Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alexandria had never felt so silent.

In the first nights after the bridge, after Rick, the walls held their breath like the whole world was afraid to make a sound. No hammers. No laughter. No footsteps after dark. Not even the wind dared push too hard against the shutters.

Since Livian’s return, nothing felt like how it did when they arrived years ago. The group was now split apart, fractured in some ways. Some survived, while others did not. Livian felt the weight of their losses every time she walked the streets—an emptiness beneath her ribs, as if the air itself had been scraped out of her.

She’d been here before, in the Sanctuary. That hollowed-out feeling. But this was worse. This time, she’d lost the people she leaned on.

Rick was gone. And Daryl–Daryl had walked into the trees and never walked back out. It happened too quickly, and ever since, her life had been dragging along.

It was Michonne who broke before anyone else.

It happened on the third morning. The sky was gray, washed-out, heavy with the kind of clouds that made the world feel small. Livian had been helping Siddiq gather tools when she saw Michonne stumble against the garden fence.

At first, she thought Michonne tripped. Then she saw the way Michonne clutched the fence post—knuckles white, breath shaking out of her chest like it hurt to pull in air.

Livian dropped everything. “Michonne?” she said softly as she approached, not wanting to startle her.

Michonne didn’t answer. She just pressed both hands over her mouth, shoulders quivering, trying—failing—to keep herself upright. When Livian reached her, Michonne sagged, her body folding inward like she’d been carrying too much for too long.

Livian caught her. And Michonne cried. 

Not loudly. Not violently. Just—quiet tears that clung to her lashes and soaked into Livian’s shirt. Her fingers dug into Livian’s sleeves like she was holding herself together by inches.

“I should have stopped him,” Michonne choked out. “I should have—”

“No,” Livian whispered, her throat raw. “You couldn’t have. None of us could have.”

Michonne shook her head, eyes shut tightly as though trying to block out the world. “He was the one holding us together. And now—”

“I know.” Livian swallowed hard. “I know.”

“We have to hold it together now. All of us, together.” Livian held her until the storm passed—until Michonne’s breath steadied, until her spine straightened again with quiet, impossible strength.

But the hurt didn’t go anywhere. Not for either of them.

-

Daryl’s disappearance was different. He didn’t collapse. He just left. No goodbyes. No explanation. All he had when Livian saw him last was his crossbow, a few bolts, and his knives. She recalled the kiss she felt on her forehead, his lips meeting with her forehead that was layered in perspiration. At the time it felt assuring, like something she would feel again soon after. 

Instead it was finality. 

The first night, she searched for him.

The second night, she waited for him.

By the third night, she realized he wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

That’s when a new routine began.

At dawn, before Alexandria stirred, Livian would slip past the gates on her bike with a bag over her shoulder— in it was extra socks, jerky, a blanket, dried herbs, anything she could spare without raising questions.

She always left the supplies in the same place. A hollow beneath an old fallen oak. It was far out enough, and near it was the river that had been running under the bridge. 

She would kneel in the cold dirt, easing the bundle into the shadows. And no matter how many times she told herself she should just leave–she always stayed a few minutes.

Just in case he was near. Just in case he’d finally step out from between the trees. He never did.

But the supplies disappeared. Every time.

And that kept Livian breathing just barely.

Then, when the sun fell and the moon rose in its place. That’s when loneliness really sets in. The nights that passed were the worst of all.

Every room in the house in Alexandria reminded her of someone missing—Daryl’s old clothes, Carl’s drawings, Rick’s boots still neatly placed by the door because Michonne couldn’t move them yet.

And Livian’s own bed felt too large.

Once, months ago, Daryl had slept beside her. For comfort, intimacy. All the things that made them feel complete. They had both survived too much to face the dark alone.

Now the empty space beside her felt like a wound.

Livian would lie awake long after the candles burned out, listening to the crickets outside the window, wondering where he was. Whether he was eating. Whether he was warm. Whether he was avoiding coming back—or simply couldn’t.

Most nights, she whispered into the darkness, “Come home, mon ange.”

It was to be expected, but the silence never answered.

-

Alexandria healed slowly.

Michonne stitched her heart back together one day at a time. She had discovered that she was pregnant-A child was on the way. The future was calling, even after everything that had been lost. Judith grew, babbling, laughing, keeping the light alive. The crops regrew. The council formed. The people pressed onward. However, grief still lived in the cracks, the details that couldn’t go unmissed by the ones who had suffered the most.

Livian felt it every time she left another bundle in the woods. Every time she stood by Michonne’s side as a council debate strained her voice. Every time she watched Judith toddle down the street and felt the ghost of what should’ve been.

Hope felt fragile almost like glass in her hands. Livian kept moving, she kept giving, and she kept surviving. Because that’s what came after ruin.

One day, by the time the sun sank behind Alexandria’s walls, the world felt thin again. 

No matter how hard Livian tried, she couldn’t remain still, she was restless. She tried though. It was all for the ones she loved, the ones who remained. Michonne, Judith, and the little one that was on the way. 

Livian stayed through supper, listening to Judith talk about the books they had read that day, and the pictures she had drawn. Livian would look to the kitchen to find Michonne, listening, washing dishes, her stomach becoming rounder as the weeks went on. 

Then, when the night air cooled, and the streets fell into that hushed quiet, Livian’s body carried her toward the one place she hadn’t gone since the bridge. The cell.

Her boots were silent on the concrete stairs, breath caught somewhere high in her chest. The deeper she descended, the colder the air grew, like the world down here existed in a different season entirely. From within a single lantern glowed, warm and gold, but it couldn’t reach the chill that settled beneath her skin. 

She reached for the key she had obtained from Michonne in secret. This was something she wished to keep to herself, at least for now, until she was ready to talk about it. It jingled, locked into place, then as it turned the door creaked open. 

When she reached the inside, she saw him. Negan. He was seated on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. At the sound of her approach, he lifted his head.

Even in the dim light, she saw it. He’d changed. In some ways physically–he was still tall, broad shouldered, still sharp around the edges, still unmistakably him. But there was something behind his eyes–something muted, almost hollowed out. As if the air had been scraped out of him too. 

A strange, gentle smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, his voice rough with disuse. “I’ll be damned. Look who found her way back to my basement suite.” 

His tone was light–an attempt at it anyway–but it cracked around the edges. It was like he knew the weight she carried, the losses she had clinging to her. 

Livian didn’t smile, she couldn’t.

Negan leaned back a little, chin tinning up. “Is that you out there I hear on that loud ass bike?” When she nodded silently, he chuckled. “It sounds like a pissed off hornet rattling around in a tin can.” 

Livian’s breath hitched on a laugh she couldn’t quite manage. She didn’t step any closer, not just yet, She didn’t move at all.

“Yeah.” She shifted on her feet, thinking about the Ducati, the day her and Drayl discovered it. That had been a good day, a memory that she clung to now. Then, after a pause, her lips parted, “I fixed it up-We fixed it up.” 

“You and Daryl?” 

Livian couldn’t say his name. It was caught in her throat, in her heart and mind. Some place in between everything. It broke her heart hearing it aloud. 

Finally, she said, “Yes.”

Negan nodded, his smile smaller now. His eyes softened into something like empathy. He fell into thought, then let out a quiet scoff, “You wouldn’t even consider ridin’ my bike back in the day.” 

“I was scared of them.” Livian explained.

“You ain’t scared anymore?” 

“Not anymore.” 

Negan understood. He sighed, “Well, at least one of us is still ridin’ free.” He gestured vaguely towards the concrete around him. “It’s a hell of a garage I’ve got here, but the mileage sucks.” 

He half expected her to bite back with something sharp. He wanted her too, just to see a crack in the hollowed out woman she appeared to be. She didn’t break. 

Negan’s smile faded altogether. It wasn’t a deep frown. It was soft, sad. His eyes wandered over her face – slow, searching, the way someone might examine a scar they didn’t expect to find or see. 

“You look tired,” he said quietly. 

Livian blinked hard, “So do you.” 

“Yeah,” he exhaled, leaning forward again. “Well, you see, prison’ll do that.”

After a pause, he really looked at her, stopping himself from going on about the state of his small world. Then, quietly, he asked, “Are you okay?” 

The question unraveled something in Livian’s chest. It felt like a wave, crashing into her and pulling her down into the depths.

Livian stepped closer to the bars, just enough that the overlapping shadows crossed her face. Negan sat still, watching her like she was the first thing he’d been allowed to see in months.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Negan’s brows pulled together — not in anger, but in something far more dangerous–concern. 

“Livian,” he said, the name almost gentle, “you look like you lost the whole damn world.”

Her throat tightened. Her hands shook. The day Daryl disappeared felt like it was happening all over again. Although days had turned into weeks. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out before she could stop them.

“I did.”

That silenced him.

Negan’s face shifted — the walls he’d been holding, there was no bravado, no half-smirk. He rose to his feet, the chains on his wrists whispering as they shifted.

“Daryl?” he asked softly.

Livian’s breath broke, a soft, shaky exhale. She looked away, blinking hard, trying to keep the tears from falling.

Negan straightened, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Negan closed his eyes, jaw flexing, grief sliding through him like a storm he couldn’t break. When he looked at her again, all the sharp edges were gone. He looked older, smaller-human.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, not as a command, but as something impossibly soft.

Livian didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stayed a single step away — close enough for him to see her tears, far enough to keep the bars between them.

Negan swallowed hard, voice dropping as he stood before her, inches away behind bars in his cell. “You shouldn’t be down here alone,” he said. “Not like this.”

The strange ache in her chest swelled, hot and sharp.

“It's so quiet now,” she whispered.

Negan stared at her like those words broke something in him. For a moment, the world stilled—just the two of them in the dim, cold cell, the ghosts of who they used to be hovering in the space between.

Negan’s voice cracked when he finally spoke, “You come back anytime you need to step out of the quiet. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Livian shut her eyes, exhaling shakily, and the prologue of her new life–of this fractured world without Daryl, without Rick, without certainty — closed on a single truth.

Nobody was whole anymore. And no one was coming to save them. Not this time.

Chapter Text

It had been over six months since the bridge’s collapse, and the end of life as everyone knew it. Even still Livian could see Rick’s figure obscured by the explosive flames he caused in an ultimate sacrifice for his family and his people. 

Livian could picture Daryl’s expression when she left him at the riverside, it wasn’t final, it was certain. There was no grandiose parting of ways, it was simple and quick. An exchange of words that she heard as she fell asleep at night.

She was left to wonder if he heard them too, wherever he was. 

It was the dead of winter. The cold had settled in, and started to settle in in the late fall. It was somehow colder and crueler than ever. Livian knew for Daryl it had to be worse, the guilt of knowing that hurt her soul in ways she couldn’t define. 

The new year was approaching, the communities that remained strong treated these times sort of like they did in the old world. It was the holiday season. People of Alexandria made wreaths for their doors, and in Gabriel’s chapel they would sing old Christmas songs. 

Livian and Michonne spent evenings telling Judith stories. The classics. Figures and figments of imaginations long passed–Jack Frost, Santa Clause, Frosty the Snowman. It sounded silly to them, knowing the cruelty of the world and all that it took. There wasn’t anything silly about the way Judith’s eyes would light-it was a precious gift.

Aaron lived close by, down the road in the house he always had. Although Eric had been gone for sometime, it wasn’t lonely with his daughter, Grace. The child that came out of the war. She was growing, but still stumbled, and spoke with little words. Livian invited them to dinner often, they would all dine together, and watch the girls play. 

Michonne would ponder whether the child growing inside of her was a boy or a girl. They would all talk about names, then the names brought along memories and the quiet grief would follow. That’s how it goes. 

Outside all the time, beyond the moments of domestic life, the community moved, worked, repaired, lived–but everything felt half-lit, like the sun never fully broke through the clouds anymore. 

One morning, a soft snow fell, Livian walked the streets alone, boots crunching over the sheet that had covered the grounds. In the distance Judith’s laugh carried, thin but bright–like a single candle flickering against the dim. 

Naturally, Livian followed the sounds, all the way home. 

Judith was in the yard, making poor efforts to build a snowman. She was wearing a worn coat, one that was a size too big, on her feet were boots that refused to stay tied. A moment passed, then Judith’s eyes found Livian as she approached. 

“Aunt Livvy!” Judith squealed, bounding toward her with open arms.

Livian crouched just in time to catch her, laughter cracking through her chest like the first warm breeze after winter. Judith smelled like dirt and sunshine on linen.

“You’re up early,” Livian murmured as she lifted the little girl. “Did you keep Michonne up half the night?”

Judith nodded. “Mama says I don’t sleep ‘cause I miss daddy.” Her smile faltered. 

Livian froze.

The words were too big for Judith’s mouth. Too final.

Livian tucked Judith’s head under her chin and rocked her gently. “I know you do, doux ange,” she whispered, voice steady even as her heart trembled. “You have to remember that he’s everywhere.”

Judith leaned back and tapped Livian’s chest with two small fingers.

“He’s in here,” she said matter-of-factly.

Livian swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she whispered. “In there.”

Judith reached up and brushed her cheek with her tiny hand. “You look sad.”

Livian forced a small smile. “I just miss somebody too.”

“Uncle Daryl?” Judith asked.

Livian’s breath hitched. She had no idea how Judith knew. But children always know. “Yeah,” Livian whispered, unable to voice anything more.

Judith hugged her again—tight, fierce, small arms attempting to hold together a world too big for them both.

