A/N: Haven't been writing much of late, but of course that finale pretty much yanked out the hearts of all Michandrea shippers. So here we are. I added in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8after looking for something that suited my needs, but I am by no means religious or well-bible-versed so if I've made an error or used something in a silly way, feel free to let me know.

(Read in a raspy announcer's voice): Previously on thewriteday's version of The Walking Dead (which she of course does not have any ownership or rights to, please don't sue, etc.):

"YOU LET THAT BITCH TAKE HER!" Philip roared, the vein in his forehead bulging.
"You'll stay alive until your friends get here. Then we'll cut each and every one of your throats. One by one."

"Please, Mags. Just talk to me!" Glenn struggled to keep his voice low.
"I will talk when I want to talk. If that isn't good enough for you then that's too goddamned bad." Maggie stormed through the store's back door, slamming it behind her.

Michonne's eyes snapped up. "One of his men raped her, Andrea. Cesar. We killed him at the prison."

"I know what kind of man he is. I didn't know at first, and I should have trusted you, and I'm sorry." Andrea said.
"You already apologized." Michonne said.
"Well I'm gonna keep apologizing until you at least believe me, even if you can't really forgive me."

Michonne sighed and dropped her eyes to the grass for a moment. She looked back up to him. "Is this man worth dying for?"
Rick blinked once at the question. "Yes."
"Then let's go get him." She said, as if it were the simplest decision in the world.

The Belle and the Blade – Chapter 6

Milton hesitated the moment before he brought his knuckles to the Governor's apartment door. He'd been hiding from the man for days, afraid of what was quickly becoming of the leader he'd thought of as friend.

He hadn't experimented with any more subjects. He knew the answer, maybe he'd known for a while, but Philip's constant hope, constant optimism that his daughter could be returned to her previous life had kept the pseudo-scientist trying to keep the dream afloat.

But he couldn't do it anymore. He was finally firm in the belief that there was no going back. Andrea had helped him see that. Of course he'd never tell that to Philip.

He'd also heard rumours amongst the camp that the Governor was losing his grip on things. That his mind was frailer than before. And as much as it terrified him, Milton felt the overwhelming desire to make sure the man was all right.

He steeled what little courage he had and finally knocked.

"Come on in!" Philip's voice bellowed immediately, strangely bright. Milton gulped and opened the door, shutting it behind him before surveying the room. The colour in his face drained.

Philip was sitting on the couch in the large, open room with his daughter – or what used to be – standing in front of him, jingling in her chains, baring her teeth. It didn't seem to bother her father. The man was holding her still with one hand while he used the other to drag a brush gently through her hair, taking his time. He had a small smile on his face, as if the method of it were incredibly soothing.

Milton didn't take any further steps towards the pair.

"I w-wanted to see how you're doing." He said softly.

"You've been avoidin' me." Philip said, with no ire, completely focused on his task.

"I thought you might need some space to yourself."

Milton had been there – too late – the night of the attack. But he'd been just in time to watch Merle pull the glass from Philip's eye.

"Have you been working?"

"I, actually – I wanted to talk to you about that." Milton's breathing was shaky, his words coming out in a painful stutter.

Philip's movements ceased. He turned his head slowly towards the other man, bringing the brush down to his lap. "Oh?"

Now or never. Milton thought. He forced his next words out quickly.

"The experiments have been conclusive in that they have not yielded any results indicating that a biter can be brought back to a conscious, functional state. I – I mean, they are technically conscious I suppose, but only in the most basic and unfortunately violent sense. And I don't see th-the purpose in continuing given the facts." His hands shook. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as he spoke. When he was done, he finally looked to the man, still unmoving on the couch.

Philip's smile was gone. The hand gripping his daughter had tightened visibly and she was resisting him more. The man was obviously angry. Yet his next words were incredibly light.

"Would you excuse me just a moment, Milton? I have to put the little tyke to bed." Philip stood and led Penny by her chains, guiding her into the back room.

