AN: This is inspired by the song Woman King by Iron and Wine and also by the Chinese proverb about the Red String of Fate, which goes something like this: Two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. There will be one other part of this story which is Beth's point of view maybe with a little Daryl right at the very end.

someday we may see a woman king, wristwatch time | slowing as she goes to sleep

black horse fly, lemonade | jar on the red ant hill
garden worm, cigarette | ash on the window sill

hundred years, hundred more
someday we may see a woman king, sword in hand
swing at some evil and bleed

Woman King ~ Iron and Wine

They wander the earth. The ground is cracked and dry under their feet. Dust rises around them covering their skin in a fine layer of grit that rubs them raw and lays them open to the sun's relentless rays. Streams have run dry; creek beds, rivers, and lakes allude them. Empty cans rattle in empty packs, echoing the sound of empty stomachs. Their mouths taste of ash. They cannot go back. Nothing lies behind them but destruction and worse despair. A trail of blood marks their path spattered across the highways of Georgia. Daryl tugs at the red string tied around his wrist testing it's strength as he has a thousand times. The braided band holds true (as it has a thousand times) resisting the harsh pull and twist of his fingers.

Carol gives him her knife. The very knife that he had found for her at the country club. He remembers picking it up of a dead body and pressing it into her trembling palm. You said you could take care of yourself. Prove it. He tests the red cord with the edge of her knife, watching as few strands burst under the pressure of the sharp blade. He puts the knife away before it cuts the band through and then tries his best to smooth the frayed edges. The red string unravels farther until it hangs on by a thread, clinging to his wrist.

He is tired of his family watching him with gazes that are mix of pity and understanding, sorrow and compassion. The weight of their eyes lay too heavy on his aching back. He veers off the road and stops when he sees a barn. He blinks and looks a again because for a moment it isn't a barn at all. We should burn it down. He fingers the lighter in his pocket and collapses against a tree.

He blames himself. He hates himself. Just another dead girl. He really fucking hates himself. Fishing around in his pocket he pulls out the stubs of a few cigarettes. Lighting up he lets the smoke roll in and out of him and then presses the hot cherry into his skin, twisting, watching his own flesh smolder. He feels nothing. Gently, gently, he runs his fingers over the red string.

...+++...

They are in the middle of a big box store heading for the exit when he notices her stop to look at a display of brightly colored threads. It had been a huge risk coming into the store but it had paid off; both of their packs are full of scavenged cans found tucked deep into the recesses of thrice ravaged shelves. They have enough food to last them for days if not a week. He pauses the slow steady sweep of his eyes across the store and watches her shove three skeins of red string into her back pocket. He doesn't comment, shrugs a shoulder and moves on. The ways of Beth Greene are often a mystery to him.

Later that night they are holed up in an old hunting cabin. Half the roof has fallen in but it is raining and it is cold so for now four walls and half a roof is better than no roof at all. Beth is sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor weaving long threads of red thread through her pale fingers. They had managed to find a few candles and her face is lit with a soft flickering light that paints her skin in gold and yellow. He is sitting close beside her, her arm brushing against his each time she twists her hands.

"What are you doin' Greene?"

She doesn't answer right away and he watches the tip of her tongue peek out from the corner of her mouth as she ties a knot and then grins at him holding up her finished work. "Makin' bracelets."

"You got bracelets," he replies gesturing at the collection of beads and leather on her wrist.

"Arm please."

"Nah I ain't into girly shit."

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "It ain't girly shit Daryl." Her expression changes, the smile slips from her lips replaced with a stubborn tilt. "It's called the red string of fate. It's more important than a bracelet."

"Don't believe in fate." He hesitates but holds out his arm anyway and she neatly knots her creation around his wrist. She smiles at him again and her eyes glitter in the candlelight. It reminds him of the way her face had looked that night hardly a week ago; the night she had helped him burn down his past, the night they had scampered away into the trees wild and free. Her blue eyes had danced in the light then as well, her middle finger pointing defiantly at the stars, at his past, at the god damn Governor, at God him fucking self. Maybe he does believe in fate. He tugs at the string. "What's it mean?"