And for a moment, Livian let herself lean into the comfort of someone who didn’t need explanations to understand loss.

-

By midday, Livian had saddled a horse. It was too icy on the roads for her to take her bike out. She could hear Daryl telling her to avoid it too. She slipped out one of Alexandria’s side gates with nothing but a pack, a map, and stubborn hope.

She followed the small river system that fed into the larger one—the same water Daryl had searched endlessly for Rick’s body along. She’d been tracing his exact steps for weeks.

Months, technically.

The routine was always the same. The ride, the stops, search the banks-footprints, ashes, fragments. Livian would stop to listen for a whistle she would never hear and today was no different.

Livian knelt in the dirty snow along the river, fingers sinking into the damp. She eyed the bank for prints—nothing recent.

“Daryl,” she whispered to no one.

Her breath fogged in the cool, damp air. The loneliness of the woods stretched out around her—deep, green, endless. Except she wasn’t truly alone. Because she felt him everywhere.

That stubborn as hell survival instinct. That stillness in the trees that reminded her of how he moved. The hush of the river like the whisper of his voice.

He was alive. She knew that like she knew her own heartbeat. But every day without finding him carved another hollow space into her ribs.

And still—she left food where his trail went cold. She left cigarettes. She left notes she knew he wouldn’t take.

Written along the pages were desperate phrases. I miss you. Come home. Stay safe.

She never signed them. Livian knew that he would know. And then she turned to the horse she had hitched, defeated. Once back on the saddle she would start her journey toward Alexandria.

Another failed search.

Another piece of hope worn thinner.

-

Livian returned to Alexandria after dark. The winter brought the night much quicker than the summer did. 

Upon arriving home, Livian looked into the living room. Michonne was dozing on the couch, a hand secure on her rounded stomach. Judith was in pajamas, sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace drawing something with a blunt crayon.

When she saw Livian, she smiled bright like a sunrise. “You came back,” Judith said sleepily.

Livian crouched beside her. “Of course I did.”

Judith held up the drawing she had been working on. It was messy—scribbles of green and brown and blue—but Livian recognized the shapes. A river, aligned with trees. A tall figure with long hair and a crossbow.

“That’s Uncle Daryl,” Judith said with a proud nod. “He’s comin’ home.”

Livian’s breath caught. Judith leaned against her shoulder, whispering, “He always comes home,” she whispered.

Livian wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Yeah,” she murmured. “He does.” 

Turning, Livian peered back, her eyes quickly finding Michonne’s. The mother had stirred awake, and tears were there nearly falling. A small smile was on her lips, it was assuring, solidifying. 

And in the quiet crackle of the fire, with Judith warm against her, and the world still broken around her—Livian allowed herself, for one small moment, to believe it.

After she watched Michonne take Judith to bed, she remained in the living room by the fire. The drawing in her hand, like a photo, was pulling her in. It was hard to look at it, but she couldn’t look away. Then, Livian thought about Negan, alone in his cell. 

She didn’t plan on going down there, not tonight. But her feet carried her anyway. 

Negan was awake when she walked in—sitting on the floor beside the bars, hands on his knees, head tipped back against the concrete wall. He opened one eye when she approached.

“Well, well,” he said, voice deep and scratchy. “Is it still visitation hours?”

Livian didn’t react. She sat on the chair in front of the cell, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor.

Negan studied her.

“Let me guess,” he murmured. “Another search day?”

She nodded once.

“And you didn’t find him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Livian’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Negan shifted forward, forearms resting on his knees. “He’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

Negan breathed a quiet laugh. “I do. A man like Daryl? He don’t die quiet. He don’t walk away from his people either.”

“He walked away from everything.”

“He walked away from the world because it took Rick,” Negan corrected gently. “He just had to go lookin’ for something he ain’t gonna find.”

Livian’s eyes snapped to him.

Negan’s voice softened, losing all traces of playfulness. “You look hollow, Livian.”

She blinked hard, swallowing against the pressure in her throat. “I feel hollow.”

He huffed. “Are you gonna talk about it? Or just sit there lookin’ dead inside?”

The words hit like a wound opening. Livian looked away. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I think it’s time to stop runnin’, Liv.” Negan said. “You can talk to me.”

Silence. Long, thick, suffocating. Then—

“I’m scared,” Livian whispered.

“I thought you said you weren’t scared anymore.”

“I did, but—“

Negan stilled completely. “What are you scared of?”

“I’m scared he won’t come home, Negan,” she said, voice thin as thread. “He’s so stubborn, and determined. The details he sees in this world it’s too much. Daryl-He’ll just keep looking and I’m afraid of what he’ll find—”

Her breath cracked.

Negan spoke barely above a whisper. “Come here.”

She hesitated.

“Livian.”

She moved forward until she reached the ground, back to the wall. Livian settled beside him, mirroring Negan, at a distance they were comfortable with. She was close enough that her shoulder felt the cold of the iron between them.

“If he finds something out there, maybe that’ll drive him back home,” he murmured.

“Or it will pull him further away.”

Negan exhaled, slow and heavy. “Nah, he needs you.”

Livian closed her eyes.

Negan’s voice softened even more, barely audible, “I may be behind these bars, sweetheart, but even I can see you’re the one thing Daryl Dixon would burn the earth down to get back to.”

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. Negan didn’t reach out to her. He wouldn’t dare. He could see how vulnerable she was. 

It was his voice that held her together for one breath longer. “One day,” he whispered, “he’s gonna walk right back here, pissed that you ever doubted him.”

Livian wiped her face with her sleeve.

“I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” he said softly. “For him.”

Chapter Text

Alexandria breathed differently under Michonne. There was no fear, no tyranny, only structure.

The kind that grew around grief like scaffolding around a collapsing building—holding the shape of things until people could rebuild on their own. They did just that–they started to rebuild long before the bridge. The damage done during the beginning of the war and onward was merely a memory. 

Livian felt it with every passing day. The walls were safer. The rules are tighter. The quiet watchfulness in everyone’s eyes sharper. Michonne wasn’t just leading. She was protecting them all with the precision of someone who had already lost too much.

One evening, there was a council meeting, although brief, it was tight, almost constrictive with unspoken things. Michonne stood at the center of the long table, head of security, hands resting on the worn wood, posture composed but strained.

“We will check the northern and eastern fences in rotation now,” she said. “No one goes alone. No one goes past the river.”

Her eyes flicked to Livian—softly, knowingly. Livian looked down. Everyone knew why the new rule existed.

Michonne continued, tone firm but not unkind, “We’re tightening our borders. For safety. For stability.” Then, quieter,  “For the people who still need us.”

The room nodded. Some out of duty and obligation. Others out of exhaustion. Then, there was Livian, her nod was one of quiet understanding.

When the meeting ended, Michonne lingered, watching as Livian tried to make a hurried leave. However, before she was too far out of the door, Michonne called after her, “Livian,” she said gently. “Would you walk with me?”

Livian looked ahead, the doors that were opened called to her. The need to be alone after the council parted ways was almost too great. If only to have a moment to debrief, and ponder the new set of regulations. 

After a moment, Livian followed Michonne out into the twilight. The sky was streaked pink and gold, clouds stretched thin like brushstrokes across fading light. The trees that stood tall beyond the walls were dark, almost black as they swayed in the soft wind. 

“You’ve been distant,” Michonne said as they passed the garden. “I understand why. I just want to make sure you’re not slipping through the cracks.”

Livian exhaled slowly. “Sometimes I feel like I already did.”

Michonne stopped walking. The wind tugged softly at her locs, at the loose edges of her clothes. “You’re one of us,” Michonne said firmly. “You know you have a place here. With Judith. With me.”

Livian’s throat tightened. “I know–I just keep looking for him and I’m afraid I won’t find him.”

Michonne’s expression softened. “I know you’ve already considered the fact that you may not anytime soon.” 

“Of course.” Livian nodded.

Then, quieter, Michonne added, “I’m not the same since the bridge either.”

Livian met her gaze. That alone made Livian’s chest ache. She knew that Michonne wasn’t trying to be understood. She was giving Livian permission to still belong.

“This grief we’re carrying-it’s too much to carry alone.” Michonne said, her voice soft, deeply raw with emotions that she clung to. “When you and Daryl escaped the Sanctuary–you went to Maggie, you helped her with her grief. Now, we can help each other.”

Nodding, Livian could feel her eyes blur hot with tears, “I’m here.”

Michonne nodded once and walked on, leaving Livian to the cool evening and the small, flickering comfort of still having a place to fit.

-

Later that same night, after the light of day long faded into night, Judith’s room glowed soft with lantern light—warm, golden, safe. Livian was seated cross-legged on the floor while Judith nestled under her blankets, a book open on her lap but barely read.

“You look sad again,” Judith said, blinking sleepily.

Livian smiled faintly. “No, doux ange, I’m just a little tired, that's all.”

Judith’s brows pinched. “Mama says you work too hard, just like Uncle Daryl does.”

“He does,” Livian whispered. The use of present tense felt right and wrong all at once, but she wouldn’t say anything about that. 

Judith drew circles on her blanket with her finger. “Whenever Daddy got tired, he used to hold me. He’d say even when he was tired he wasn’t too tired to love me.”

Livian’s heart cracked clean. 

Judith looked up at her with those large, searching eyes. “Do you think Daryl’s tired too?”

Livian felt tears behind her eyes—heavy, stubborn, unfallen. “Yes,” she breathed. “I think he’s very tired.”

Judith pushed back her blankets. “Then I hope he’s not alone.”

Livian’s breath shuddered. Rising to her feet, she leaned downward, and gently kissed Judith’s forehead. “No one is ever alone, not really.”

Judith looked satisfied with this answer, even if Livian herself wasn’t sure she believed it. “Can you read this with me?” Judith asked, a book raised like an offering.

Livian took up the seat beside her and read softly, voice weaving through the quiet room. They were just halfway through when Judith fell asleep, her tiny hand curled around Livian’s wrist like she was anchoring both of them. Livian stayed until her own breathing steadied.

Then she whispered, “I’ll find Daryl, doux ange. I promise.”

-

In the days that followed Livian didn’t leave outside of the walls or beyond, just to comfort Michonne’s conscience. She did leave, but that was her secret. During the day, when eyes were on Livian she made her way around Alexandria. She helped where she could. In the gardens, on the walls, in the fields. 

It was late in the evening one day when Carol arrived from the Kingdom with supplies, and Henry, who had grown just like all the other children had. It was when he went off to rest that night that Carol found Livian sitting on the front steps of the house—knees drawn up, arms around them, watching fireflies drift lazily in the dark.

Carol approached without a sound.

She always had been a ghost when she wanted to be.

“You’re out late,” Carol said gently.

Livian didn’t look up. “I don’t sleep much these days.”

Carol eased down beside her. The step creaked beneath both their weight. Then, the silence settled first—heavy, familiar.

After a long pause, Carol spoke. “I saw the tracks you left outside the east gate.”

Livian closed her eyes. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“I notice everything,” Carol said softly. “Especially the things people don’t want seen.”

A beat of silence.

“You were out looking for him,” Carol said, not accusatory—just true.

Livian swallowed. “Every day I don’t find him feels like–losing him all over again.”

Carol’s voice was gentle. “You’re grieving two people. Daryl, and Rick.”

Livian’s breath trembled. “Daryl walked away. I don’t think it’s because he wanted to. It was the world that broke him down. And I wasn’t there to stop it.”

Carol shook her head. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“I could have tried.”

Carol turned to her fully. Her eyes were sharp, steady, full of the kind of love that hurt. “Livian,” she said softly, “Daryl goes quiet when he’s in pain. He disappears. It’s how he survives the worst parts of himself.”

Livian stared down at her hands. “He’s always come back.”

Carol hesitated. “Not right away,” she said finally. “But yes. He does.”

Livian blinked hard, vision blurring. “What if this time he doesn’t?”

Carol reached over and rested a hand over Livian’s, warm and grounding. “Then we find him,” Carol said simply. “Together.”

Livian sucked in a shaky breath. “You think he’s alive.”

Carol’s grip tightened. “I know he is,” she whispered. “Because if he wasn’t—you would have felt it.”

The truth struck Livian so deeply she could barely breathe.

Carol leaned her head lightly against hers, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath the soft hum of insects and distant lantern light. “You still have people here, and he does too, he knows he does,” Carol murmured. “Daryl will come back. And when he does, he’s going to need you.”

Livian nodded slowly. Her voice came out small, but certain, “And until then-I’ll always be looking.”

Carol squeezed her hand one last time. “Good. He’ll want you to.”

The hours slipped by after Carol returned to her house. Alexandria grew quiet—too quiet. The lanterns on porches dimmed, burning low. The children were tucked into bed. The night watch spoke only in hushed murmurs, footsteps whispering across gravel.

Livian should have gone inside. She should have slept. She should have tried to rebuild whatever fragments of herself still existed after the bridge.

Instead, her feet carried her toward the one place in Alexandria that always felt frozen in time as if nothing above could touch it. The cell.

The steps down were dark except for one lantern flame burning at the bottom—left lit for any night watch that came by in the night. For now, no one was there. It was only Livian.

Livian knew that visiting Negan after dark wasn’t a security issue. It was grief wearing a familiar path in the floorboards.

She stepped further down, boots barely whispering. Then she stopped at the door for an instant, before pushing herself forward.

The cell was dim, lit only by a faint candle perched on the edge of a shelf. The shadows stretched long across the walls. The faint scrape of metal told her he was awake before he even spoke.