Milton felt the sudden urge to flee but he couldn't get his body to cooperate. He stood stiffly in place. Philip returned in due time, locking the back-room door behind him. He stood for a moment, silently, hands on his hips before looking up at Milton, his expression gentler than before.

Milton's muscles relaxed. He recognized this man. Despite the eye patch, this man was the one he knew.

"Come sit and let's talk," Philip beckoned as he re-seated himself on the couch. Milton hesitated only for a moment before taking a place in an adjacent armchair.

"Now. You've still been working on it the last few days, right?" Philip asked.

"Yes." Milton lied. He hadn't made any attempts since the attack, but it would speak better for his case if the man thought he had.

"And you're absolutely sure that it can't work? The rehabilitation, if you will."

"Yes. I can now say that I'm sure it can't be done." Milton spoke more confidently now. He was pleased at how reasonable and upfront the man was being. He couldn't detect any of the strangeness that had been spoken of about town.

Well, besides brushing his dead daughter's hair. He reminded himself.

Philip nodded, looking down at his hands, considering this.

"I always had a feeling I was asking the impossible of you. You're no Victor Frankenstein after all," Philip looked at Milton with mirth in his eyes.

Milton chuckled lightly. "No, I'm not." He looked at the leader seriously. "You know I tried right? I wanted it to be possible. I really did."

"I know." Philip nodded again, his eyes gentle, before he rose to his feet. "I have some coffee made – would you like some?"

Milton blinked at the sudden sidestep in conversation.

"Uhh, sure. If you have some to spare. That would be nice."

Philip disappeared into the kitchen and Milton smiled to himself. He regretted feeling afraid of the man, of fearing what he would do when faced with the conclusion that his daughter would never be the person she once was. But then Philip was more reasonable than that, wasn't he? Milton assured himself that of course this was the case.

I should tell him how worried I was. He'll get a kick out of it. Milton thought. He was about to say as much when Philip returned to the room, stepping quietly behind the armchair, and brought down an empty coffee mug hard against his skull.

Milton had only a moment to consider how right he'd been to be afraid. Then everything went dark.

When he woke up, he was in a very familiar room. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. His head was pounding and he was sure he'd lost blood. His hand went immediately to the back of his head, finding a patch of bloody gauze taped there.

He looked at his sticky, red fingers and then up around the room. It was his office. Bathed in the same dim lighting it always was. He tried to lift himself to his feet, succeeding only after a few stumbling missteps.

"Finally awake." Philip's voice was sinister.

Milton whipped his head around to find the source – the man was leaned against the door, a slight smile in his features. Only this one was not light, it was heavy. Thick with madness. Milton stumbled backwards a couple steps at the sight of it, bumping into his desk, a few instruments crashing to the floor.

"Ph-Philip. Why are you–"

"Nuh, uh uh. I didn't say you could talk, did I? Or did I give that impression when I bashed you over the head? My apologies." He didn't move from his spot. His eyes kept Milton's fixed to his. "Now I don't know when I said you'd be permitted to stop the work we agreed you'd do. I suppose you think you have some kind of control over what goes on here," he motioned around the room. "But you don't. So here's my new proposition."

He leaned off the door, opening it wide. Milton's eyes jumped to the archway; three men came through each leading a collared biter carefully, one after the other. Each of them brought the biters to a wall, where some ropes had been prepared. They began to affix the biters to the ropes, dodging the undead attempts to lash out at them.

"See, Milton, I think you've gotten a bit too comfortable with my hospitality. I think all you really need is the right motivation to successfully achieve what you've been workin' oh-so-hard to do."

The men finished their tying, not one of them venturing a glance at Milton. They left the way they'd come.

"So my new proposition to you is simple, really. You stay here. You work. And if you succeed, I might just let you live. If not…" Philip shrugged casually. "I'll leave that up to you."

