said. "Men too, but them women are in charge. Dressed strange. Long robes or something. Don't come into town, but I saw 'em in the woods once, watchin'."

I exchanged a glance with Daryl. My heart kicked a little harder.

"You think it's them?" I asked, cautious.

Daryl didn't answer, not right away. Just stared off in the direction the man had pointed, like he could already see it through the trees. Then he looked at the guy and asked quietly:

"Ya know any more 'bout 'em?"

The man shook his head. "No. Listen... I ain't tryin' to get your hopes up. Might be nothin'. But if she's still alive..." He trailed off, letting the silence say the rest.

Daryl looked back toward the woods. I could almost hear the shift in him - gears grinding, fire lighting again behind his tired eyes.

We had a new direction.

~

We were close. I could feel it in my gut - the same kind of instinct that had kept me alive this long. The woods were dense out here, less traveled, with no real trails, just the remains of old ones that hadn't seen boots in years.

Daryl had been silent most of the hike, his crossbow tight in hand, eyes darting like he expected the trees themselves to lunge at us. Dog stayed close at his heels, ears twitching at every snap of underbrush.

We'd been following faint tire tracks again - fresher this time, maybe a few days old, but with no way to know where they ended. The wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and something else... something sharp and clean, like crushed herbs.

That's when we saw them.

Four men standing just ahead in the middle of the trail, all dressed in loose white clothing. Not armor. Not survival gear. White linen. Not a speck of dirt on them, like they'd just stepped out of a monastery - or a cult.

They didn't speak. Didn't even blink. Just watched us with blank faces.

Daryl raised a hand. "Ain't lookin' for trouble. We're tryna find someone. A woman. Dark hair, was hurt."

Still nothing.

"Ya deaf or somethin'?" Daryl asked, voice sharp.

That's when they moved.

Weapons slid from their sleeves - batons, short blades, something sharp and dull all at once. No warning, no signal. Just violence.

Daryl fired first, bolt slamming into one of their chests. I shot, too, clipped another in the arm, but there were more behind the trees. Too many. They swarmed.

Dog was snarling, barking.

I fought like hell, but one got behind me. Slammed something hard across the back of my head. I hit the ground, vision swimming, pain ringing like church bells. I turned just in time to see Daryl get struck across the face - blood flying from his mouth - and then he dropped too.

Everything went black.

~

I woke to pain. Not sharp pain. Dull and deep, like my bones remembered the fight more than my skin.

The air smelled like crushed sage and something floral. My hands were tied behind my back, ankles too. I was lying on a straw mat inside a stone cell - small, dark, lit by a single oil lamp flickering just beyond the bars.

"Daryl," I called hoarsely, throat raw.

A beat.

Then his voice, strained and low, from somewhere beyond the wall: "Ya okay, kid?"

"Yeah... I think so." I struggled against the bindings. "Where the hell are we?"

Before he could answer, I heard footsteps outside his cell. Soft at first. Then the door creaked open, and I heard two more sets - male, heavy-footed. A jangle of keys. And then a woman's voice, calm and deliberate.

"How did you find us?"

Daryl didn't respond.

"I asked you a question," she said, colder now. "How did you know where to look?"

He grunted. "Where's my wife?"

A pause.

"Answer me," she said again.

"I ain't got answers. Not until you tell me if she's here - name's Athena."

The slap echoed off the stone like thunder. My chest seized.

"Where did you hear about us?"

Silence.

"I'll ask one more time," she said. "After that, my men won't be so gentle."

I wanted to scream at them, to throw myself through the wall. But I couldn't even move. I strained against the ropes until my wrists bled.

Then I heard her voice one last time: "Break him. If he survives, we'll try again."

She left, her steps fading. The men stayed.

The blows that followed were heavy. Measured. Not enough to kill - just to destroy.

And all I could do was listen.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed a Carl POV! ❤️