So I realize I'm very late to jump on the Bethyl train here, although I've been reading Bethyl stories since the goodness of Season 4. I've been sucked in again this summer I guess and there are so many great fics out there! It's heartbreaking to think of what the writers of TWD have passed up.

Anyway, I stumbled across Rascal Flatts' song What Hurts the Most and ended up watching some beautiful Bethyl videos the other day and this little thing popped in my head and refused to leave until I sat down and wrote it out. I'll admit I'm not a country fan but with this case, in the words of Steven Hyde after he and Jackie broke up on That 70's Show, I finally understand country music.

While I'm not necessarily waving a flag for Team Delusional, I do usually prefer reading AU fics where Beth survives. This was just something that I thought of that would follow canon. Now that I've started writing again it seems like I've been bitten by several Bethyl plot bunnies so you might be seeing more from me (although much happier, canon-divergent pieces) in the near future!

PLEASE TAKE NOTE: This story deals with grief and self-harm. Also, I own nothing—if I did, things would be going a lot differently for TWD right now!

What hurts the most
Was being so close
And having so much to say
And watching you walk away

And never knowing
What could have been
And not seeing that loving you
Is what I was trying to do

Though the crisp winds of Georgia autumn are beginning to roll in, the sun is beating down particularly heavy this afternoon as Daryl leads the way through a patch of forest, Aaron following quietly behind him. They'd left his bike and Aaron's car hidden just a ways away from the highway they'd taken away from Alexandria on what was turning out to be yet another fruitless recruiting mission.

Aaron is joking quietly about the newest item on Mrs. Nudermeyer's wish list, which for some damn reason she believes they're required to fulfill for her, although Daryl is barely listening. Never one for much talking naturally, he's found that lately he'd lost whatever desire for conversation had been sparked within him during those weeks with…

Shit.

And there it is.

There are times when he'll catch himself, a return of the painful thump in his chest, a reminder of the loss that still pulls him into darkness when he lets it. It catches him every so often, not quite as often as it had right after what happened, but still makes sure to find ways to stick around even now.

A few weeks ago when Aaron had said something about understanding the need to get out of that place, those walls, Daryl knew that Aaron maybe had some idea of why he needs to get out of there sometimes. Sure he feels stir-crazy in there but that's only a small part of it.

Daryl had thought things would get easier, like they usually did. They did when his mama died, when he'd had to put down Merle, and he was expecting that the loss of Beth Greene would be the same. But sometimes he sees Maggie make a face that looks like one Beth would make, or catches a flash of sunny blonde hair from across the street, or hears Judith's giggle, and for a moment his heart seizes up in his chest as her face, her voice, her essence flashes through his mind once again. Some days he resorts to avoiding Maggie completely to save himself from risking the feeling of his chest being ripped apart at the sight of her.

He knows she has the same problem with him; every now and then they'll be with the rest of the group and they'll accidentally make eye contact with each other. No one else notices it but they'll both freeze at the same time, seeing their grief reflecting back in the other's eyes.

Every time his harsh words to Beth echo throughout his hollow mind; You ain't never gonna see Maggie again.

Glenn and Rick worry about him, he knows. He can feel them watching him, hear them whispering when he walks away from the rest of them to find some solitude. He knows they tried to talk with Carol about it but whatever she'd said to them didn't seem to be of much encouragement. And now it's like they dance back and forth between wanting to let him know they're here for him in his grief and not wanting to talk about it—her—at all, in hopes of helping him move forward. He doesn't know which he wants either.

At first Carol had tried to talk to him about it, to be there for him like he'd been for her after Sophia. She'd told him to feel it, to embrace the grief and he did, but all that had done was let it all come flooding in on him. One night, after everyone else had gone to bed and she'd found him sitting outside on the front porch of their shiny new house like he'd done with Beth a lifetime ago, she grew frustrated and they yelled at each other. She shouted that he wouldn't be able to move on if he kept wallowing in this and tried to explain that their group—their family—could help him, they all understood the feeling of loss he felt.

If she weren't Carol he might have torn her apart at that one. They don't understand what he's feeling. No one does. Sure, everyone has lost someone, most of them have lost many people. He himself has already felt the pain of failing Sophia, losing his brother, watching what happened to Hershel and feeling helpless. This is different though. He'd found her. He'd touched her slender back when she'd crossed that fucking hallway, thinking he was bringing her back to safety, back to him, back to a maybe they'd seemed to be beginning before she'd been taken. Not that it would be easier to cope with the loss of her if they'd learned she was dead before they'd found her but somehow learning she was alive, feeling the spark of hope she'd just taught him to feel again get smothered out almost immediately is—well it's indescribable. Devastating. Heart breaking. He's given up on trying to categorize it, because it is everything and nothing all at once.