“Well,” Negan drawled from the cot, voice low, rough with disuse, “you’re makin’ a habit of this ain’t you?”

Livian exhaled softly, sarcasm lacing her words as she replied. “I just can’t stay away.”

“It’s better than bein’ alone in this damn crypt,” he said, sitting up slightly. “The sound of that bike of yours travels when the world’s real quiet. Especially when you’re ridin’ out before sunrise.”

She stepped closer to the bars, taking a seat on the chair in front of his cell, “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

“Oh I keep track of everything you do,” Negan said lightly, though something behind the humor flickered—something tired. “It gets lonely down here. Your life’s a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.”

His attempt at levity fell flat when he finally looked at her fully. He stilled like he was realizing something for the first time. “Jesus, Liv…” he muttered. “You look like shit.”

She huffed out something that wanted to be a laugh. It wasn’t. “I didn’t come down here for your commentary.”

“I mean it,” Negan pressed, dropping the playful undertone. “You look empty. It’s like someone scooped you out and left just the shell.”

Livian’s jaw tightened. “Daryl’s still gone.”

Negan leaned back, expression sobering. “Yeah. I know.”

“He’s out there alone.” Her voice wavered. “And I can’t— I can’t find him.”

Negan rubbed a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher. “You ain’t thinkin’ he’s dead, are you?”

“No.” Livian swallowed. “That’s the problem. I know he’s alive. Somewhere. I feel it.”

Negan considered her—really considered her. His eyes were tired too, sunken from years without daylight, but they still held a sharpness that saw deeper than anyone wanted him to.

“You’re grieving two ghosts,” he murmured. “One who died. One who walked away.”

She blinked. Her voice cracked. She shook her head hard, breath trembling. “Everything fell apart so fast.”

Negan didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t prod at the wound. He simply said quietly, “Grief’s an ugly bastard. It eats you alive if you let it.”

Livian looked at him—this man she feared, hated, pitied, and somehow still came to see when the rest of Alexandria slept. “You think I’m letting it?” she whispered.

Negan’s exhale was slow. Heavy. “I think you’re drowning in it.”

Livian’s lip trembled. She turned her face away, willing herself not to break in front of him.

Negan’s voice softened—unexpectedly gentle. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do that. Not with me.”

She faced him again, eyes burning. The tears were visible in the low light in the room. “I don’t need your comfort.” 

“No,” Negan agreed. “But you need someone’s comfort. You’re falling apart.”

Her breath shook dangerously. “You miss him too,” she said before she could stop herself. “Rick.”

Negan’s eyes flicked away. Not denial—pain. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Against my better judgment.”

A silence stretched between them—deep, raw, honest. Then, Negan stood fully and stepped up to the bars, close enough that only inches separated them.

“You keep looking for Dixon,” he said. “Not because it’ll fix you. Not because you owe him. But because that’s who you are.”

Livian swallowed hard, then slowly she rose to her feet, turning away from Negan.

“And one more thing,” Negan added, voice dropping. “You’re not as hollow as you think.”

Her breath hitched. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “Because if you were? You wouldn’t keep coming down here. You wouldn’t still care.”

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Livian stepped back first, blinking away the tears she refused to let fall. “I have to go.”

Negan didn’t stop her. He didn’t joke. He didn’t push. He only spoke, very quietly, “Come back tomorrow. We’ll do this again.”

She paused in the doorway. Then the door shut, leaving Negan alone in the dark—and Livian climbing the stairs into the cold night air, the world outside waiting to crush her all over again.

Chapter Text

When the winter crept in, it happened slowly, but fiercely.

Alexandria’s walls—rebuilt stronger, taller—held back the wind, but not the ache of the past few months. The world still felt thinner, almost brittle like a thin layer of ice over a puddle. It was like something essential had cracked when Rick died, and the whole community was learning to live with the shards.

Livian had learned, too. It wasn’t a graceful process, and it didn’t come without scars, but she learned.

The most anticipated event was the baby. Michonne was expecting the child to come at any time. It was a cold morning, before the crack of dawn, that Livian heard Michonne calling out to her, in the dark of her room. This was something they had been preparing for, and Livian was there in an instant.  

Siddiq was alerted about Michonne going into labor, and he was there to help. Upstairs, he went straight to Michonne, there wasn’t panic, only efficient urgency. 

Livian was with Judith when the sound of hurried footsteps thundered through the house, followed by Siddiq’s urgent voice and Michonne’s ragged breathing.

Judith clung tighter to Livian’s hand. “Aunt Livvy-is mama okay?”

“She’s strong,” Livian whispered, brushing a curl from Judith’s face. “Your mama’s the strongest person I know.”

Judith nodded, but her lip trembled.

Some hours passed. The sun climbed pale and low in the winter sky. And then—A cry. It was small, sharp, and wonderfully new.

In Livian’s arms she heard Judith gasp, her small hands flying to her mouth in surprise—then bursting into relief. Livian’s breath broke quietly in her chest.

There was a new baby. He was Rick’s son. A piece of him that lived on.

Michonne let Livian into her room only after the house quieted. Exhausted, radiant in a way that grief couldn’t fully dim, she sat propped up on pillows with a tiny blanket-wrapped boy on her chest.

“Come meet him,” Michonne murmured.

Livian approached slowly, reverently. The baby squirmed, eyes opening just enough to reveal dark lashes and a stubborn little scrunch of a forehead.

“RJ,” Michonne said softly. “Rick Junior.”

Something deep inside Livian—something starved, fragile—finally inhaled.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Michonne smiled, weary but real. “You helped Judith through this morning. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Livian said.

But Michonne shook her head. “No,” she said gently. “We’re family. And family shows up.”

Livian blinked hard at that—because no one had said the word family to her in months. Not since Daryl disappeared. Not since she began wandering the woods alone with nothing but a flashlight and a pack of supplies, hoping she might find him, hoping he might want to be found.

-

Weeks followed the birth, softening the edges of grief the way snowfall softens the ground. RJ grew steadily, filling the house with tiny noises—coos, grunts, sleepy sighs—sounds that eased Michonne’s nightmares and pulled Judith into a fiercely protective big-sister role.

Livian was there for all of it.

Judith would run to her with a drawing, with a broken toy, with a scraped knee—each time calling, “Aunt Liv! Look!”

Livian found herself repairing wooden swords, warming bottles, brushing tangled curls, helping Judith read aloud at night when Michonne was too tired to keep her eyes open.

Sometimes, the sound of Judith’s laughter would hit Livian so hard her chest ached—because Daryl should’ve been here to hear it, to see her, and all of this.

Instead, months passed, no tracks, no signs, no notes. Only absence and silence.

One evening, after Michonne fell asleep nursing RJ, Judith tugged Livian outside to look at the stars. The two of them settled on the porch, on the rocking chair, swaying back and forth. In Livian’s lap, Judith leaned back into her, peering out into the night.

“The sky’s different without daddy here,” Judith said simply, sitting beside her on the porch steps. “But RJ makes it hurt a little less.”

Livian wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I think your dad would like that,” she murmured.

Judith leaned into her, small and warm. “Do you miss him too?”

Livian swallowed. “Of course.”

“And Uncle Daryl?”

Every word Judith ever spoke was gentle—but this one sliced Livian clean through.

“Yeah,” Livian breathed. “Every day.”

Judith considered her for a long moment. “He’ll come home,” she said with childlike certainty. “I know it.”

Livian closed her eyes, letting a shiver of hope pass through her. “I hope you’re right.”

-

As the months passed Alexandria’s border only tightened under Michonne’s rules. They were firm, quiet, and unquestioned by the council. 

If anyone was found beyond the walls, if anyone approached the walls, they were deemed outsiders. Then, they were quickly turned away. Even the trips beyond the walls had become rare. The runs that were made were seldom. 

Livian still went out though. There was no stopping her really. She would always leave with permission. When she was out there she was mostly leaving small fragments for a man who might never take them. Sometimes in her ventures she’d find things, small things, remnants of the world that died. She would find books, CDs, toys–things that no longer mattered, or held purpose other than to make the community feel more alive and human. 

The world felt like it was changing again, slowly and ominously.

It was when Livian would make her return that Michonne could let out a sigh of relief. Although Livian would leave for hours, sometimes, very rarely, days at a time-she always came home.

Together Michonne and Livian fell into a sort of domestic routine. They would cook dinner side by side, each one taking turns soothing RJ, or playing with Judith. It was the peace they had in this small corner of the world, and it felt as though it was untouchable. 

After dinner was eaten, and stomachs were filled, that’s when the house really settled for the night. RJ fell asleep first. Then, Judith. And Michonne, stretched thin by motherhood and leadership all at once, collapsed before her head even touched the pillow.

It was later on that winter’s night when Livian found herself at the cell again. The house was silent when Livian slipped on her jacket and stepped out into the frozen night.

When she crept down the stairs and into the holding cell, she found that Negan was awake as always. The moment she stepped into the dim room, she could tell—he felt her coming.

His voice drifted out of the dark. “How’s that new baby boy?”

Livian stopped in front of the bars, frost still clinging to her hair from the cold. “He’s in perfect health,” she murmured. “He’s fast asleep now, they all are.”

Negan leaned forward into the lantern light. His beard was longer, eyes deeper set, but he was alert—sharper than she’d seen him in months.

“That must be nice. It’s hard to sleep,” he said. 

Livian lowered her gaze. “Yeah, it feels like it’s only getting harder.”

Negan scoffed. “It ain’t gonna get any easier.” He stepped closer to the bars, eyes narrowing—not cruelly, but knowingly. “I can see how tired you are,” he said. “And not newborn-baby tired. I mean haunted, tired.”

Livian didn’t answer.

Negan tilted his head. “He’s still gone, huh?”

Her breath hitched.

Negan studied her face—every shadow, every tremor. “Damn you are missin’ him,” he said quietly. 

Livian’s eyes glistened. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Negan agreed. “You ain’t gotta lie to me, Liv, you know that.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “We don’t have to talk about this. I don’t want to.”

“That’s just too damn bad,” Negan said softly. “Because grief talks whether you want it to or not.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then, Livian finally asked, “Do you ever stop feeling guilty? About everything you’ve done?”

Negan blinked at the question. The usual humor drained from him, leaving something raw. “No,” he said. “But eventually you learn to live with it, and all the ghosts it brings.”

Livian swallowed. “I feel like I’m chasing after a ghost.” Her voice came out a broken whisper, quiet, with a soft ache that Negan could hear and see.

Negan’s expression softened—just barely. “Dixon ain’t a ghost, you know that. Don’t you dare stop chasin’ him.”

Livian closed her eyes. Because that quiet demand hurt worse than anything else. “I don’t know who I am without him,” she admitted faintly.

Negan’s voice dropped into something almost tender. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You do. You just don’t wanna look at her yet.”

Livian opened her eyes, tears clinging at the edges.

Negan stepped back but didn’t break her gaze. “Go get some rest,” he said quietly. “We’ll do this again sometime.”

Livian didn’t argue. She walked away slowly, boots echoing down the hallway—one step, then another—until the shadows swallowed the sound.

Negan remained at the bars long after she left, watching the space she had been standing in as if expecting her to reappear.

-

Livian didn’t remember making it back to her room.

Only the way the door closed behind her — soft, careful, as if loudness might break something fragile inside her.

She leaned her forehead against the wood for a moment, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Slow. Controlled. The way she’d learned to breathe when panic threatened to take her under.

When she finally turned, the room felt too empty. The bed sat against the far wall, neatly made, blankets folded with a care she didn’t remember giving them. Moonlight spilled in through the narrow window, silvering the floor, catching on the edges of furniture and turning them unfamiliar.

She kicked off her boots and let them fall where they landed. Then she took a seat, and slowly laid back onto the mattress.

Livian stared up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the cracks, the faint stains left by years of weather and wear. She listened — really listened — for the sounds she used to associate with sleep.

A quiet breath beside her. The shift of weight on a mattress. The soft, unconscious sounds of someone else existing in the dark. Her body betrayed her first.

Her muscles loosened, instinctively making space at her side. Her arm lifted slightly, elbow bent, as if expecting to rest against a solid chest. Her knee drew up, angled toward where Daryl should have been — warm, steady, real.

For half a heartbeat, it felt right. She could almost feel him. The heat of him at her back. The familiar roughness of his vest beneath her fingers. The way his arm would settle over her waist without thinking — protective, possessive in the quiet way that never needed words.

Her breath hitched.

“Daryl,” she whispered into the room, the name barely sounded at all.

Nothing answered.

The absence rushed in, sudden and sharp, like cold air flooding a wound. Livian squeezed her eyes shut, teeth pressing together as if she could physically hold herself together by force alone.

She turned onto her side, curling inward. Her mind filled in what her body wanted — memories looping without mercy.

Him leaning against a doorway, arms crossed, watching her like she was something worth guarding. Him riding ahead on his bike, always glancing back to make sure she was still there. Him quiet beside her in the dark, a presence she never had to question.

Negan’s words echoed, uninvited.

“You do know who you are without him. You just don’t wanna look at her yet.”

Livian swallowed hard. “What if I don’t like her?” she murmured to the ceiling. “What if she’s colder? What if she doesn’t believe in things the way I used to?”

She rolled onto her back again, one hand pressed flat to her chest, feeling her heart beat — strong. Steady. Alive. That, somehow, hurt the most. Because she was still here. Still breathing. Still functioning. Still capable of getting up tomorrow and doing what needed to be done.