She's already busy making another one, clever fingers measuring thread for her own wrist. "Oh I read about it in a book once. Supposedly the gods tie an invisible red string around each of us. The threads connect you to those you are destined to meet no matter what. The thread my tangle and stretch but it'll never break." His heart flutters in his chest as she glances shyly over at him, a pink tinge rising in her cheeks. "Just always thought it was a nice idea. Thought maybe I'd make one for everyone once we're all back together. That way if we ever lose each other..."

She doesn't finish her sentence and the air in the room thickens around them. The thought of losing her now after what they've been through twists in him like a dagger in his gut, a blade that digs deeper each time he takes a breath. Words and emotions rise up and get clogged in his throat, choking him. He can only grunt and nod his head in reply while she begins to hum softly by his side.

...+++...

Daryl shifts and rolls over onto his back, uncomfortable in the heavy silence of the living room. He throws one arm over eyes trying to block out the early morning sunlight that is just starting to creep into the room. Sleep has never come easy to him and it seems even more elusive in this place; this mansion that is solid and clean and far far too bright. Even the damn counter tops sparkle. He has refused to claim a room and has been camping out in the living room instead, keeping watch even when no watch has been set.

Rick's wearing a badge, pretending he's still got the morals of a country sheriff and Carol's wearing cardigans and baking casseroles like some sort of apocalyptic den mother. They are the only ones playing the game, keeping their cards close to their chests. Maggie is lost, her green eyes dull and flat even when she's smiling at Glenn. Sasha's is angry, Noah is broken, Abe is apathetic. None of them belong here, none of them fit. Daryl least of all. This place is trying to push them all back into the molds of what they used to be. Cop, mother, sister, priest. None of those titles fit. That's what irks Daryl the most. There is no title for what he is or what he was, no category that he fits neatly in to. Redneck, drifter, white trash, biker, brother, fighter, hunter... lover. None of those suits, they're all expired. Stay who you are.

He feels tight, shoulders, back, chest, all pulled taunt like a bowstring, like he's about to burst open. On the road he had been numb but now he is angry, restless. He can't go back like the rest of them seem to be doing and he can't go forward. He can only move sideways, always at odds.

He should be happy for his family. Happy to be settled, have running water, enough to eat, a roof and four walls. But he' ain't happy. Been a long time since he's felt even a glimmer of that emotion. Not since pigs feet and peanut butter, the soft glow of candles and eyes the color of the summer sky. Happy was the soft sound of her voice and the warm flit of her hand against his arm. Beth. Her name is a prayer that he doesn't dare utter. He's not worthy to speak it. His fingers trail automatically to the red string stilled tied around his wrist. The red string of fate. Maybe he's got to give it up, release those memories to truly fit in here. Maybe that's the price. Well fuck that. The cost is too high.

He finally gives in and sits up, back creaking in protest. Picking up his crossbow he heads for the door, stepping outside and taking a long piss off the front porch. Floor boards creak behind him and he turns to see Carl framed in the door way.

"Can't sleep?" he grumbles. Carl shakes his head. "Ya should try."

Carl shrugs and looks around, his eyes sweeping over the quiet houses tucked in around them. "Place kinda gives me the creeps."

"It's not so bad," Daryl replies squinting, trying to keep the lie off his face. Truth is the whole place feels off to him. Too clean, too insulated, with fences that are reinforced from the outside. These people are weak, half of them wouldn't make it a week out on the road.

"Think we'll stay?" Carl asks.

It's Daryl's turn to shrug. "Your Dad seems to think we should." He moves to step off the porch, slinging his cross bow over his shoulder, taking comfort in it's familiar weight against his back.

"Where you going?" Carl asks.