Aaron calls his attention and he could kick himself for missing the obvious sign of a recently burned fire pit, the dirt hastily kicked over the ashes as if whoever had been here was leaving in a hurry. His feet crossing slowly, Daryl keeps his gaze on the soil surrounding the small pit. Finally he spots it, a faint trail of shoeprints leading toward a trail that's about twenty feet away. These signs are enough for him to know that the people here don't really know what they're doing—a burnt fire pit barely covered, tracks not hidden, building a camp way too close to an obvious trail—but Aaron insists on following the tracks.

"Just in case," he says. It's like a mantra of his. Never know what kind of people you're going to run into, who might need your help. So they follow the converse sneaker tracks—male, size 10's he'd guess—as they stumble through the brush and bramble until reaching the leaf-covered trail. Daryl can't follow the tracks anymore because of the fallen foliage but he knows which direction the sneakers took, so that's enough for Aaron to continue on.

Just in case, Daryl repeats in his mind, keeping his crossbow trained in front of him as he walks slightly ahead of Aaron. Despite the pleading in his heart not to, he can't help but be reminded of Beth. She too would have been the one urging they follow someone's trail, just in case, just in case. There's still good people. He sees the goodness in Aaron and it shines nearly as strongly as Beth's did, although he's fairly certain that no one left in this world has a goodness that shines as much as hers had, so bright it practically burned him.

His wrist throbs lightly like a burning sensation and Daryl knows it's not from holding his crossbow in position nearly all morning like he has been. No, this pain comes from its hidden place beneath the leather wristband he wears constantly nowadays. Not to keep anyone from seeing what he did there necessarily but to keep what he did for himself.

In his darkest moments he did something that was horrifically, stupidly, utterly for her. The night he'd fought with Carol, after he'd yelled himself hoarse and she'd stormed back into the house, he took a water bottle of whiskey from the small ration Deanna had allotted their group and wandered out into the blackest part of the woods he could find. It wasn't hard to sneak beyond the walls with the shit-for-brains in charge deciding they didn't need anyone to keep watch.

He'd drunk down the half-bottle of whiskey in nearly one chug, not really enough to get a man of his size very drunk but in that moment he thinks maybe it was enough to allow himself to pretend he was drunk enough to do it. To do that to himself.

In the total blackness, only the sound of the wind billowing in the trees and crickets chirping in the night to keep him company, he found his eyes searching for her, waiting for her to step from behind a tree where she'd just been checking on their crude security system of string and cans, like she'd done dozens of times before. He could practically hear her steps if he listened hard enough and once his heart skipped a beat when he thought he'd actually caught a glimpse of her bright cheeks, only to realize he'd seen the moon peeking out from behind the brush.

He felt worthless, like an idiot for believing she might come back to him. It was then that it occurred to him there might be a way to bring her back to him. Yanking the hunting knife from his belt—her knife—he looked down at his left wrist, relatively unmarked compared to the rest of his skin. It was tan and covered in a layer of grime. He used the rag from his back pocket to carefully, tenderly wipe away at the thin flesh of his inner wrist, practically feeling his throbbing pulse in the veins there.

It was easier than he'd been expecting, if he's being honest. To press the thin, slightly blunt blade to one side of his wrist and slowly drag it down to the other side. Blood, thick and hot, instantly bubbled up at the wound and he hissed at the feel of the cool night breeze caressing it. He watched the syrupy red ooze across his skin, dripping down to splatter across the leaves next to him. He was a little disappointed that he hadn't felt more of her presence as he paid his penance to her, although he did feel a bit of warmth grow in his stomach at the thought that he now bore the same mark as she had.

And while he didn't do it to really try to end his life—he doesn't think she did either, because he knows that even back then she was a fighter, even before any of them knew it yet—he wears the fresh pink scar like it's in kinship with her. Hers hidden under a tangle of bracelets, his under a crudely cut strap of leather. He wonders what it would have felt like to press his scar to hers but the logical part of his mind always reminds him then that if she were still alive he wouldn't need the scar in the first place.

Whatever. He thinks his grief has turned into madness, at least a little. He welcomes it.

They've been walking for nearly an hour and still no sign of anyone—living or otherwise. Aaron glances up at the sky and he knows the man is attempting to guess how many hours are left of sunlight; they always return just as the sun is coming down over the horizon.

Daryl doesn't bother saying anything but by his own calculation they'll be running out of light soon.