She hadn’t fallen apart without him. She’d adapted. And adaptation felt dangerously close to acceptance.

Tears slipped free then — quiet, unceremonious. They tracked into her hairline, soaked into the pillow beneath her head. Livian didn’t wipe them away. She let them fall, each one a small surrender to the truth she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

“I didn’t choose this,” she whispered. “I could never choose a world without you.”

Her hand drifted to the empty space beside her again, fingers curling around nothing. “I just-survived it.”

Eventually, exhaustion won. Not the peaceful kind — the bone-deep weariness of someone who had carried too much for too long. As her breathing slowed, her mind softened its grip on the sharpest edges of thought. The room blurred. The ache dulled.

And for a fleeting, treacherous moment — somewhere between waking and sleep — Livian felt it again. A weight beside her. A warmth at her back. A presence that didn’t demand explanation.

In that half-dream, Daryl didn’t speak. He never did. He just stayed.

When morning came, she would wake alone. But for now — for this one fragile moment — Livian let herself pretend that the space beside her wasn’t empty. That she hadn’t learned how to live without him yet.

Chapter Text

Spring returned quietly.

There weren't any announcements. No celebrations. Just green pushing through cracked earth and birdsong slipping back into the mornings like it had never left. Alexandria looked softer beneath the sun—vines creeping along the walls, the smell of turned soil drifting through open windows—but beneath it all, tension coiled tight.

It had been two years. Two years since the bridge fell. Two years since Daryl Dixon disappeared into the forest by the riverside and never came back.

Livian marked the anniversary without meaning to.

She realized it somewhere along the tree line, boots sinking into damp ground, when she caught herself counting days the way she always did when the ache felt sharper than usual. She had been doing this long enough now that the search felt less like hope and more like ritual.

Still—she went.

The woods were awake.

Sunlight filtered through new leaves, dappling the forest floor in gold. Livian moved slowly, carefully, eyes scanning the ground for signs most people would miss—a scuffed patch of dirt, a snapped twig, a stone turned over where it shouldn’t have been.

In the time that had passed she’d learned Daryl’s patterns. The subtle ways he moved. The places where he would linger. The things he might leave behind without realizing it.

Today, something caught her eye.

A strip of cloth.

Not fresh. Weathered. Faded gray-blue, tangled around a low branch near the riverbank. Livian’s heart slammed so hard she had to stop walking. She reached out with trembling fingers, pulling it free.

Denim.

Her breath hitched. She knew that fabric. She knew the way Daryl patched his jeans instead of replacing them, she remembered patching them herself. Livian recognized the frayed edge where it had once caught on barbed wire months—maybe years—ago.

It wasn’t proof.

But it was something.

Livian closed her eyes, pressing the cloth into her palm like a promise. “I’m still here,” she whispered to the woods. “I didn’t stop looking.”

The river moved steadily beside her, indifferent and eternal.

-

It was back inside the walls, Alexandria felt tighter than it had in months. Michonne’s leadership had hardened—not cruel, but resolute. The patrols had doubled. The gates closed earlier. The outsiders still were turned away without debate. People continued to follow the rules because they trusted her and because they were afraid of what came next if they didn’t.

Livian saw it everywhere.

In the way conversations quieted when Michonne passed. In the way people watched the tree line longer than necessary. In the way the children were kept closer, always within reach.

RJ toddled now—unsteady legs, curious hands. Livian knelt in the dirt garden with Judith while he sat between them, babbling at the worms in the soil.

“Don’t eat that,” Judith told him sternly, scooping him up before he could try. “That’s gross.”

RJ laughed.

Livian smiled despite herself.

Judith had changed too.

She was taller. Sharper. Her wooden sword was always nearby, and she practiced with it every afternoon—movements precise, determined. Sometimes Livian caught her watching the walls the way adults did, eyes narrowed, calculating.

“She’s getting fierce,” Livian murmured, approaching Michonne, who was watching her spar with a post. A daily lesson.

Michonne nodded. “She has to be.”

-

It was on a warm afternoon—sun high, breeze light—that Livian stopped in front of the cell block and really looked at it. The boards over the windows were warped now. They were aged, nailed in a time of fear, when darkness felt safer than light.

Negan sat inside, back against the wall, watching dust motes drift through the cracks. “You gonna keep starin’, or you got somethin’ to say?” he drawled.

Livian crossed her arms, a small laugh escaping her, “This place doesn’t need to be a tomb.”

Negan lifted an eyebrow. “Well hell. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my accommodations.”

“I want to take the boards down,” she continued. “At least one window.”

Negan studied her carefully this time.

“You askin’ permission?” he asked.

“No,” Livian replied. “I’m telling you.”

He chuckled low. “Careful. You’re startin’ to sound like Michonne.”

She ignored the comment and turned toward the road. The tool shed wasn’t far, and she needed to find all the necessary things needed to remove the boards. It was once she found the tools that she got started on the project.

Livian had a hammer in hand, sweat on her brow, she worked at the nails slowly, methodically. The sound echoed softly off the brick walls and along the stairs—tap, pry, creak.

Then, the light spilled in, the rays bright, blinding even. The dust stirred, and eventually settled. 

Negan squinted as sunlight hit his face for the first time in years. It was no longer coming in slivers of warmth — it was here, broad and almost overwhelming.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Forgot what that felt like.”

Livian paused only briefly, her hands stilling on the loosened boards. She glanced in at him, a soft, fleeting smile settling on her face before she turned back to her work. The light caught in her hair, dust motes floating around her like something fragile and suspended in time.

She felt his eyes on her.

She didn’t acknowledge it.

The hammer tapped again. Wood creaked. The cell felt different already — less like a tomb, more like a room that had been remembered.

“You know,” Negan said after a moment, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual sharp edges, “in a way—you haven’t changed a bit since I met you.”

Livian’s grip tightened on the tool.

She didn’t look at him. “That’s not true.”

Negan hummed, thoughtful. “Yeah, it is. You still move like you’re tryin’ not to disturb the air around you. Like if you’re careful enough, nobody’ll notice how much you’re carryin’.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. 

“I know you, Liv,” he said. “And I know you’ve always been the type who fixes things with her hands so she doesn’t have to sit with what’s breakin’ inside her head.”

That earned him a look.

Not angry — just tired.

Livian finally turned, leaning back against the wall opposite of the barred window. Sunlight cut across her face now too, revealing the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the lines of grief had etched there despite her efforts to hide them.

“I’ve changed,” she said softly. “I just learned how to keep it from showing.”

Negan watched her carefully, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “That ain’t the same thing.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of Alexandria — voices, footsteps, the life of a world that kept movin’ whether they were ready or not.

After a beat, Livian pushed off the wall and picked up the hammer again.

“I’m not doing this for you,” she said, measured, firm. “I’m doing it because light matters. For everyone.”

Negan’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “Funny thing,” he said. “That’s exactly the kinda thing you would’ve said back then too.”

She didn’t answer. But her hands didn’t shake as she worked. And for the first time in a long while, the light stayed.

From the stairs above, a small figure watched. It was Judith.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, wooden sword tucked under her arm, eyes flicking between Livian and the man behind the bars.

Negan noticed her a moment later.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said gently. “I guess the sun brings out company.”

Judith didn’t flinch. She stepped closer.

Livian froze. “Judith—” she started.

“It’s okay,” Judith said quietly. Her eyes never left Negan. “I just wanted to see.”

Negan tilted his head, curiosity sparking. “See what?” he asked.

Judith considered him for a long moment. “The man everyone’s afraid of.”

Silence settled heavy and strange. Negan exhaled through his nose, something unreadable crossing his face. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That’d be me.”

Livian watched the exchange, heart pounding—not with fear, but with the sense that something had just shifted. The remaining boards came free with a final creak. The light of day flooded the cell. And outside the walls, somewhere beyond the river and the trees, the world was already changing again.

Livian wiped the dust from her hands and stepped back from the wall, taking in the difference the light had already made. The cell no longer felt like a place forgotten by the world — just a place apart from it.

“That’s enough for today,” she said gently.

Judith nodded, clutching her book to her chest. She lingered on the bottom step, eyes drifting toward the bars before Livian could usher her away.

Negan had been quiet for once, leaning back against the far wall, arms crossed loosely as if he didn’t want to intrude on the moment. Sunlight brushed his face, catching the silver in his beard, softening him in a way Livian didn’t like to think too hard about.

Judith tilted her head.

“You don’t look like a monster,” she said plainly.

Livian stiffened.

Negan blinked — genuinely caught off guard. Then he huffed a small breath through his nose.

“Well,” he said, voice careful, “Looks can be deceiving.”

Judith frowned at that, processing. “Mama says monsters are people who forgot how to care.”

Negan’s gaze flicked briefly to Livian.Then back to Judith. “Your mama’s a smart lady,” he said quietly.

Judith stepped one foot closer to the bars, curiosity outweighing caution. “Did you forget how to care?”

The question landed heavy.

Livian moved immediately, placing a steady hand on Judith’s shoulder. “Doux ange,” she said softly. “That’s enough for today.”

Negan didn’t protest. He didn’t joke. He just watched the child with an expression Livian had never seen on him before — something like regret, stripped bare.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I did.”

Judith nodded, as if that settled something in her mind.

As Livian guided her up the stairs, Judith glanced back once more.

“Do you wanna remember?” she asked.

Negan didn’t answer right away.

By the time he spoke, they were already halfway up.

“Every damn day, kid.”

Livian’s chest tightened.

She didn’t look back.

They climbed the stairs in silence, Judith’s small hand tucked into Livian’s, the echo of Negan’s words following them like a shadow that refused to stay behind bars.

At the top, Judith finally spoke again.

“Liv,” she said quietly. “Why do you sit with him?”

Livian paused, fingers tightening just a fraction.

“It’s complicated,” she admitted.

Judith considered that, then nodded. “Okay.”

They turned down the hallway toward the classrooms, toward lessons and books and things that still made sense.

Behind them, sunlight lingered where the bars cast their shadows.

And somewhere below, a man who had once broken the world stood very still, remembering how it felt to be seen.

Chapter Text

Some mornings in the passing months began with dirt under her nails.

Livian knelt between rows of early crops, sleeves rolled up, fingers working the soil loose around fragile green shoots. The air smelled of damp earth and growing things—tomato vines climbing their trellises, beans curling stubbornly toward the sun.

This was the work she liked.

Quiet. Repetitive. Honest.

She moved down the rows methodically, checking leaves for pests, adjusting supports, murmuring absent-minded encouragements the way she used to with children in another life. Around her, others worked in companionable silence—no shouting, no urgency. Just the steady rhythm of people choosing to keep something alive.

It grounded her.

The world had taken so much, but here—inside these walls—life still insisted on itself.

Judith sat nearby on an overturned bucket, wooden sword across her knees.

“You’re supposed to water the base, not the leaves,” Judith said seriously, watching Aaron’s daughter, Grace, slosh water with reckless enthusiasm.

Livian smiled. “She’s right,” she added gently. “Roots drink first.”

Judith nodded, satisfied.

A breeze stirred the garden, carrying the faint sound of metal gates and distant voices. Alexandria felt awake—but guarded. Livian could feel it in the way people kept glancing toward the walls, toward the watchtowers, toward the horizon beyond.

By midday, sweat clung to her back and her shoulders ached. The kids had scattered, playing under the shade of the growing trees. 

Michonne found Livian at the wall, her eyes watching the children intently. The two stood in silence for a moment, observing, taking in these precious exchanges with adoration. 

“Would you go on a run with me today?” Michonne asked, tightening her gloves.

Livian didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

-

The moment the gates closed behind them, the air changed.

It always did.

Livian adjusted the strap of her pack as they moved through the quiet world beyond Alexandria, boots crunching over broken pavement. Michonne led with practiced ease—katana at her back, eyes sharp, scanning every window and shadow.

They didn’t talk much.

They never needed to.

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was alert.

They cleared two houses without incident, moving through the remains of lives interrupted. In the third, Livian paused near a collapsed bookshelf, her gaze catching on something half-buried in dust.

A CD case.

She crouched, brushing debris aside.

Lucille — B.B. King

Her breath caught.

Negan had talked about it before the world ended. Recently, he had mentioned the quiet, and how it made the cell feel when the walls felt too close. He’d mention songs that reminded him of a time before he’d become someone else entirely.

Livian stared at the case longer than she should have.

Michonne noticed. In the light that spilled in, she saw the name, it was unforgettable. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Livian said. Then, softer: “I think he’d like this.”

Michonne studied the CD, then Livian. There was no judgment in her eyes—only a careful weighing.

“Take it,” she said finally.

Livian looked at Michonne. The quiet permission, the soft urge behind it. She slid it into her pack, feeling something complicated settle in her chest.

They finished the run without trouble.

On the walk back, Livian glanced once toward the tree line—half-expecting to see a figure watching from the shadows.

She didn’t.

The road back to Alexandria stretched long and quiet, grass pushing through cracked asphalt, the wind carrying the faint smell of rain somewhere far off. Michonne slowed her pace just enough for Livian to fall into step beside her.

“You hear from Hilltop lately?” Michonne asked, eyes still forward.

Livian shook her head. “Not directly.” A pause. “Maggie left with Hershel. Took a few people she trusted. Said she needed distance.”

“Distance from Negan,” Michonne said.

“From all of it,” Livian replied. “From what we let happen. From what we didn’t.”

Michonne hummed softly, acknowledging the truth of it. “I don’t blame her.”