"Huntin'." He walks away and doesn't look back. Not for the first time he thinks about leaving, going out for good and not coming back. Carl is safe. Judith is safe. The rest of them are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. They don't need him and he knows Rick will take this place in the blink of an eye if he sees a chance.

Daryl saunters down the road. The sun is just beginning to peak over the walls but all of the houses are quiet. These people aren't early risers. One more tick against them. He gets to the gate and gestures at the gatekeeper to open them. They should be used to it by now. He's been going out every morning for more than a week. That woman Deanna hasn't given him a job. He feels her eyes on him whenever he's inside the walls, feels her trying to piece him together like he's some damn puzzle that only she can solve. He ain't about to tell her she'll never succeed. Too many missing pieces. Well that woman can take him how he is or leave him all together. He doesn't give a shit.

The gate rolls open and the keeper yells down, asking him when he'll back. Daryl's only answer is a middle finger pointed towards the sky.

...+++...

"Why you followin' me?!" His temper is rising, boiling over. He is angry at this timid man with his crisp flannel shirt and a shotgun strapped to his canvas backpack. Angry at how calm the other man always is, angry at how stealthy. He still can't believe they had been being followed all those weeks, can't believe he hadn't picked up on it, can't believe he hadn't seen the signs. That was his failure and he has already tucked it away, another length of rope to hang himself with.

Aaron blinks slowly, his hands raised in surrender. Daryl sees the other man swallow hard, clear his throat. "We just want to know where you're going."

"Y'all ain't my keepers. I ain't a prisoner," Daryl spits out and then spits on the ground for good measure.

"No," Aaron shakes his head. "You're not a prisoner."

Daryl slowly lowers his crossbow and Aaron lowers his hands.

"Why you followin' me then?"

The other man hesitates for a moment. "Deanna thinks you're... unpredictable."

It's Daryl's turn to blink. He remembers thinking the same thing about Shane a life time ago. Unpredictable is just a polite word for dangerous. He runs his fingers over the red string on his wrist. "That what you think?"

Aaron shrugs. "I'm not sure."

Daryl turns and walks away. They are in the middle of a field, tall grass brushing past his hips. He heads for the closest grouping of trees, keen ears hearing the soft steps of the man trailing after him, which he does his best to ignore.

He freezes when Aaron continues speaking, his voice soft and hushed. "I know you lost something, someone maybe. Beth?"

The sound of her name floats in the air, ringing crisp and sweet like a bell, echoing in his ears. Beth. Beth. Beth. His breathe comes whooshing out of him as his veins fill with ice. He spins, crossbow flashing up, centered on the other man's forehead. "You don't know shit! You think you know me cause you listened in on a few conversations? You think you know what I had or what I lost!? You think you know anything about any of us?! You don't! Y'all been tucked safe behind your walls for the last three years, livin' easy, hidin'. You're soft! You're weak! Maybe I'm unpredictable, dangerous but ya'll are livin' on borrowed time. Soon enough someone else will come around and take what you have, rip it away from you, set it on fire, piss on it's grave for good measure!" It's the most he's spoken in ages and it leaves him panting as rage and grief flow over him.

"Woah woah woah!" The other man is backing up, hands flailing.

Daryl takes huge lungfuls of air, trying to breath through his nose, as his finger caresses the trigger of his bow, stalking the retreating man in front of him. Remember who you are. Remember who you are. Herwords are a sweet litany in his head keeping his finger still.

"We know!" Aaron practically shouts, his hands still held high in surrender. The crossbow lowers an inch. "We know we're weak! We know our walls won't keep us safe forever. That's why we need you, why we need Rick!"

Daryl lowers the crossbow again. "Y'all just using us!"

"And you're using us!"