Philip stepped through the door and shut it behind him. Milton heard several new locks click into place. No windows. No escape. He glanced around the room. Probably no food besides what he'd left there himself.

He propelled his body towards the door, his head still aching, and fumbled uselessly with the handle.

As he sank against the wall, slumping to the concrete, he understood his mistake. And he knew he'd been left here to die by the man who no longer was, who couldn't be, Philip.

Not too long after they'd found the rest stop, Glenn had stumbled upon a little pond close by. He'd been meaning to bring Maggie there for days, but had been struggling to find any opportune time given that she was still ignoring his presence most hours. The night before, when they'd been fighting behind the shop, had more or less told him that the right time wouldn't be coming soon.

So it surprised him when she'd come to find him on the porch the next evening and taken his hand in hers, smiling at him. He realized just how much he'd missed that smile.

"Daddy said you wanted to show me something," she said quietly.

He nodded. "Do you want to go now?" He asked.

"Yes." She said firmly.

And he'd done as she asked – guided them to the pond that he hadn't actually yet seen at night. Lit up under the starlight through the trees it was even better than he'd hoped. She gripped his hand tightly in hers, leaned her head against his shoulder when they sat down near the water's edge.

He could tell she wanted to say something. So he kept quiet, letting the silence be a comfort to her. When she spoke, it was low, just barely audible.

"When the sickness first started, my aunt said it was the bad in people rising to the surface for everyone to see. That if you looked hard enough we all had the potential for that in us. I never really understood what the hell she was talking about. But in that town – maybe they ain't all bad, but the potential for bad is… big."

She paused. He waited for her to continue, then unlinked their hands and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She sighed.

"I keep thinkin' what if it's in me now? What if I'm bad too?" Her voice was teary. She took another deep breath. "I saw him at the prison, the man from Woodbury that," she didn't finish the thought. Glenn had already enough of an idea of what happened. He didn't need the details. "And I just got so angry, seein' him there dying. I got so angry. I wanted to be able to hurt him, not just kill him, but cause him real pain, y'know? Even now that he's dead I can still feel it. In me. That bad tryin' to get out."

She was crying now, soft, still tears falling over her pale expression.

"You make your feelings sound evil, but they're not." He said. "They're a natural reaction to something absolutely awful. I don't blame you – nobody can blame you for wanting to hurt him back. Right now it's still too new. It's going to keep hurting and even if it never really stops, you'll beat this too. And I'll be here for you."

She nuzzled her head further into him. "You sound like you know what you're talkin' about."

Glenn hesitated, unsure about revisiting his own past. About remembering people that were long gone from his life, even if only for a short time. But he decided if it could help Maggie, at all, he'd rather say what he was thinking.

"I told you about my sister once; the one that moved to Chicago before the collapse?"

Maggie nodded.

"Well she went through… something like what you did, before she moved. And after they put the man in jail, she still couldn't feel safe for a while. But she told me that it does get better. It's never going to be the same, but you're stronger than what happened to you, and it will get better."

She pulled back from his arm far enough to look into his eyes. She brought their foreheads together, tears still dripping from her cheeks.

"I love you," she murmured.

"I love you too. So much." Glenn replied, kissing her gently.

They stayed by the pond for a while, dipping their toes in, pushing each other playfully near the edge. It wasn't until they heard a familiar groan and crunching amidst the trees that they put their shoes and socks back on.

"I guess that's our cue to leave," Glenn said with a smile.

The air in the store was heavier still since Rick's return earlier that day. Everyone was feeling the weight of Daryl's absence, the reality that the man might be dead by now.

Long after dinner, when Maggie and Glenn had returned from their excursion, Carol suggested something she'd been wanting to do for days. A vigil. A little service for Virgil and Oscar, for everyone.

Of course they'd organized makeshift funerals for most of the folks who'd died at the prison, but Virgil and Oscar didn't have graves or markers.

After a few minutes, the group had assembled a few extra candles from the store's stock and lit them in a corner of the room.