“Neither do I,” Livian said. Her voice tightened just a fraction. “Sometimes I think leaving was the only choice she had left that still felt like hers.”

They walked in silence for several steps.

“Hershel’s growing fast,” Michonne added. “Last time I saw him, he had Glenn’s eyes.”

Livian smiled faintly. “He deserves a world that doesn’t know his name as a grave.”

Michonne’s grip tightened briefly on the strap across her chest, then eased.

After a while, she spoke again—quiet, deliberate. “You’ve been spending time near the cell.”

Livian didn’t deny it.

“I don’t think you’re doing it recklessly,” Michonne continued. “But I do think you’re carrying something you don’t know where to put.”

Livian exhaled slowly. “I don’t go there for him.”

“I know,” Michonne said. “You go there because you don’t know what to do with the space Daryl left behind.”

That landed harder than Livian expected.

She looked down at the road, boots scuffing dust. “He talks,” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s bullshit. Sometimes it’s just noise. But sometimes…” Her voice faltered. “Sometimes it feels like he’s the only one who remembers who I was before everything fell apart.”

Michonne stopped walking.

Livian did too.

Michonne turned to face her fully now, the weight of leadership heavy but not cold. “Negan remembers things because remembering is all he has left. That doesn’t make him safe. And it doesn’t make him good.”

“I know,” Livian said quickly. “I’m not confusing what he was. Or what he did.”

“But you are human,” Michonne said. “And humans look for mirrors when they’re hurting.”

Livian swallowed. “I don’t trust him.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Michonne replied. “I’m asking you not to lose yourself trying to understand him.”

They stood there, the wind threading through the trees, the world holding its breath around them.

After a moment, Michonne turned back toward Alexandria. “We’ll keep the window open. For now.”

Livian nodded. “Thank you.”

“That’s not permission,” Michonne added gently. “That’s caution.”

Livian managed a small, grateful smile. “That’s fair.”

They resumed their walk.

As the walls of Alexandria came into view, Livian’s hand brushed the strap of her pack, feeling the shape of the CD inside. Not comfort. Not absolution.

Just something human.

She didn’t look back at the tree line this time.

But the quiet followed her all the same.

-

That evening, as the sun dipped low and Alexandria settled into its guarded calm, Livian descended the steps to the cell block.

Negan looked up as she approached, squinting in the low light.

“I was startin’ to think I wouldn’t see you,” he said lightly. “What’s the occasion?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set down the CD player she had carried in.

Livian plugged it in, then set the CD on the player. Once she did that, she turned and offered Negan the case. 

His hazel eyes settled on the case. The name on the cover is clear as the sky on a perfect day. His humor faltered.

“You serious?” he asked quietly.

“It was intact,” Livian said. “I thought you might want it. It might fill up the quiet.”

Negan took it from Livian’s hold like it might disappear if he moved too fast. He turned it over, thumb tracing the worn plastic.

“Huh,” he murmured. “I guess the world ain’t done givin’ yet.”

Livian lingered for a moment, then turned to leave.

“Liv,” Negan said.

She paused.

“Thank you,” he added. No theatrics. No smile. Only truth.

Livian nodded once and walked away. Above her, Alexandria breathed—uneasy, alive, waiting.

-

The stairs outside the cell had become a place of routine in the days that followed.

Livian sat two steps up from the landing, her back against the cool stone wall, a worn book open in her hands. Judith leaned against her side, boots dangling, chin propped in her palm as she listened.

“…and the fox said, ‘You don’t see with your eyes. You see with your heart.’”

Judith frowned thoughtfully. “That sounds strange.”

Livian smiled softly. “It does a little.”

From behind the bars, Negan lay stretched out on his cot, one arm folded beneath his head. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t joke. Just listened—quiet in a way that still surprised Livian, even after all this time.

Judith shifted, peeking over the edge of the book toward the cell. “He’s not asleep,” she whispered.

“No,” Livian agreed. “He’s just listening.”

Judith considered this, then turned back to the page. “You think he understands the fox?”

Livian didn’t answer right away.

“I think,” she said carefully, “he understands what it feels like to want to be understood.”

That seemed to satisfy Judith.

They finished the chapter in companionable silence. When Judith slid off the step and padded away—back toward the lights and noise of the main house—Livian lingered a moment longer, closing the book.

Negan’s voice came quietly. “I like that.”

“I know.”

“…It’s nice.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

-

It was Michonne who suggested the trim.

“You’re starting to look feral,” she told Negan flatly, arms crossed, katana resting against her shoulder. “That doesn’t help anyone.”

Negan snorted. “Been called worse.”

Livian stood beside her, scissors and a small basin in hand, pulse steady but aware. This wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t kindness.

It was maintenance.

Michonne never took her eyes off him as Livian worked. She moved carefully, trimming away the excess, fingers sure. Negan sat still—unnervingly so—watching Livian through half-lowered lashes.

“You’re good at this,” he said.

“I used to watch maman trim papa’s hair,” Livian replied. 

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, then faded.

Michonne noticed everything—the lack of jokes, the way Negan didn’t push, didn’t flirt, didn’t test. The way Livian never touched more than necessary, never met his eyes for long.

Still.

Something had changed.

When it was done, Michonne nodded. “That’s enough.”

Livian stepped back, setting the scissors aside.

Negan lifted a hand, brushing his jaw, almost reverent. “That feels a whole lot better.”

He looked more like a man now.

-

A few nights later, long after Alexandria had settled into its shallow, uneasy sleep, Michonne noticed Livian slipping out.

The hall was dim, lanterns turned low to conserve oil, shadows stretching long across the walls. Michonne had been seated at the table in the council room, maps spread beneath her hands—supply routes, patrol rotations, the same lines she traced night after night. The world stayed broken no matter how carefully she studied it.

Movement caught her eye.

Soft steps. Careful. Familiar.

Livian moved through the hallway like she didn’t want the walls themselves to hear her—boots quiet, shoulders drawn inward, hair loose around her face. She paused halfway down the corridor when she realized she wasn’t alone.

Michonne didn’t call out at first.

She waited.

Livian turned slowly, breath catching when she saw her.

Neither of them spoke right away.

Finally, Michonne broke the silence. Her voice was calm. Even. Not a command.

“Where are you going?”

Livian hesitated—just a fraction of a second too long to be nothing. Her fingers curled lightly at her sides before she answered.

“Only to check on him,” she said. Honest. Careful. “I won’t be long.”

Michonne rose from the table, chair scraping softly against the floor. She crossed the space between them, stopping a few feet away, studying Livian’s face in the low light.

Not judgment.

Concern.

“I’ll come with you,” Michonne said.

Livian shook her head immediately, then softened. “There’s no need,” she said gently. “Really. I’ll be quick.”

Michonne didn’t sit back down.

“That’s not what concerns me.”

The words settled heavy between them.

They stood there, the distance far greater than the few steps separating them—leader and confidant, protector and protected, two women who had both survived too much to ignore instinct.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Michonne said slowly, choosing each word. “But you are walking closer to something you don’t fully see.”

Livian swallowed. Her throat felt tight, like everything she hadn’t said all day was trying to force its way out at once. “I’m not forgiving him,” she said. “I’m not excusing what he did.”

“I know,” Michonne replied. “That’s not the line I’m worried about.”

Silence stretched.

Then Michonne spoke again, quieter now. “The line is when you stop noticing how close you are to it.”

Livian’s eyes burned—not with anger, not even with defiance—but with exhaustion. With grief that had nowhere to go.

“If I stop seeing him as a person,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “I lose something too.”

Michonne closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, there was no anger there—only conflict.

“Just don’t lose yourself trying to save what can’t be,” she said.

Livian nodded.

She didn’t trust her voice to answer.

Her feet carried her forward anyway, down the stairs, deeper into the heart of Alexandria where the air grew colder and the walls pressed closer. Michonne watched her go, unmoving, until the sound of Livian’s steps faded.

The cell corridor was quiet when Livian arrived.

Behind the bars, Negan looked up at the sound of her boots, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it with something lighter. Easier.

“Well, shit,” he said mildly. “If I’d known I was gettin’ a late-night visit, I might’ve tried to look presentable.”

She didn’t answer.

She lowered herself to the ground outside his cell, knees drawn up slightly, hands folded loosely in her lap. Her gaze stayed fixed on the concrete floor between them.

Negan’s expression shifted.

The humor drained first. Then the edge.

He leaned closer to the bars, studying her like a man who had learned how to read silences better than words.

“…You look like someone just told you the truth,” he said.

Livian closed her eyes.

The cell fell quiet again—thick, waiting, unresolved.

And somewhere above them, Alexandria slept, unaware of how thin the walls were becoming.

Chapter Text

The argument didn’t end with raised voices.

That was what unsettled Livian most.

Michonne stood near the table, arms folded, shoulders squared—not angry, not harsh. Just steady. Certain. A leader drawing a line.

“You can’t keep going down there,” Michonne said. “Not like this.”

Livian leaned against the doorway, exhaustion clinging to her bones. “I’m not hurting anyone.”

“You’re hurting yourself,” Michonne replied. “And you’re letting something dangerous root itself inside you.”

Livian laughed softly, without humor. “Dangerous? He’s in a cell. He can barely stand some days.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Silence followed. The kind that presses in, forces truth to surface whether you want it to or not.

Michonne’s voice gentled. “You’re surviving by standing between ghosts. Daryl. Negan. The world before. The world after. You’re not choosing where you live anymore.”

That landed.

Livian straightened. “You don’t get to decide where I heal.”

“No,” Michonne agreed. “But I get to protect this place. And Judith. And you—whether you like it or not.”

Livian searched her face for anger. There was none. Only fear. That was what broke her.

-

That night, Livian packed quietly.

No announcement. No goodbye tour. She left food stacked neatly on Judith’s shelf. A note folded beneath a stone by the gate—I’ll come back. I always do.

She didn’t take the bike.

She left on foot.

Then, the woods swallowed her whole.

At first, she followed paths she knew—old supply routes, river lines, places Daryl might have gone. She moved with purpose, days blurring together beneath a brutal summer sun.

Then the paths faded.

And the days stretched.

She spoke to no one and avoided roads. At night she slept in trees, under culverts, inside half-collapsed barns. Her world narrowed to breath, movement, survival.

That was when she started seeing him.

The first time, she thought she was dreaming.

Livian woke before dawn to the sound of footsteps—soft, familiar. When she lifted her head, heart pounding, he stood at the edge of the clearing.

His crossbow was slung over his shoulder. His hair was longer. His features are rougher.

Exactly as she remembered.

“You’re headin’ the wrong way,” Daryl said.

Her throat closed.

“I followed the river,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “River bends south. You want north.”

She blinked.

And he was gone.

The second time she saw Daryl on her journey, it saved her life.

A low growl cut through the trees just before dusk. Livian froze—hand on her knife, pulse roaring. She didn’t see the walker until it was too close.

“Now,” Daryl snapped.

She moved—fast, instinctive—knife finding its mark. When the body hit the ground, she spun.

No one was there. She sank to her knees, shaking. “I know you’re not real,” she said aloud.

The woods didn’t answer.

But she felt him anyway.

-

Summer burned into fall.

Leaves turned. Air sharpened. Nights grew longer, lonelier.

Daryl appeared often now—sometimes leaning against a tree, sometimes sitting across her camp fire. He never touched her. He never crossed space unless danger was close.

He warned her of traps. Of rot. Of places where death lingered.

“You don’t gotta be alone out here,” he said once, voice quieter than usual.

“I am,” she replied.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Ain’t the same thing.”

She cried that night until her chest ached.

She stopped counting days after that. Her clothes wore thin. Her boots split at the seams. She lost weight—sharp angles where softness used to live. But her eyes stayed fierce. Focused.

She was becoming something else. She was becoming something new. 

By the time frost dusted the ground at dawn, Livian knew she couldn’t keep going. Not like this.

She stood at the edge of a ridgeline one morning, staring out at a world turning cold and gray. Daryl stood beside her—silent, watchful.

“You gotta get back home,” he said.

She nodded. “I know.”

“That ain’t quittin’,” he added. “You’re choosin’ when to rest.”

She looked at him then—really looked.

“You’re still my angel,” she whispered.

He smiled—small, sad. “I know.”

When she blinked, he was gone.

-

Fall sharpened its teeth.

The forests thinned as Livian pushed farther north, trees standing skeletal and stripped, branches clawing at the sky. Nights grew crueler. Frost glazed the ground by dawn, slick enough to send her sprawling if she moved too fast. Her hands cracked and bled despite the wraps she kept tight around them. Hunger gnawed constantly now — not the dull ache she’d learned to live with, but a sharp, punishing pain that slowed her steps and clouded her thoughts.

She misjudged a climb one morning.

The rock face looked manageable — weathered limestone, shallow holds. She’d climbed worse. But the cold had made the stone brittle, her fingers stiff. Halfway up, her boot slipped.

She fell hard.

The impact knocked the air clean from her lungs. Pain flared white-hot along her ribs and hip as she rolled into a shallow ravine. She lay there gasping, staring up at the pale sky between bare branches, vision swimming.

For a long moment, she didn’t move.

Then she heard it.

A low, wet sound — too slow for wind.

Walkers.

Three of them staggered into view at the ridge line, silhouettes bent and swaying. They’d heard her fall.

Livian forced herself upright, pain screaming in protest. She dragged herself backward, hand closing around her knife. Her bow was still slung over her shoulder, but reaching it felt impossible.

“This is it,” she muttered. “Real smart, Liv.”