"Well, we might as well start heading back. It'll take us more than an hour to get back to the road anyway," Aaron says finally. Daryl nods; this is Aaron's show and he wouldn't have it any other way. He's tired of having to make decisions and feels much more comfortable being the Right Hand Man, the hand to carry out the order of another's will. Even though he knows he's started drifting from that position for Rick, has seen the disappointment in the eyes of the man he considers the truest brother he's ever had. And yet, sometimes he curses Rick for not recognizing that in many ways his Right Hand Man died that day in the hallway too.

While his darkest days are over, he still has some bad ones. The days where nothing and no one will break him out of it, not even being out here in the only place he's ever truly felt home. Not in this place where he once found himself thanks to a girl made of nature herself—hair like sunlight and round eyes like cornflowers and a voice like the gentle breeze of a warm day.

In those days, he curses them all.

He curses Aaron for reminding him too much of a pure goodness that had become his salvation. He curses Carol for watching him with concern in her dark eyes, even when she's supposed to be mad at him. He curses Abe and Rosita for flaunting their passion for each other in front of everyone. He curses Glenn for looking at Maggie the way he does. He curses Maggie for daring to give a damn about her sister only after she'd died. He curses Michonne for being the only one to have the balls to whisper to him that this isn't what she would have wanted for him. He curses Tara for the soft voice she uses when she speaks to him, as if she's both afraid of and worried for him at the same time. He curses Carl for the youth he takes for granted, when others had it swept away from them far before their time. He curses Deanna and all those other morons at Alexandria who think they know what they're doing, that they know how to live when he's seen what true survival and fight and optimism looks like. He curses Judith for the day they'll have to explain to the little girl how she lost not one but two mothers. He curses himself for being too weak to save her, after all she'd done to save him.

But most of all, he curses her. He curses Beth—brave, caring, sweet, strong, beautiful Beth Greene—for teaching him how to love her without preparing him for what to do now that she's gone from him forever.

Aaron, always an observant one, has picked up that his mood has gone from sour to downright despondent and is content to hum to himself as he trails after Daryl in the direction of their vehicles. Another thing about Aaron—he fucking hums to himself while they're out on these runs. It used to make Daryl want to pull his hair out but once he started to see the similarities between Aaron and her, he's found it's almost comforting to be back in the woods with someone humming beside him.

And deep down, in the deepest part of him, where she still resides, he knows that this is what she would want for him. She would want him to steadily return from that hideous obsidian darkness he'd surrounded himself in, even if it takes a small step each day. Even though he knows he'll never fully be out of the darkness, because the light he'd found to keep the shadows away has been permanently snuffed out.

While the others' words of soft, hesitant encouragement merely bounced off of him like useless pebbles against a stoic mountain, the melodic whispering of her voice in his memory is strong enough to penetrate. It's her voice that keeps him going most days, his memories of her that get him out of bed or help him prepare for another recruitment trip. Like she'd pulled him out of his stupor after the prison fell, she's the one pulling him out of his own grief for her.

Sometimes he sees her and it doesn't hurt as much as it usually does. Sometimes instead of a ripping slash or an aching throb, he feels comforting warmth, almost like her arms are wrapped around his chest again, her face pressed into his shaking back. She pulls him to stand and continue living, living for her. Sometimes he sees a flash of sunlight across a cluster of leaves and his lips almost pull up at the way it looks like a scraggily ponytail. Sometimes the sky is the most perfect shade of blue and he sees her eyes watching down on him. Sometimes he feels a breeze pass through his tired fingers and it's like she's linking hers through his again.

"Huh," Aaron says so suddenly that it nearly startles him. "Would you look at that. At least this trip wasn't totally for nothing." He turns to see Aaron looking at where their vehicles are parked and doesn't get what the man is musing at. Checking to follow his gaze once more, Daryl realizes he isn't actually looking at the cars but at the sky beyond them. The sun is lowering itself toward the horizon, a beautiful kaleidoscope of rich cornflower blue mixed with pale yellow and brilliant gold, the space between practically the shade of cheeks flushed from drinking too much moonshine or singing in a quiet funeral parlor.

Daryl watches the sun, feeling a breeze envelope him and suddenly she's there with him, her arms around him as she presses her cheek against his shoulder, watching with him. It's not enough, it won't ever be enough, but it's something at least. She's left remnants of herself here for him to find. And it's what will keep him going until the end of his days, searching high and low for these little reminders of herself she's left for him and him alone. For the rest of his life he'll search for her singing floating along in the breeze, her eyes in the sky, her footsteps beside him in the rustle of the woods, her hair in the sunlight, her warmth in the good days.

It's not enough, but it's something.

Don't you think that's beautiful?