That was true enough. Daryl turns again and walks away heading back towards the shadowed treeline. Suddenly there is an angry snarl from his right and he sees a lone walker stumble into sight. The walker is old, gray skinned and haggard, it's clothes barely hanging onto it's brittle bones. Daryl unsheathes his knife her knife and moves forward. He grabs it by it's rotten collar and plunges the sharp blade into temple before it has a chance to do more then snap it's teeth at him. The thing drops and Daryl bends to carefully wipe clean the precious metal in his hand. Standing he looks back to see both barrels of Aaron's' shotgun trained on him.

A sense of piece washes over him, acceptance. He's hardly surprised, doesn't even bother to raise his hands. He touches the red string on his wrist and waits. Nothing happens. There is no flash, no burst, no shooting pain. Instead Aaron's mouth moves, spilling out some indiscernible words and the end of the rifle moves aiming at something behind Daryl.

Surprise makes Daryl turn and instinct leads him to raise his bow, his gaze focusing on a dark figure emerging from the trees. A man gripping a long wooden staff steps into the field the hood of his tan jacket pulled up, throwing his face into shadow. "Who the fuck are you?" Daryl growls.

"Daryl?"

Time stops, rewinds

"Daryl?"

Daryl's ears ring as he swings towards the sound of his name. There standing to his right is the dream of Beth Greene. Her blonde hair is pulled up high, balanced in a messy bun that gleams in the afternoon sun. Her jeans are ripped and muddy, boots so worn that they are nearly falling off her feet. The edges of her familiar yellow polo peek out from underneath a faded green army jacket. There is a dirty bandage covering her forehead and the scars on her face are thin angry slashes that cut across her skin. She is bloodstained and pale, but her arms are steady and her grip seems sure as they hold a pistol trained on Aaron. Daryl is dreaming and his dream is looking at him with eyes the same color as the sky that arcs above them.

He sees her pale pink lips move forming the syllables of his name but he has gone deaf. Blood roars in his ears and the thunder of his own heart is the only thing he can hear. He touches the red string on his wrist. The thread my tangle and stretch but it'll never break. The crossbow drops to the ground with a clatter, loaded arrow knocked loose to land haphazardly at his feet. He can't feel his limbs, his hands are numb, knees weak as her gaze washes over him. He could stand here forever, sun beating down on his shoulders, grass tickling his fingers. He could stand here forever and just look. He would be content. He would not ask for more.

Out of the corner of his eye he is aware of Aaron lowering the shotgun, aware of Beth lowering her own weapon and turning to him fully. There are tears building up in her eyes, threatening to spill down the pale curves of her cheeks and Daryl thinks that's odd. The Beth in his dreams doesn't cry.

"Daryl!" Her lips form his name once more and this time the sound manages to penetrate the haze of his thoughts. He blinks and watches as she drops her gun and sprints towards him, her eyes locked on his face. When she crashes into him he nearly falls to the ground. Her strong arms are the only thing that keep him standing as she wraps herself around him and presses her face into his chest. Sound and color, touch and warmth, taste and smell all rush back to him bombarding his senses. The sound of her sobs, the color of her hair, the brush of her skin against his own. He falls to his knees, his legs giving out underneath him. She falls with him still clinging to his waist. He can feel her tears soaking his shirt. She pulls away to look up at him and he looks down at her in wonder. His hand rises of it's own accord to wipe away the water on her cheeks, the pad of his thumb running over the sliver of her scar.

"You're a dream Beth," he whispers, his voice low and hoarse and barely there.

"I'm not a dream," she whispers back, pressing her cheeks into his hand.

"You're a dream," he insists, his fingers moving on to stroke a piece of her hair that has escaped it's confines.

She shakes her head, a tiny smile turning up the corner of her mouth. "I'm not a dream Daryl Dixon." And then as if to prove it her lips press against his, soft and sweet and burning.

That's how he knows in the end. That's how he wakes up from the nightmare he's been living. He comes alive with Beth Greene's lips on his skin, kissing his cheeks and his forehead and the line of his jaw. She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.