The first walker tumbled down the slope, hitting the ground with a bone-cracking thud. The others followed, clumsy and relentless.

She braced herself.

Then—

“Left.”

Daryl’s voice cut sharp through the fog in her head.

She didn’t question it.

Livian rolled just as the walker lunged, its rotted fingers grazing air where her throat had been. She drove the knife up under its jaw, twisting until it went slack. The second one reached her seconds later — slower, heavier. She shoved it back with her boot and scrambled to her feet, pain or no pain, and slammed her blade through its temple.

The third never made it.

An arrow took it clean through the skull.

Livian froze.

Her heart hammered as she scanned the ridge.

Nothing.

No movement. No body. No bowstring hum lingering in the air.

She laughed then — sharp and breathless, half-hysterical.

“You don’t get to save me like that,” she whispered to the trees. “You don’t get to be real when it suits you.”

Daryl didn’t answer.

But she felt him again — close, steady, watching her regain her footing.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

-

The people were worse than the wilderness.

She realized that too late.

It happened two days later, near an abandoned roadside gas station — the kind that looked picked clean years ago but still tempted the desperate. She was checking the back rooms when the door slammed shut behind her.

Three men.

Armed. Dirty. Too confident.

One of them smiled. “Didn’t think anyone else was dumb enough to come out here alone.”

Livian’s pulse slowed.

She lifted her hands slowly, calculating. Two guns. One knife. One crowbar.

“Just passing through,” she said evenly. “Same as you.”

“Yeah?” another man sneered. “Funny thing is, people who say that usually don’t get to keep walking.”

The third man stepped closer.

That was the mistake.

Livian moved fast — faster than they expected. She kicked the crowbar into the man’s knee, felt bone give way, then drove her elbow into his throat as he went down. The gun went off — a wild shot that shattered glass — but she was already behind the second man, wrenching his wrist until he screamed and dropped the weapon.

The first man bolted.

Livian stood there shaking, knife dripping, breath ragged.

She could’ve chased him.

She didn’t.

Instead, she backed away slowly, every instinct screaming enough.

Outside, she vomited behind the building — not from gore, but from the realization that she was losing the line between survival and something darker.

That night, Daryl appeared again.

He sat across from her fire, quiet, elbows on his knees.

“You’re pushin’ too hard,” he said.

She stared into the flames. “I’m not dead.”

“Yet.”

She looked at him then — really looked — and saw not just comfort, but warning.

“You ain’t meant to disappear,” he said softly. “You’re meant to come back.”

Her chest tightened.

“I don’t know how to be there without you,” she admitted.

He held her gaze. “You don’t gotta know yet.”

-

The storm came two nights later.

A brutal thing — sleet driven sideways by screaming wind. Livian barely managed to rig a shelter beneath a fallen tree before it hit. The cold sank into her bones, relentless, unforgiving. She curled in on herself, teeth chattering violently, hands numb despite every layer she owned.

Her fire died.

Her strength followed.

In the long, shuddering hours before dawn, Livian understood something with startling clarity:

If she stayed out here, she wouldn’t die looking for Daryl.

She’d die running from everyone else.

Including herself.

When the storm finally broke, she didn’t hesitate.

She turned south.

Home.

Every step hurt. Every breath burned. But with each mile, the weight in her chest eased — not gone, but bearable.

Daryl didn’t appear again.

And this time, she knew why.

He’d already done what he needed to.

-

Livian returned to Alexandria as winter set into the world. The early snow had begun to fall, the sun vanished quick, and the ice was harsh. 

She walked through the gates thinner, quieter, eyes older than when she left. The guards stiffened when they saw her—then relief rippled through the walls like breath after drowning. 

The gates closed behind Livian with a dull, final clang.

For a moment, she just stood there — dust-streaked, eyes too alert for someone who’d made it home safely. Her pack hung loose on one shoulder, straps frayed, one buckle replaced with wire. She smelled like cold and smoke and old blood.

From the gardens Judith ran to her.

Then, Michonne appeared. There were others too—Rosita, Eugene, Gabriel, Aaron. None of them scolded, none of them lectured.

It was Michonne that came forward after Judith. She reached out and just held Livian like she might vanish again if she didn’t.

Something sharp passed behind Michonne’s eyes — not anger, not relief. Fear, belated and terrible.

“You almost didn’t come back,” Michonne said.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

Livian didn’t deny it. “I didn’t mean to disappear,” she said softly. “I just—kept walking.”

Michonne exhaled slowly through her nose, steadying herself. Her hand slid from Livian’s arm to her shoulder, gripping tight — not to comfort, but to anchor.

“You don’t get to do that,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Livian looked up at her then, eyes rimmed red but dry. “I know.”

Michonne searched her face — the familiar lines, the unfamiliar stillness beneath them. “You didn’t find him,” Michonne said.

“No.”

A pause.

“But you’re not empty either,” Michonne added, quieter now. “Something changed.”

Livian nodded once. “I saw how close it is. The edge. If I’d stayed out there much longer—I don’t think I would’ve known how to come back.”

Michonne pulled her into an embrace then — sudden, fierce, one hand cradling the back of Livian’s head like she was afraid she might vanish again.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Michonne murmured into her hair.

“I know,” Livian whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Michonne leaned back just enough to look her in the eyes. “You don’t do this alone again. Not grief. Not searching. Not surviving.”

Livian nodded. “Okay.”

It was the first promise she made since returning that felt solid.

Later that night, alone in a familiar room, Livian sat by the window and stared out at the dark. For the first time in months, Daryl didn’t appear. And somehow—that hurt, and healed, all at once.

Chapter Text

The cell smelled different now.

There was less rot, stillness. There was more air, openness.

The boards were never replaced — light filtered in through the windows bars in wide pale stripes. Negan noticed everything. He always had. He especially noticed Livian’s absence in recent months. 

He was sitting on his cot when Livian appeared at the top of the steps.

She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t hesitate either.

Her boots stopped one stair above the floor, hands loose at her sides. She looked thinner. Sharper. Like something had been carved away and left edges behind.

Negan’s mouth twitched.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled lightly. “Look at you. Thought maybe you skipped town.”

Livian didn’t respond.

That was when he saw it. The stillness. It wasn’t numb. Nor was it shattered. It was stubbornly set into place.

He straightened slowly, humor draining from his expression like water through a crack. “…Jesus,” Negan muttered. “You went out alone, didn’t you?”

Livian stepped closer to the bars of the window, kneeling down before them. “I had to”

Negan tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he didn’t like the answer to. “You went lookin’ for him.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t find him.”

“No.”

A beat.

“But you found somethin’ else,” he said quietly.

Livian’s jaw tightened.

Negan leaned forward, forearms resting against the wall, voice dropping. “I’ve seen that look. That’s the face of someone who figured out the world won’t save them — and decided they’re done waitin’ for it to try.”

Her eyes flicked to Negan’s own. Livian’s gaze held a sharpness that acted as a silent warning. “Careful,” she said.

He smiled faintly. Not mocking her, it was something sad, almost empathetic. “See?” he said. “Old you would’ve argued with me, you would’ve explained. This version?” He gestured vaguely at her. “She just draws a line.”

Livian’s fingers curled briefly into a fist before she forced them open. “I didn’t come here for your analysis.”

“No,” Negan agreed. “You came because this is where you put the things you don’t wanna hand to the people you love.”

That landed. It hit harder than she anticipated it to. The silence stretched between them — heavy, honest. Finally, Livian spoke. “I almost didn’t make it back.”

Negan’s expression softened — just a fraction. It was enough to be dangerous. “But you did,” he said. “Which means whatever broke out there? It didn’t take you with it.”

She held his gaze. “No.”

Something hardened in his eyes in return — not triumph, not hope. But respect.

“Welcome back, Liv,” Negan said quietly. “The world didn’t eat you after all.”

Livian turned away before he could say anything else. She rose to her feet, and started to ascend the steps back up into the world. 

As she climbed, Negan called after her — softer, no humor left at all. “Whatever changed you out there,” he said, “don’t let it make you cruel. That road don’t end where you think it does.”

Livian didn’t look back. But her hand trembled slightly at her side. Because she knew he was right. And she hated that he could see it.

-

Judith noticed it in the quiet pauses first.

Livian used to linger — at the foot of the stairs, at the edge of the yard, at the doorway of the house. She used to look like she was listening for something only she could hear. A bike engine. The heavy footsteps. A shape moving through trees.

Now she didn’t.

Now Livian moved like someone who knew exactly where she was going — and what it would take to get there.

Judith sat on the steps outside the cell one afternoon, boots dangling, a book open in her lap. She wasn’t really reading. She was watching Livian mend a torn jacket across the yard, needle flashing quick and precise through fabric.

“You’re different,” Judith said suddenly.

Livian looked up, startled. “How so?”

Judith frowned, considering it carefully. She was older now — sharper, too. She didn’t waste words. “You don’t look lost anymore,” she said. “But you don’t look happy either.”

Livian’s breath caught. She set the jacket aside and crossed the yard, lowering herself onto the step beside Judith.

“That’s very observant,” Livian said gently.

Judith shrugged. “I notice things.”

“I know you do.” Livian smiled softly. 

Judith closed her book. “Is it because of Uncle Daryl?”

Livian didn’t answer right away. She stared out toward the wall — toward the trees beyond it — and Judith followed her gaze.

“I used to think,” Livian said slowly, “that if I kept going long enough, I’d find him. That meant I was doing something right. That hope meant movement.”

“And now?” Judith asked.

“And now,” Livian said quietly, “I made it back without him.”

Judith tilted her head. “Isn’t that good?”

Livian smiled — but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

Judith’s voice softened. “Dad didn’t come back either.”

Livian turned fully toward her then.

“But you still grew,” Judith continued. “You still learned how to fight. How to lead. That didn’t mean you forgot him.”

“No,” Livian agreed, throat tight. “It didn’t.”

Judith studied her face — searching for something.

“You’re not waiting anymore,” she said.

Livian closed her eyes briefly. “I’m still hoping. I just can’t live inside the waiting.”

Judith leaned against her side, small shoulder warm and solid. “You don’t have to stop loving him to keep living.”

Livian’s hand trembled slightly as she rested it on Judith’s shoulder. “I wish someone had told me that sooner,” she whispered.

Judith smiled, just a little. “I’m good at timing.”

–

That night, Livian couldn’t sleep.

She lay on her back, staring at the low ceiling of the house, listening to the sounds of Alexandria settling — guards changing shifts, distant voices, the soft hush of wind moving through leaves.

Her body ached in places she didn’t remember injuring. There was old pain. All of these new scars. All of it was proof of her survival.

She’d lived. She’d hunted. She’d fought. She slept alone under the open sky. She’d bled and stitched herself back together. She’d walked for weeks with nothing but instinct and grief for company.

And Daryl hadn’t been there.

The realization pressed down harder than any wound.

She rolled onto her side, pulling her knees in slightly — a habit she hadn’t even realized she’d picked up out there, a way to protect her core while she slept.

Daryl would’ve hated that. He would’ve grumbled. He would’ve told her to stretch out. He would’ve wanted her to take up space.

Her chest tightened.

She imagined him constantly while she was gone — standing watch while she slept, appearing at the edge of the firelight, his voice warning her just before danger struck.

But none of that had been real. She’d saved herself. And that terrified her more than failing ever had.

Because if she could survive without him—what did that say about how long she could go on not knowing? 

Livian pushed herself up and moved to the window. The moonlight spilled across the floor in pale bars.

“I didn’t stop needing you,” she whispered into the dark. “I just learned how to breathe without you standing next to me.”

Her reflection stared back — eyes older now. Harder. Still hopeful, but no longer dependent on miracles. That was the cruelest part.

Daryl had always been her constant — not her savior, but her anchor. Someone who stood beside her when the world made no sense. Now the world still didn’t make sense.

But she was standing alone in that. And tomorrow, she would wake up, and help tend crops, and teach Judith something new, and walk past the cell where Negan watched everything with those knowing eyes.

Tomorrow would happen whether Daryl came back or not. That was the weight she carried now. Not abandonment. Not grief.

But survival.

And the quiet, aching truth that loving someone didn’t guarantee they’d be there to see who you became without them.

-

The days that followed Livian’s return passed in fragments rather than hours. Mornings blurred into afternoons. Faces drifted in and out of focus—familiar, relieved, cautious. Everyone seemed to be watching her, just a little. Measuring how much of her had come back.

Michonne gave her space at first.

Not distance—space.

She walked beside Livian through the streets one day, pointing out small changes like she was easing someone back into a home that had shifted while they were gone. A new watch rotation. A repaired roof. The garden beds extended another row deeper.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Michonne said quietly as they paused near the gate. “You already did.”

Livian nodded, though she wasn’t sure what proof even meant anymore.

Judith, on the other hand, gave her no space at all.

She appeared at Livian’s side like she’d always been there—small hand slipping into hers while Livian helped carry baskets from the fields, or sitting cross-legged beside her on the steps with a book balanced between them.

“You were gone a long time,” Judith said one afternoon, blunt as only a child could be.

“I was,” Livian replied. “I’m sorry.”

Judith considered Livian’s words. “It’s okay, you came back.”

“Yes.”

Judith nodded once, satisfied. “I’m happy you did.”

That night, Judith insisted Livian stay while she practiced reading aloud, stumbling over words and correcting herself with fierce determination. Livian listened like each syllable mattered, like this—this simple thing—was something sacred.