The group amassed, standing and shuffling, as they struggled as to what to say.

Carol tried first. "I didn't know Oscar or Virgil that well; I suppose none of us really did. But from what I could tell, they were decent men. They both risked their lives for ours. We're here because of them, and so I guess I just wanted to say thank you."

Several of the group nodded their heads in agreement.

Hershel moved forward, leaning on his crutches and holding a bible in one hand. "I've got something if no one objects." He waited for such an objection, and met with none, opened the bible and spoke.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace."

The words struck hard with every member of the group. Some thought of the homes left behind, others of the lives that had slipped from their fingers.

Carol thought of her daughter – a time to search and a time to give up.

Rick thought of leaving the prison, leaving all those ghosts behind - a time to plant and a time to uproot.

Andrea thought of the woman next to her, her sombre warrior - a time to be silent and a time to speak.

Each of them looked around the room, exchanging weary smiles. At the end of Hershel's words, they said amen and held their friends a little tighter.

Hershel ambled from the centre of attention and the group began to take seats on the floor again. Rick stayed standing, taking up the fore of them.

"This last week has been especially tough. I'm sorry I haven't been better for you, but I do have a few things to say. The first is that I'm not making the decisions for this group anymore. We all have a say. The choices we make in the next few days, and for however long we last, affect us all. And I want us to make choices together." He looked carefully into each of the beleaguered faces around the room. "The second thing I need to say is the first of those choices: I am prepared to return to Woodbury and to bring Daryl back home to the people he belongs with. But I am making that choice only for myself. I will go alone if I have to."

"You're not going alone," Glenn spoke up immediately and Maggie took his hand in hers, nodding her matched sentiment.

"Okay." Rick said.

"I'm in," Michonne said firmly.

"We're in." Andrea corrected.

Hershel panned his eyes around the room. "I think it's safe to say that most of us support you even if we can't be much help ourselves."

"I'm coming." Carol nodded. "And before anyone says anything, I can handle myself. And you need as many people as you can get."

Rick nodded. "Sounds fine to me." He cast his eyes over to Tyreese's group. "I know this situation isn't the same for you, so if you don't want to join us, I completely understand."

"We'll have to talk about it first. I'll let you know in the morning." Tyreese replied.

Rick looked back over his friends. "My plan is to head out tomorrow for some extra firepower, then head out as soon as possible. We've dwindled their numbers, but it's going to be pretty hard going nonetheless. The man we're up against is not a merciful one. And he's waiting for us. But he has one of our own. And whatever he's done with him, that's gonna be his last mistake."

Carol smiled dimly, reminded of just what Daryl saw in Rick, why they respected each other. Why everyone respected him. It gave her a little hope for what was to happen in Woodbury. It gave them all hope.

"That was a pretty good speech last night," Michonne said, tossing a grin over her shoulder.

She and Rick had set off the next morning in pursuit of arms, as planned. He'd driven them to his former stomping ground – the town where he'd met his wife, raised his son. Currently, they were poking around a couple of the local bars where Rick knew there were a few weapons stashed.

Rick chuckled. "Thanks." He ducked behind the bar and started fumbling through the mess, hoping to some higher power that the owner had left at least something useful behind. A gun, some ammo; he'd take what he could get.

There was something bothering him though. It was part of the reason he'd asked Michonne to come along with him alone.

"There you are," Rick muttered as he grabbed the pistol from its hiding place, hooked under a shelf. When he popped back up, Michonne came waltzing out of the office in the back, shaking a big box of bullets in her hand.

"I take it these go with that?" She ambled up to the bar and perched on a stool, handing him the box. He checked inside it and placed the gun and ammo on the top of the bar.

"Looks like it. For a second there I thought Creedence had actually taken his gun with him. Thankfully for us, he never was too quick to react."

"I think Creedence was in the office. Looks like one of his customers got to him before he could come to his senses."

