〰

A loud voice shattered the stillness, reverberating through the corridors. "Open the door! It's Hershel!" Rick's urgent call sliced through the quiet like a knife.

Elodie's heart pounded in her chest. She spun towards the door just as Carl sprang to action, rushing to open it. The metal door screeched as it swung wide, revealing Rick, Maggie, Glenn, and T-Dog wheeling Hershel in on a table with wheels.

But it was the sight of his leg, or rather the lack thereof, that made her heart skip a beat. Blood poured from the severed limb, cascading onto the floor in dark, ominous streams, staining everything it touched.

"Daddy!" Beth screamed, clinging to Carol, who was holding her back to give Rick space to maneuver Hershel into the cell block.

"Get him on the bed!" Rick ordered once they had Hershel inside a cell. "He got bit."

Elodie stood frozen, her breaths coming quick and shallow. She wanted to scream, to cry out in horror, but no sound escaped her lips. She wanted to do something—anything—to help, but all she could do was linger by the door and pull the skin on her fingers.

"Oh my God, he's gonna turn," Beth panicked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Did you cut it off?" Lori asked frantically.

"Yeah," Rick confirmed.

"Maybe you got it in time."

Elodie stared, wide-eyed, as they heaved Hershel onto the lower bunk bed. His face was twisted in agony, his skin pallid and clammy. The mattress beneath him soaked up the pooling blood, turning a deep, menacing red. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the musty prison air, making Elodie's stomach churn with dread.

Beth's desperate cry for her father, coupled with the urgent commands from Rick and the panicked voices of the others, sent a shiver down her spine. It was getting too much. She couldn't pick up what anyone was saying, all she could hear was yells melting right into the other.

She watched Carol swiftly remove Hershel's pant leg, revealing the raw wound where his leg had been amputated. "Oh, oh, I need bandages," Carol exclaimed urgently, her voice tinged with worry.

"Carl, Elodie, go get the towels from the back, right next to my bed," Lori instructed the two kids.

Elodie snapped out of her daze. Automatically, her legs carried her after Carl through the narrow prison corridors. The adrenaline surging through her veins drowned out the usual ambient sounds, leaving only the pounding of her heart.

Just do what Lori told you to do.

They reached Lori's cell, and Carl hastily grabbed a stack of towels from beside the bed. He thrust them into Elodie's arms, and she clutched them tightly, trying to steady her trembling hands.

Rushing back through the dimly lit corridors, Elodie and Carl's footsteps echoed against the cold walls. The towels felt heavy in her grip, each step towards Hershel's cell intensifying the dread gnawing at her insides.

Was he going to die? What if he turned? No person could survive that amount of blood loss, right?

Inside, the scene was tense. Carol's voice rang out urgently, "No, the shock could kill him. It's not gonna stop the arteries from bleeding. We need to just keep it dressed and let it heal on its own."

The towels were thin and worn, but they were all they had. Elodie handed them to Carol, who immediately began wrapping them tightly around Hershel's leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The towels quickly darkened as they absorbed more of the crimson fluid.

Lori checked Hershel's pulse, and Elodie felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her aside. She glanced up to find Maggie holding her close, though Maggie's eyes were fixed on her father.

Stay out of their way, is what Maggie was silently telling her by pulling her aside. Elodie knew that.

As Carol worked swiftly to stabilize Hershel, the tense atmosphere inside the cell was suddenly pierced by the sound of yelled voices coming from just outside the cell block. Beth's eyes widened in fear as she looked towards the noise.

"What is that?" Beth's voice trembled with anxiety.

Rick, his expression grim but determined, turned his gaze towards the door. "Prisoners. Survivors," he answered calmly, though his eyes betrayed a hint of caution.

Glenn's eyes widened in shock. "What—?"

"It's alright. Everybody stay put," he reassured them before striding off towards the direction of the yelling.

A sudden realization hit Elodie—Daryl was missing. Where was he? Was he safe?

Where's Daryl?

Panic clawed at her insides, twisting her stomach into knots. She tried to push the panic down, but it only climbed its way up her throat.

She quickly trailed after Rick as he hurried towards the commotion outside the cell block, her small steps quickening to match his determined stride. The clamor of voices outside grew louder as they approached.

"Rick," she called out softly, trying to catch his attention amidst the urgency. "Where's Daryl?"

Rick paused at the door, his hand resting on the latch. He turned to glance at Elodie, his eyes softening momentarily. "He's just outside, making sure they don't cause any trouble," Rick said, nodding towards the door. "You stay here, alright? Daryl's out there. I need to get over there, calm things down, and figure out what the prisoners want."