-

Aaron stopped her near the armory a few days later. He looked different. Not wounded anymore, but altered. His prosthetic was made of metal, it was an extension of himself and his strength. Yet he was quieter around the edges.

“I heard you made it back on foot,” he said, offering a faint smile. “That takes grit.”

Livian shrugged lightly. “Or stubbornness.”

Aaron’s smile widened just a little. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

He hesitated, then added, “If you ever want to go out on runs again—once you’re ready—I could use someone who knows how to disappear and come back alive.”

The offer sat between them. Trust. Respect.

“I’ll think about it,” she said honestly.

Rosita caught her sharpening a blade later that same day, movements efficient, practiced. “You didn’t lose your edge,” Rosita observed.

Livian glanced up. “I didn’t have the luxury.”

Rosita leaned against the table. “World doesn’t give that luxury anymore.” She studied Livian’s hands. “You ever need backup—really need it—I’m in.”

It wasn’t said with pity. Or awe.

Just solidarity.

By the time the week was out, the novelty of her return had worn off. Alexandria resumed its rhythm. Crops needed tending. Lessons needed teaching. Watch shifts turned whether hearts were ready or not.

Livian filled her days easily.

It was the nights that undid her.

Which was how she found herself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the world breathe around her—her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind refusing rest.

And that was when the truth settled in fully.

That she had survived without him.

That tomorrow would come regardless.

That loving someone didn’t mean the world would wait for them to return.

And that survival—real survival—meant learning how to carry that weight without breaking beneath it.

Chapter Text

By the time the leaves began to turn, Livian stopped counting the days.

Not because they mattered less—but because counting them had started to feel like a kind of self-punishment. Instead, she measured time in smaller things–how tall the corn grew against the fence line, how steady Judith’s hand had become when she practiced her letters, how the mornings had cooled enough that breath showed faintly in the air.

The ring that bound her to Daryl rested against her chest.

She’d strung it on a leather cord weeks ago—maybe months. She couldn’t remember the exact day she’d taken it off her finger, only the slow, creeping awareness that the band had started to change.

Daryl had made it by hand.

A piece of salvaged metal, filed and smoothed, shaped with care rather than precision. It had never been perfect. That had been part of the point. But time and sweat and movement had worn at it, and the metal had begun to grow brittle. Tiny fractures slivered along the inner edge, invisible unless you knew how to look.

Livian knew.

Every morning, before she stepped outside, she touched it once. Not to reassure herself it was there—but to acknowledge it. Some things stayed with you even when the world moved on. The past would never let her go.

-

She spent the morning in the gardens, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in soil dark enough to stain her palms. Michonne worked beside her in companionable silence, occasionally pointing out what needed reinforcing before winter.

“You’re settling into this,” Michonne said at last. Not a question.

Livian glanced up. “I don’t know if settling is the word.”

Michonne allowed a faint smile. “It’s close enough.”

They worked a while longer before Michonne straightened, resting her hands on her hips. Her gaze drifted toward the walls, toward the world beyond them.

“He’d be proud of you,” she said quietly.

Livian didn’t ask who she meant. She didn’t have to. She knew.

She nodded once. “I hope so.”

Judith found her later that same day, perched on the steps with a book balanced against her knees.

“Can you help me with this one?” she asked, already scooting in closer.

Livian was seated on the steps, shoulder brushing Judith’s as they worked through the page together. When Judith stumbled, Livian waited. When she got it right, Livian smiled like it mattered more than anything else.

Judith’s eyes flicked to the cord around Livian’s neck.

“That’s Uncle Daryl’s ring,” she said matter-of-factly. “The one he gave you.”

Livian’s fingers closed around it instinctively. “Yeah.”

Judith tilted her head. “Is it broken?”

“Not yet.”

Judith considered that. “Things don’t have to be whole to still work.”

Livian swallowed.

“No,” she agreed softly. “They don’t.”

-

That night, Livian was heading out a little early. It was her turn to do the nightly patrol along the walls. When she met the final step, she heard Negan from his cell below. 

From where he stood Negan noticed the necklace, it was glimmering in the lantern light. “New fashion statement?” he drawled, leaning back against the wall.

Livian paused, not bothering to look at the necklace, she knew of what he spoke of. However, she did reach for it, an unconscious movement she made, to silently assure the ring was still there. 

“It’s practical,” she said.

“Uh-huh.” His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. “You look steadier these days. Don’t get me wrong—you still got that haunted-by-ghosts thing goin’ on—but there’s backbone under it now.”

Livian met his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

He grinned. “I’m just sayin’. You didn’t come back empty, Liv. You ain’t hollow no more.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “I like to think he’d be proud of me and this place,” she said quietly. “Maybe I shouldn’t care about that, but I do.”

“Yeah,” Negan’s expression shifted—something real flickering beneath the bravado. “He would’ve been proud,” he said, “And it’s okay to care about that.”

Livian glanced over her shoulder, looking at Negan for a passing moment. Then, a small smile settled on her face, it was rare. One that she didn’t show often these days, but it was something. 

-

The run with Aaron came two days later.

Morning hung low and pale, the kind of cold that settled into the lungs and stayed there. Frost clung to the edges of leaves, crunching softly beneath their boots as they moved through the woods in steady rhythm. No wasted motion. No unnecessary words.

This wasn’t their first run together. It wouldn’t be their last. But it felt different now — like everything did.

Aaron walked beside her, scanning the tree line, rifle loose in his grip. He didn’t speak right away. He waited — not out of hesitation, but respect. He knew better than to force certain questions.

Eventually, when the silence grew heavy instead of companionable, he spoke.

“You ever think he meant to disappear?”

The words were careful. Measured. Not accusatory.

Livian didn’t slow. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her as she stepped over a fallen branch. “Yes,” she said.

The reply wasn’t sharp, nor was it defensive. It was certain.

Aaron nodded once, as if he’d expected that answer.

They exchanged a glance — quick, unspoken, the kind that carried months of shared waiting. Of watching the treeline. Of leaving space where someone should have been.

Aaron adjusted the strap of his pack. “He taught me a lot,” he said after a beat. “Back when I didn’t know if I belonged anywhere. About staying human when it’s easier not to.”

Livian’s fingers curled instinctively beneath her jacket, brushing the ring at her chest. The metal was rougher now, worn thin by time and weather. Handmade things never lasted forever — not without care.

“He taught me how to survive,” she said quietly. Her voice faltered — just slightly. “And how to stay.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at her this time. He didn’t need to. “He’s still teaching us,” he said. “Even while he’s gone.”

Livian swallowed.

They walked on after that, silence reclaiming its place between them — not empty, but full. The kind that carried memory and grief and loyalty all at once.

Leaves crunched beneath their boots. The woods listened. And somewhere, not too far away, the absence of one man shaped everything they didn’t say.

Later that night, long after Livian and Aaron’s return from the outside. She was settled, back in the small comfort of her room. She stood at her window, moonlight catching on the thin cracks in the metal resting against her chest.

The ring was wearing down, but it hadn’t broken. Neither had she.

And somewhere—whether she allowed herself to believe it or not—she still felt the pull of him. Not as a wound, but as a direction.

-

The changes that had taken place didn’t happen all at once. It arrived in small, reasonable decisions—each one justifiable on its own.

There were more guards posted at the gates. There were longer pauses before anyone was allowed in. The runners were sent out less frequently, their routes shortened, and their returns were timed.

Livian noticed because she had learned to watch patterns. She noticed the way Michonne’s shoulders stayed tense even at rest. The way her hand lingered near her sword when strangers spoke too quickly. The way conversations ended sooner than they used to.

It wasn’t fear driving her. It was protection.

“You’re limiting the runs,” Livian said one afternoon as they walked the perimeter together.

Michonne didn’t deny it. “I’m prioritizing them.”

“For how long?”

Michonne stopped, turning to face her. “As long as it takes.”

There was no anger in her voice—only resolve.

Livian nodded slowly. “People are starting to feel it.”

“They’ll adapt.”

“They always do,” Livian agreed. Then softer, “But they’ll feel it first.”

Michonne studied her, something unreadable passing behind her eyes. “So will we.”

The council meetings grew quieter.

It wasn’t because there was less to discuss—but because fewer voices were invited into the room.

Livian found herself watching from the edges more often, consulted but no longer included in the final word. It wasn't an exclusion born of distrust. It was something colder. It was a quiet containment.

She understood it intellectually. She understood the losses Michonne carried. She understood the danger of letting the world bleed back in when it had already taken so much. But understanding didn’t soften the ache.

-

Negan’s freedom came quietly.

No announcement. No debate in the council hall.

Just one morning, Livian saw him beyond the bars.

He stood in the fields under watch—two guards stationed nearby, spears planted in the dirt—his sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands sunk into soil that had not known him before. His movements were slower than she remembered. Deliberate. Not lazy, not defiant. Careful.

He worked like someone who understood that this was not forgiveness.

It was leverage.

Livian stopped at the fence line, basket hooked at her hip, the scent of earth and greens heavy in the air.

Negan noticed her almost immediately.

“Damn,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “They let me have sunlight and pick vegetables. I guess I finally earned my parole, huh?”

She didn’t smile. “You’re still under guard.”

“Yeah,” he agreed easily. “But I ain’t behind bars.”

He glanced toward the wall—high, reinforced, watched.

“Funny thing,” he added, quieter. “The world feels smaller out here than it did in that cell.”

Livian could understand what he meant. Especially after all of the changes that had taken shape as of late.

It was that same day that Livian approached Michonne. 

Michonne watched everything. Whether it was from the wall, the edge of the fields, or behind the choices she made and didn’t explain.

“This is controlled,” Michonne said when Livian asked about Negan’s new freedoms. “Supervised labor. Daylight hours only. No contact beyond what’s necessary.”

“And if people start talking?” Livian asked.

“They already are.”

Michonne didn’t look away.

“He’s not free,” she continued. “He’s useful.”

Livian nodded, but the word scraped something raw.

-

Judith lingered near the edge of the field more often than she should have. She never crossed the line. She never wandered too close.

She stood with her hands folded behind her back, small boots planted in the dirt, watching.

Livian noticed it every time.

Negan had adjusted faster than anyone expected.

He rose when the bell rang. He worked until his hands were raw. He followed rules without argument, accepted boundaries without complaint. He didn’t smile much out here — not the way he used to behind the bars — but he didn’t scowl either. He kept his head down. He stayed visible.

“He looks different,” Judith said one afternoon, tugging lightly at Livian’s sleeve.

Livian glanced down. “How?”

Judith thought about it, brow furrowed in careful consideration. “He looks smaller.”

Livian’s throat tightened.

Not weaker. Not harmless. Only smaller.

“The world is a bit bigger out here,” Livian said quietly. Children always named truths without meaning to. “Come on. I’m sure your mom’s looking for you.”

Judith nodded and took off at an easy run, heading toward the bridge where her sword lessons often took place. Livian watched her go — watched the way her stride had grown confident, the way her posture carried certainty well beyond her years.

Her hair had darkened over time, losing the sunlit gold it once held. There were moments now where Livian saw Lori in her profile. And then there were the eyes — sharp, restless, observant.

Shane’s eyes.

Livian followed more slowly.

Negan noticed.

“You notice how quiet this place is now?” he said as she passed him, voice pitched low, careful not to draw attention. He didn’t look at her at first. Just worked the soil, methodically. “Used to be noise meant life.”

She didn’t answer.

“Now it’s rules,” he continued. “Walls. Lines you don’t cross.”

Livian stopped.

“Michonne’s buildin’ herself a fortress,” Negan went on, finally lifting his gaze. “Problem is—fortresses don’t just keep danger out. They make prisoners outta everybody inside.”

Livian straightened, the weight of his words hitting harder than she wanted them to. “Careful,” she said.

Negan’s mouth twitched — not a smile. Not quite. “Always,” he replied lightly. “That’s how I’m still breathin’.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment, the field felt too open. Too exposed.

Then Livian turned away. She walked on, Judith’s small figure waiting ahead, but Negan’s words stayed with her longer than she liked.

The quiet.

The walls.

The way safety had begun to feel like something else entirely.

Behind her, Alexandria carried on — orderly, controlled, contained. And somewhere beyond its borders, the world was shifting again.

Chapter Text

It had been six years since Daryl Dixon vanished.

Alexandria had learned how to count time differently after that — not by calendars or seasons, but by absences.

Livian stood on the eastern wall at dawn, breath steady in the cool morning air, fingers curled around the worn chain at her throat. The ring rested there, brittle now, its edges dulled by years of weather and worry. Daryl had shaped it by hand — bent the metal until it fit her finger like it had always belonged there. His absence had worn it thin. Time had done the rest.

It tapped softly against her chest every time she moved.

Six years of leaving supplies in the woods.

Six years of false signs.

Six years of waking half-expecting to hear the familiar sound of a crossbow being slung over a shoulder behind her.

Six years of nothing.

Well — not nothing. There were still people. Family, friends. The communities that had survived together when the world fell apart. Life had continued, whether she’d been ready for it or not.

Below her, Alexandria stirred into motion — silent, disciplined, watchful. Guards rotated without chatter. Gates opened only long enough to admit the day’s runners. Children trained before they played. The place had become something else entirely.

Safe. Closed. Hardened.

It was Michonne’s world now. And Livian understood why.

-

She was sorting seed stores in the lower granary when the tension hit — the kind that rippled through the air before sound caught up.

At first, it felt like any other afternoon. The sun drifted toward the horizon. People worked. Children played after lessons. Everything followed its careful rhythm.

Except Judith.

