TWD: Awakened As Rick

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The woods were quiet—just the way Daryl liked them.

The morning fog still clung to the underbrush, curling low like ghosts that hadn't figured out they were dead yet. Daryl crouched by a set of tracks, his fingers brushing the soft dirt. Three deer. Maybe four. Moving northeast. Fresh—less than an hour old.

He rose slowly, adjusting the crossbow strapped across his back. No words. Just breath, instinct, and earth.

Back when everything went to hell, Daryl Dixon thought he'd die alone. Truth was, he didn't even care if he did. Wasn't nobody waiting for him back then. Just Merle, and Merle wasn't exactly the kind of guy you lived for.

Now, things were different.

He had a purpose now. A place. A people.

The Right Arm wasn't paradise—hell, it was barely civilized—but it was more than he'd ever had before. A home, if that word meant anything anymore.

He moved silently through the trees, following the herd trail. His boots barely left prints. His breath stayed low. Every sound in the forest spoke to him like a second language: a broken twig, the flap of a crow's wings, the way the wind cut through branches.

He was close.

He saw movement through the trees. Ears flicking. Brown fur against green.

Daryl knelt, raised his crossbow, and took a breath. Steady.

Thunk.

The arrow flew true. One deer down.

He didn't smile. Didn't celebrate. Just moved toward the kill with practiced steps, eyes scanning the surroundings. No walkers. No signs of other predators. Good.

He pulled the bolt free, cleaned it on the grass, and began field-dressing the deer. The sun had barely climbed above the trees, and already, the weight of the day settled on his shoulders. But Daryl didn't mind. Work kept the ghosts at bay.

By the time he returned to camp, dragging the cleaned carcass behind him, the settlement was already moving. Smoke curled from cooking fires. Kids ran between cabins. Morales waved from the guard post, and Miguel shouted something in Spanish as he passed.

Daryl just nodded, hauling the deer toward the smokehouse near the south fence.

Carol was there, hands deep in flour as she prepared bread with a few of the older women. She smiled when she saw him.

"Caught dinner already?" she asked.

He grunted. "Could've bagged two. Didn't want to spook the rest of the herd."

She wiped her hands and walked over. "You're the only one who can walk into the woods with a stick and come back with a meal."

"It's a crossbow," he muttered.

Carol chuckled and touched his arm lightly. "Still. You're good at what you do."

He shifted uncomfortably, not used to praise. "Yeah, well… somebody's gotta keep you all fed."

Daryl left the deer at the smokehouse and wandered toward the range where Rick had set up the training drills. He watched from a distance as Guillermo barked commands at the new recruits, drilling them on formations and fallback procedures. Shane paced like a restless dog, watching them all like a hawk.

Rick stood at the edge, arms folded.

Daryl respected him.

More than that—he believed in him.

Rick had saved more than just people. He'd saved their damn hope.

Daryl had seen leaders come and go—men who shouted orders, swung their fists, and died ugly. But Rick? Rick didn't waste words. He acted. And he made people better.

Daryl remembered the day they first talked one-on-one after the quarry camp.

"You don't have to prove anything to me," Rick had said. "You've already done more than most."

Daryl hadn't known how to respond then.

He still didn't.

Later that afternoon, Daryl was helping Joel reinforce the north watchtower when Carl ran up, slingshot in hand.

"Hey Daryl! Wanna see me hit the bottle target?"

Daryl raised an eyebrow. "How many windows you break today?"

Carl grinned. "None. Yet."

Daryl sighed but smirked. "Alright, kid. Show me what you got."

Carl took aim and fired. Missed the first shot. Hit the second. Daryl nodded approvingly.

"Not bad. Still got work to do."

Carl beamed. "I'm gonna be on the combat team one day."

Daryl looked at him for a moment, then ruffled his hair. "Yeah, maybe. Just don't grow up too fast."

That night, Daryl sat near the fire with his crossbow on his lap, cleaning the bolts by firelight. Around him, people laughed, ate, told stories. Andrea and Morales argued over supply routes. Merle bragged about fixing the old generator with "just a wrench and divine inspiration." Glenn and Amy played cards with Sophia and Carl nearby.

And for once, Daryl didn't feel the urge to walk away.

He felt... still.

Rooted.

Rick sat beside him, quiet.

"You've done a lot for this place," Rick said.

Daryl shrugged. "Just doin' what I can."

"I trust you, Daryl."

That made Daryl freeze for a second. Not because he didn't believe it. But because no one had ever said that to him before—not without a knife hidden behind their back.

"Thanks," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Rick leaned forward, poking at the fire. "You're more than a tracker, you know. You're a leader. People watch you. Learn from you."

Daryl didn't respond right away.

He stared into the flames and saw a younger version of himself—scrawny, angry, running through the woods with Merle, stealing, fighting, surviving.

Now, he was here.

Part of something that mattered.

"I ain't no leader," Daryl finally said. "But I'll fight for this place. Long as it takes."

Rick smiled. "That's all I needed to hear."

Later that night, Daryl stood watch atop the east tower. The woods were quiet again. His home. His church.

He looked down at the settlement and saw Carl curled up in bed, Merle arguing with someone near the supply shed.

Daryl pulled the hood of his jacket tighter around his shoulders, exhaled into the night, and said to no one in particular:

"I ain't never wanted much. But this right here? This I'll protect."

The wind whispered through the trees.

And Daryl Dixon stood guard.

Not because someone told him to.

But because he chose to.

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10+ Chapters

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