"Right," Rick nodded. He kept forgetting, odd as it was, that most of the people he'd known in this town were dead. He thought of Morgan for a moment, the man at the other end of the walkie. The man that for all he knew was dead too.

"How about a drink, barkeep?" Michonne's voice interrupted his thoughts. She'd plucked down a glass from the ones stocked overhead. She took a look inside it, wiped out the dust with her shirt, and placed it on the bar.

Rick blinked then smiled. "That sounds like a fine idea." He turned around to survey his options against the bar back. "What's your poison? Scotch, gin, vodka, somethin' else? There's probably some wine somewhere," he glanced over his shoulder at her, "but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Noted. I think the scotch would do nicely right about now." Michonne replied, pulling down another glass and wiping it clean (or as clean as she could) and stamping it down beside the other.

"Scotch it is," Rick said, grabbing the bottle from the wall. He turned and poured a full tumbler for each of them, picking up his glass and holding it in the air towards her. Michonne mimicked the move, waiting.

"To being a survivor of the apocalypse, for however long we survive." Rick said with a smirk.

Michonne scoffed and shook her head, clinking their glasses together and downing her glass in one go. Rick followed suit and they both expelled a little wince of air, relishing the satisfying burn.

"We should bring some of those back." Michonne said, gesturing towards the other bottles. "In case we get to celebrate."

"Yes ma'am." Rick agreed, pouring them smaller helpings this time. He took to sipping it very lightly. Silence fell over them for a few moments, each looking down at their glasses.

Rick was the first to speak.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

He flicked his eyes up to hers for a moment before dropping them back down.

"It's probably none of my business," he began.

"No, probably not, but you're going to ask anyway." She cut in.

He looked up to check her expression. She was smiling as she sipped at her scotch which he took as a sign that he could continue.

"I overheard you and Andrea arguing earlier this morning, outside."

"You mean you eavesdropped."

"Not enough to know what it was about."

Michonne sighed. "Nothing, really. We were talking about Tyreese's group – since Tyreese and his sister are coming along and the other two guys are splitting. Andrea said they owed us or something. And I just, went off on her. Don't know why."

"You don't?"

Michonne looked back up at his questing gaze. He looked like he thought he knew something she didn't, which made her laugh.

"Maybe I do," she admitted. "When she was in Woodbury, she–" Michonne struggled to keep the anger suppressed in the coil of her stomach. "She was with the Governor. I think she thought she was protecting herself, but every time I think of it, I can hardly look at her. It's stupid, really. It's not like she owed anything to me. I wanted to have her back so bad and now I'm wasting half my time being pissed off."

"Yeah, you are." Rick agreed.

Her eyes flashed at him. Of course he was right. But it still hurt to hear someone else say it. He put his hands up in surrender.

"Listen, I know what it's like. You feel betrayed, you feel left behind. Even if you know that reasonably you shouldn't. And then you start to resent that person, for whatever reason you do." Rick said.

Michonne watched as his eyes flickered with something dark, something like regret. She cooled off some. She knew only a little of what happened with Lori, just enough to understand where he was coming from.

"So then what do you do?" She asked.

He took another sip and shrugged. "You remember that you can't change what's already done. You especially can't change what someone else has already done. And you try to realize how lucky you are to have this chance. To be with someone you love. You might not get it again. Or you might lose it before you realized what you had." His jaw tightened as he finished the last dregs in his glass, his hand clutching the tumbler so tightly she thought it might break.

She reached out and rested her hand on his wrist. The muscles tightened further for a moment, then relaxed.

"You're right." She said.

They stayed quiet for a few more moments before she took back her hand and finished her drink as well.

"Now what do you say we tool around town a bit more. See what we find." She said.

He nodded at her, handed her a few bottles of booze. He collected the pistol and ammo. No good dwelling on what was. He reminded himself.

"Hey," Michonne's voice broke through Andrea's daze.

