The prison had fallen, and with it, you.

Daryl could remember the moment your hand slipped from his own, your body falling to the ground with a muffled thump. You were shot -- dead, as far as he could see.

Wandering with nothing but your memory and the guilt of your death upon your shoulders, Daryl fell in with the claimers. Sick bastards. It was rough, but his need to survive surpassed the bounds of his moral compass.

It could've been days, it could've been weeks, or a month for all he knew, but Daryl kept going. The leaves beneath his feet were loud, and he decided to focus on the crunch instead of Joe's booming voice, or the arguing from the other guys. These claimers and their rules grated on his nerves.

Sweat-slicked hair was plastered to his forehead, his crossbow a heavy weight upon his back. To the left, the leaves crunched again. He would have brushed it off as a mere deer if it weren't for the weight behind each step, the panting of breath, and the rustle of a tree in the corner of his eye. Daryl stopped. He waited.

Something like childish hope fluttered in his chest. It was like that often. He found himself hoping and dreaming of finding you again with each little sound or warped shadow. He squinted, sharp gaze scanning the horizon of the wooded forest. It was dense, but most of the leaves had fallen, leaving trees barren and grey. There --- once more, movement behind a thick trunk, a small flash of hair visible behind it. Before he could think, before he could breathe, Daryl was calling out to his group.

"Claimed!"

He moved, trudging quickly to the tree. You.

Your eyes met for the briefest of moments. Daryl lunged forward, hand wrapping around your mouth to silence you. You squeaked. "Shut up," he hissed. He hated the tone he used, but he needed to act the part. His elbow dug into your collarbones, pressing you against the tree.

"I need you to do as I say." There was no time for pretense or explanations -- how the hell were you alive?! He'd ask later. Later, once he knew the others wouldn't touch you. "I ain't gonna hurt you, sweetheart, you know that. But I need y' to play along."

With a harsh tug, Daryl's hand slid from your mouth. It grasped your bicep instead, tugging you behind him as he reappeared from behind the tree. The claimers had stopped, no doubt eyeing you. "Claimed," he repeated, nodding to you. He only hoped they would play by their rules now.