The horn sounded sharp and brief — a search call, muted so it wouldn’t draw walkers.

Livian froze, then abandoned the sacks at her feet as people began gathering near the gates.

“Livian,” Rosita said, already moving. “We can use your help. It’s Judith. We can’t find her.”

“I’m coming,” Livian replied immediately. “Where was she last seen?”

Aaron’s voice carried across the yard, controlled but tight. “West drainage line. She knows the rules. She knows better.”

That was the problem.

Judith Grimes didn’t break rules by accident.

“Michonne’s outside the walls today,” Livian said as they moved. “Judith probably saw an opening.”

The gates opened just long enough to let them spill into the woods — Rosita, Aaron, Eugene, and Livian taking the main road before cutting west. The tracks appeared quickly.

Judith’s boots were small, but deliberate. Purposeful. She wasn’t lost. She was following something. Or someone.

They called out as they went, voices echoing through the trees. Time stretched thin. The afternoon wore on. In a clearing, Eugene took down a buck cleanly — a small victory that did nothing to settle Livian’s growing unease.

They needed to find Judith.

The sun was already slipping lower.

“Judith!” Livian called again.

“Jude!” Aaron echoed.

The forest swallowed their voices.

Fear crept in — quiet and unwelcome — stirring memories Livian didn’t want to touch. Another child lost once. Another search that hadn’t ended the way it should have.

This was different, she told herself.

Judith had been raised by fighters. She was one too.

They heard her before they saw her — hurried footfalls, then a small, breathless voice.

“I’m here!”

Livian didn’t hesitate. She ran, dropping to her knees in front of Judith the moment she came into view. The girl’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

“Are you okay?” Livian asked, cupping her face, checking for blood or injury.

“I’m okay,” Judith nodded.

She stood there with her father’s gun slung at her side, the sheriff’s hat far too big for her head.

And then —

Movement in the trees.

Livian’s breath caught as five figures stumbled into view, weapons raised but unsteady, eyes wild with exhaustion and fear.

“It’s okay,” Judith said quickly as Livian pulled her close. “I heard them calling out.”

Rosita, Aaron, and Eugene shifted instinctively, weapons ready. But the group in front of them didn’t look prepared for a fight. Not even close.

They looked half-starved. Bruised. Human in a way that hurts to see.

The man at the front bent forward, gasping for breath. “Our rig — it got overrun by sickos,” he said, gesturing weakly toward Judith. “We owe our lives to Miss Grimes here.”

Judith took the canteen from Livian’s belt and stepped forward without hesitation. “They still need help.”

A woman with a head wound grabbed the water, choking on it as she drank.

“Judith,” Rosita warned softly. “We can’t.”

Judith started to argue — then stopped when Livian shot her a look.

“Think,” Livian said quietly, firm but gentle. “Think about what the others will say. Think about your mom.”

One of the women spoke then, dirty-blonde hair tangled and eyes sharp despite exhaustion. “There’s more of you?”

“There’s walls, and—” Judith began.

“Judith,” Livian warned again.

A branch snapped. Three walkers stumbled from the brush. Eugene dropped the deer and charged forward, dispatching them quickly before returning, breath heavy.

“There’s more coming,” he said, scanning the field beyond the trees.

“We need to move,” Rosita urged.

Judith turned up to Livian, eyes bright with defiance. “They need food. Water. Medicine.” She shook her head. “If they don’t go — I don’t go.”

Livian huffed a soft breath, a small, helpless smile tugging at her lips. Those eyes, those freckles-God, she looked like Carl.

Livian met Rosita’s gaze. Then Aaron’s. They all knew how this would end.

When they turned back toward Alexandria, strangers in tow, Livian felt the weight of it settle in her chest. Every wall existed for a reason. But sometimes, letting people in was the only way the world stayed human.

-

The gates of Alexandria loomed ahead, steel and wood catching the last light of the afternoon. The guards atop the walls had already spotted them — the unfamiliar shapes among the familiar ones — and the murmur began before the horn sounded.

Livian felt it ripple outward, the tightening unease.

“Visitors,” someone called down from the tower. Not hostile — but wary.

The gates opened slowly, deliberately. Just wide enough.

Livian walked at Judith’s side as they entered, keeping her body subtly angled between the girl and the strangers behind them. The newcomers hesitated at the threshold, eyes flicking up to the walls, the guards, the order of it all. Relief and fear tangled together in their expressions.

Inside, Alexandria had paused.

The people stopped mid-task. All conversations died on tongues. The children were ushered closer to their parents. All hands hovered near weapons without quite reaching for them.

Livian felt the weight of every stare.

Rosita took point, her voice steady as she addressed the nearest guards. “We found them outside the west drainage line. They were in trouble. There’s another one in the wagon, she has a head injury.”

That wasn’t the whole truth — and everyone knew it.

Judith leaned closer to Livian as they walked, her small fingers catching the edge of Livian’s sleeve. Not clinging — just anchoring.

“You’re not in trouble,” Livian murmured quietly, not looking down yet. “Don’t let anyone make you think that.”

Judith nodded, eyes forward beneath the brim of her hat. “I know.”

They passed the square, the armory, the rows of houses — order on full display. The strangers looked overwhelmed, heads turning in sharp, disbelieving motions.

One of them whispered, “It’s real…”

Livian finally glanced down at Judith. “You did good out there,” she said softly. “But next time, you tell someone first.”

Judith’s mouth twitched. “You would’ve come anyway.”

Livian didn’t deny it. “We’ll always come looking. But I’d like to know where I’m running to.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Judith’s face.

Then, from the opened gates on a horse was Michonne, galloping in with a look of weariness on her face. There was a crowd gathered around a group of strangers, outsiders. 

Once she climbed down, she approached, her stride sharp and purposeful. Her gaze landed on Judith first — relief flashing through her features so quickly it almost went unnoticed — then hardened as it swept over the strangers.

Her jaw tightened. “Would anyone like to tell me what this is?”

Judith felt it immediately.

Livian felt Judith stiffen beside her.

“There’s five unknowns–all clean, one head to the infirmary, she’s unconscious.” A guard explained.

“And why are they here?”

“That was my call.” Aaron said.

“It’s not your call to make.” Michonne replied.  

The courtyard went still.

Then, Judith stepped out of reach of Livian, glancing back for a fleeting moment. “I decided.” She looked around, along the line of strangers. “They needed our help.”

Michonne studied her daughter for a long moment — really looked at her — then turned her attention to Livian. There was a question there, not an accusation. Only assessment.

“Judith, you know the rules.” Michonne stepped forward, peering down at her with a motherly protection behind her eyes. Then, they hardened as she looked around to the others. “You all do.”

Livian met her gaze evenly. “They would’ve died out there,” she said. “Judith didn’t make a mistake.”

Michonne exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. “We’ll see.”

Gabriel stepped forth, through the crowd, a member of the council along with Aaron and some others. “It will be dark soon. One is too injured to send away. Let us think about it, and we can bring them all before the council first thing tomorrow.” 

Michonne looked skeptically at the group, her eyes most intently falling on a woman with tattoos across her arms, and one distinctly on her chest. “Okay. Let’s put them in holding.” She stepped closer to Judith, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Come on.”

As Judith started to move, Livian felt her hesitate — just a fraction. Livian leaned down, voice low enough that only Judith could hear. “You don’t have to carry this alone,” she said. “Whatever happens next — that part’s on the adults.”

Judith nodded, eyes bright but steady. “Okay.”

As they walked away, Livian glanced back once.

The newcomers stood clustered together under watchful eyes — caught between sanctuary and scrutiny. Then, they were taken with the guards along the road to the holding house. 

Alexandria had opened its gates. But it hadn’t opened its arms, not yet. And Livian knew — as surely as she felt the ring at her chest — that this moment would echo.

Not just for the strangers, but for the world Alexandria was becoming.

-

The meeting was called before nightfall.

Word moved quickly through Alexandria — not shouted, not announced, just carried from mouth to mouth like a warning. People gathered in the main hall in careful clusters, voices low, eyes sharp with curiosity and unease.

Livian slipped in near the back, choosing a spot along the wall where she could see without being seen.

The strangers stood at the center of the room, cleaned up as best as circumstance allowed. Fresh bandages wrapped injuries. Water had steadied shaking hands. But exhaustion still clung to them — the kind that settled deep in the bones.

Michonne was seated with the council. Beside her were Garbriel, Laura, Aaron and Siddiq. The council members — faces familiar, expressions guarded.

Judith was seated in the far back. That was intentional. 

Michonne folded her arms. “You were found outside our walls,” she said evenly. “You were armed. You followed one of our own. Before we decide anything else, we need to know who you are.”

Silence held for a beat.

Then, Luke stepped forward.

He was a heavier guy, but not out of shape, his shoulders sloped with a weariness that wasn’t just physical. He cleared his throat once before speaking. “I’m Luke. I used to be a music teacher. Back when that was still a thing.”

A few people shifted. Not in mockery — in memory. Then, it went on down the line. 

“My name is Magna-I used to wait tables at a truck stop.” Her voice held a firm edge, it was gritty. 

Next, it was Connie, she looked to the faces of the council, turning to Kelly for help. Kelly signed silently to her, and a look of understanding came across Connie’s face. 

As she signed, it was Kelly that translated for her. “She says she was a journalist,” Kelly shook her head, signing to her sister, “but she’s just being modest. She exposed a bunch of sleazeball politicians and had them put behind bars.”

Livian watched as Connie squeezed Kelly’s hand without looking at her. The motion was instinctive. Protective.

“What about you?” Aaron asked, a quiet admiration behind his eyes.

Kelly stepped forward next, chin lifted. “I was in high school,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands betrayed her, fingers flexing at her sides. “I was stressin’ about stupid shit that felt like the end of the world.”

Livian felt that land. She recalled those times in her own youth.

Gabriel asked, “And who are you all now?” 

Magna spoke first, “A fighter.” 

Connie looked at Kelly, then signed. Kelly smiled, “She says she’s my guardian angel, but I think it’s the other way around.

Livian reached for her necklace, grasping the ring. In her mind she could see wings. Daryl’s wings. It was fleeting, but it was impactful in ways she couldn’t deny.

Luke hummed in thought, “I guess I’m still a music teacher. Education never ends., not even in the face of monsters and mayhem.”

“What did you do to survive?” Gabriel asked. 

“We look out for our own,” Kelly said. “My sister says she never gave up, and I just grew up.”

Magna looked along the line, at her friends, “We did what we had to–anything we had to. We don’t steal. We don’t hurt people who don’t come for us first. But we don’t kneel, either.”

A ripple moved through the room at that.

Livian shifted her weight, eyes moving across the faces in the crowd. Some bristled. Others listened harder.

“And what about you?” Aaron asked, looking at Luke. 

“I don't know what I did to deserve this.” He smiled warmly, looking along the line of familiar faces. There were silent tears in his eyes. “At first I was just lucky. I was in the right place at the right time, I met the right people.”

Luke chuckled, and shook his head, shifting on his feet, "It's funny, but, before all this, if you saw us all sittin’ at the same table at like a restaurant or bar, you’d just think we work together.”  He looked away, and wiped his eyes, “Because we certainly don’t have anything in common except for the fact that we’re breathing. That’s a lot nowadays, right?”

The room felt lighter now. The words rang true for everyone in the room. Livian thought of the early days. She thought about the fact that she had made it this far because of a found family. It was special, and rare. 

“Thank you.” Aaron smiled easily, nodding, “If that’s everything, I’d like to motion for a vote.” 

Michonne was silent for a long moment. Her eyes moved between each of them — measuring, weighing, remembering. 

“I have a question.” she said finally, then rose to her feet. “As a community, we want to be kind. We want to be generous. We want to be charitable. But, as we know, decisions like the one we are about to make can come with a heavy price.”

Michonne walked around the council table, her strides long and purposeful. She stopped before Magna. Magna didn’t flinch. “Can you show me your left hand?” 

Michonne watched carefully, Magna raised her left hand, then she looked over it, showing the room. “Did you get this tattoo at a truck stop?”

Magna clenched her jaw, looking away fleetingly. “Screw you.” 

Michonne shook her head, “It’s a prison tattoo.” She raised Magna’s hand, showing it to the room. “The four dots are the walls. The one in the middle is the prisoner.”

The room fell into quiet murmurs. There was tension, hesitation, doubt.

Livian glanced down at her hands, the faint outline of dirt still beneath her nails from the day’s work. She thought of the years behind the walls of Alexandria. The years without Daryl. The way safety could harden into something brittle.

Michonne’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, she turned slightly, eyes sweeping the room — the crowd. “You want to start telling the truth-you should start by putting that knife on the table.”

Magna looked at Michonne intensely, then without hesitation she started to remove her belt, then from the buckle revealed a small blade. 

Michonne peered around the room again, her eyes sweeping intensely.

Livian felt her gaze pass over her.

She wasn’t asking, nor was she accusing.

Just taking stock.

“Go ahead, Take your votes,” Michonne said at last. “I second the motion.”

The meeting broke slowly.

Voices resumed in hushed tones. Opinions formed in glances and half-whispered sentences.

Livian remained where she was for a moment longer, watching as Magna’s group was escorted out. As they passed, Connie’s eyes flicked toward her — curious, observant.

Livian met the look and nodded once. It wasn’t a welcome. It was an acknowledgment. And as the doors closed behind them, Livian knew this wasn’t just about five survivors. It was about what Alexandria was willing to become — and what it might lose in the process.