"But—"

"He's right there," Rick said quickly, ruffling her hair reassuringly. "I know all the voices are meltin' together for you right now, but trust me—Daryl's right there. He's just outside. That's why I have to get over there, okay? I need to handle this. Stay put, and we'll sort it out."

Elodie nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on the door through which Rick had just vanished, with Carl locking it securely behind him. She pressed against the bars, her heart racing as she peered through the gaps.

Outside, through the gaps in the bars, she saw three figures—prisoners by their worn clothes and wary stances—arguing with Daryl. One guy with black hair that narrowly brushed his shoulder had his gun aimed at Daryl, the sight sending a chill down Elodie's spine.

The arguing grew silent as Rick approached. One of the men, sporting a wild, ginger-colored mustache, caught sight of Elodie watching through the bars. His gaze flickered with curiosity, causing Elodie to shrink back instinctively, her pulse quickening.

Daryl's demeanor hardened immediately. His jaw clenched, and he took a step forward, gripping his crossbow with a tight, white-knuckled hold. "Keep your eyes to yourself," he growled, his voice a dangerous rasp that made the man recoil.

Rick, sensing the rising hostility, placed a calming hand on Daryl's shoulder. "Easy," he murmured, his tone both firm and soothing.

his eyes flicked to Carl, and he gave a subtle gesture for him to step away from the door. Reluctantly, Carl nodded and gently guided Elodie away from the bars, leading her back towards the relative safety of the cell block, away from the prying eyes of the prisoners.

〰

Elodie sat in the middle of the stairs, the circle indents pressing uncomfortably into her legs, but she didn't move. She couldn't. Her mind was racing with everything that had happened. Hershel had stopped breathing, and for a few terrible moments, everyone thought they had lost him. Elodie had watched, wide-eyed, as Lori performed CPR. Each desperate push and breath felt endless until, at last, Hershel's chest rose on its own. Relief had washed over the room, but the tension still clung heavily in the air.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin on them, lost in her thoughts. Despite them having been here for two days now, the prison still smelled musty and dead. In some spots, you could even catch a whiff of the lingering smell of blood. It felt like the walls themselves held onto the pain and fear that had been experienced here.

The prison was supposed to be safe, but it didn't feel like it. Blood marred the walls, bodies lay strewn in every direction, the groans of walkers echoed through the halls, and the presence of the prisoners was always there, and no one knew if they were good people or not.

But how could you define 'good' nowadays? The world had changed so drastically that the lines between right and wrong, good and bad, had blurred. The term used to seem so simple, so black and white. Now, it felt like an ill-defined smudge of gray.

Not killing people seemed like it should be a good place to start. But even that wasn't so clear-cut. Rick had killed people, but he had always done it to protect them, to keep the group safe. He was good, wasn't he?

But what about Shane? Shane had killed people too, and he had been dangerous and selfish, making him bad in a way that made her skin crawl.

Elodie then thought about Ed. He never hurt anyone in the way that Shane did, but he had been cruel to Carol and to Sophia. He hadn't killed anyone, but he was definitely not good. His actions had left scars that were not so easily healed. So if being good wasn't just about not killing people, then what was it?

Was good just about intentions or actions? Was it about who you were or what you did?

Did it even matter in a world that had turned upside down?

Had it ever mattered?

Was she good? She hadn't ever killed anyone—only a very few amount of walkers. She tried not to be mean to others, but sometimes she failed to bite her tongue. She had been mean to Jamie a bunch of times, just like he was mean to her. Could that be ticked off on the list of things bad people do? She didn't know. She didn't know, she didn't know.

She blinked herself out of her thoughts when Daryl's boots appeared in her line of sight as he settled on the step just below her, leaning comfortably against the railing.  His mouth moved, and that's when Elodie realized she'd turned her hearing aids off.

"Wait," she signed, and quickly flicked them back on. She tapped her nail on the stairs, and when the faint noise reached her ears, she nodded in satisfaction. "Okay."

Daryl's lips curved into a small, amused grin at the way she had wiggled her fingers to sign 'wait'. It was good she had just signed to him instead of talking, because that was how she was supposed to practice. All throughout the last seven months, when it was safe, Elodie would take out her hearing aids and talk to people using sign language. It was a way for all of them to practice. It was both for her own benefit and for situations where silent communication was necessary.

He didn't comment on it now, though, as he noticed the worry etched on her face and the familiar habit of picking at her fingers. Despite his attempts to help her break this habit—giving her a hair-tie and a wooden bead bracelet—she still preferred to damage her little fingers in the end.

"Ya doin' alright?" Daryl asked, his arm resting on the step beside her, brushing against her shoe.

Elodie nodded slowly, not trusting herself to say much. "Yes, I think so."