The blonde had been in their shed reading an old sci-fi novel she'd found in the storeroom, left behind by some long forgotten shop-keep. She'd been trying to re-read the same paragraph for a half hour, getting distracted every time her thoughts drifted to the fight with Mich that morning. She'd shed a few angry tears, feeling attacked by the one person she'd thought would always defend her.

She'd since realized what a silly thought that was. Of course they could disagree. Of course they could argue and still be all right. But it was the underlying subtext of the fight that had really bothered her.

Michonne stepped out of the mid-afternoon haze and into the shed, dropping onto the floor near Andrea. Andrea folded the corner of her page and tossed the book into the corner.

"Hi." She replied softly.

"Still mad at me?" Michonne asked.

"I'm not the one that lashed out." Andrea said, unable to keep some bitterness from her voice.

"Yeah, you're right." Michonne said. She dropped her eyes to the ground. Andrea regretted snapping immediately. She reached out and took Michonne's hand, pulling her back with her as she leaned against the wall. Michonne settled easily onto the woman's lap, her hands at Andrea's waist. Andrea ran her own hands leisurely up and down Michonne's thighs.

"I'm–"
"I didn't–"

They both chuckled as they interrupted each other. Andrea looked up into her favourite pair of dark, brown eyes. "You first," she said.

Michonne curled a strand of blonde hair around the woman's ear.

"I'm sorry I overreacted this morning. I wasn't even that mad, or I was but it was misplaced. Anyway, if you're patient with me, I want to try and leave all that behind. No sense dragging old business around."

"You mean like two walkers on leashes?" Andrea joked lightly.

Michonne narrowed her eyes but smirked anyway.

"Sorry." Andrea said with a laugh. "Couldn't resist."

"No, you often can't." Michonne chided as she leaned in close for a kiss. Her dreads fell loosely around them, bumping against Andrea's cheeks.

"Oh!" Andrea pulled back, pushing back the woman's hair. "I almost forgot. I have something for you."

Michonne sat back and looked at her inquisitively. Andrea began to move to upend them, to get up and get whatever it was she wanted, but Michonne sat firm and held her in place.

"Let me. I don't want you to move from this spot." She grinned down at her.

"Fine. It's over there, under the blanket." Andrea pointed to the back wall.

Unwilling to move much herself, Michonne leaned her body over, extending as much as she could without completely leaving Andrea's lap. Her fingers finally clutched the blanket and pulled it back. She grabbed what she found underneath and brought it back with her, resuming her position on Andrea's legs.

She flicked her gaze from the object to the blonde.

"Hawaiian print?" She held up the handkerchief, similar in width and make to the one she had been wearing the night Andrea had escaped Woodbury, but in a much louder, floral design.

Andrea rolled her eyes. "Hey! I worked with what I could find. You're welcome by the way. I thought you might want something to replace the one I drenched in blood."

Michonne leaned down and kissed the woman to stop her chattering mouth. She pulled back when they were suitably breathless.

"Thank you." She began tying the cloth around her head, the way she'd been doing for years, even before the end of the world. It held back her dreads more firmly, keeping them out of her face as she descended to Andrea's mouth again. She ran her hands over her shoulders, groping at her body like a lifeline.

Andrea, in turn, was kneading Michonne's thighs more firmly beneath her palms, sliding them around her body to bring them closer, pulling her by the ass.

Michonne began a trail of kisses away from the bright pink lips, down the length of her neck. Andrea keened.

"So what's this then," she gasped. "A little afternoon delight?"

"Shut up." Michonne chuckled against her throat.

Additional Author's Note: Is there a desire for more M-rated Michandrea scenes? I've been leaving this one more plot-focused and less about smut as my personal preference. I can always add that in or take some one-shot requests if that's preferred. Let me know your thoughts.

I also had a comment that this isn't an M fic. I don't know. I had Michonne chopping a man's limbs off and leaving him bloody and screaming in the prison yard. I think I'll leave the rating on for now.