Daryl's eyes searched hers, making sure she meant it. He wasn't sure. "Hershel's gonna be alright," he said, answering the question she hadn't yet asked, but was clearly on her mind, evident from the way her eyes constantly darted toward Hershel's cell. "Tough old man ain't goin' down that easy."

"Yeah." A small smile broke through Elodie's worried expression, accompanied by a soft snicker. Daryl glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Where are the prisoners?" she asked.

Daryl shifted, his demeanor becoming more guarded. "They're in their own cell block," he answered tersely. "Deal is, they stay there, we stay here. No trouble."

Elodie frowned slightly. "Are they good people?"

"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "We gotta keep an eye on 'em. Can't trust 'em, not yet. Best we keep our distance, yeah?"

"They gave us food, didn't they? Isn't that one point for good?"

"Point?" Daryl repeated, confusion crossing his face.

Red coloured Elodie's neck, and she shrugged. For some reason, she fet embarrassed when people didn't understand her sometimes, like now.

"I mean, like, if we had a list a'things that made someone good or bad," she explained slowly, trying to find the right words. "Givin' us food would be a good thing, right? So, one point for bein' good."

Daryl studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Look, folks do what they can to survive, and sometimes that means doin' things that don't exactly fit into a neat little box of 'good' or 'bad.' Those prisoners might've given us food, sure, but it don't mean they're angels. People can do nice things and still be dangerous."

Elodie nodded, her gaze still fixed on her lap. "Yeah. I was thinkin' 'bout that, too."

"And they didn't exactly give us food for free. We made a deal with 'em," he added. "Ya get me?"

"Yeah."

Daryl tapped her shoe lightly with the toe of his boot, catching her attention. Elodie looked up, meeting his intense gaze.

"Listen," he said, his tone serious. "Stay away from 'em. Don't talk to 'em, don't even look at 'em. They're in their own cell block for a reason. Ya keep your distance."

Elodie's brow furrowed. "But one of them looked at me earlier. I didn't—"

Daryl's expression hardened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Yeah, and he ain't supposed to do that either," he said, his tone a bit sharper than usual. "And ya were peekin'."

"No, I wasn't—"

"Don't matter if ya were or weren't. It's dangerous to get too curious about them. Ya gotta keep your distance, Elodie. It's not just about bein' polite or friendly. It's about stayin' safe."

Elodie's eyes dropped to the worn step beneath her as Daryl's words settled in. She nodded quickly, a little scared of how he was looking at her. She didn't want to upset him. Daryl had always been a bit rough around the edges, but he was one of the few who showed her care in this broken world. The last thing she wanted was for him to be mad at her or ignore her.

"Okay," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I won't get close to 'em. I'll stay away."

Her fingers traced imaginary patterns on her knees. They were tattered and stained from the countless scrapes and tumbles she'd endured. The knees were blown out, threads hanging like spider silk, and there were patches of dried mud and blood that refused to wash out.Daryl noticed her fiddling and gave hera once-over, his keen eyes taking in the sorry state of her clothes. He let out a low, thoughtful grunt.

"Those jeans are about done for," he commented, leaning back against the railing. "We should find ya some new ones."

Elodie glanced down at her jeans, a small frown creasing her forehead. "D'ya think there's any in the prison?"

"Doubt it." He shook his head. "Place was a men's prison. Ain't got much for little legs like yours."

Her lips curled into a small pout, and she picked at a loose thread, only to let it go when she remembered what Carol had told her back in Atlanta—don't pull the threads, or you'll ruin your clothes.

"So, where then? Can we find some in 'nother place?"

 "Yeah, we'll have to go on a run soon. Find a place that ain't been picked clean. Gotta get you some new jeans and—" He paused, glancing at her hearing aids. "You're runnin' outta batteries, right?"

"Yeah," she said quietly, resorting to picking at a small, old wound on her thumb so she wouldn't fiddle with the thread. "I think I got three. If I'm careful, I can go two months with 'em, maybe."

A shroud of unease fell over her features as she looked down, her lips pressed tightly together. She didn't want to run out of batteries. She didn't want to be without her hearing by force again. The freedom to control her hearing was a luxury she cherished, one that could be snatched away if they didn't find replacements soon.

"We'll find those too," he promised, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Ain't gonna let you go without 'em."

As if on automatic, Daryl stood up and gently stroked the top of her head, his rough fingers brushing through her hair. It was a small, almost hesitant gesture, but it was comforting. It felt like something instinctive, something he didn't even think about. His hand lingered there for a second, and then he pulled away, nodding at her and walking down the steps.

〰

"Carl?" Elodie stood by the barred door of his cell, peering through the narrow opening. He glanced up from where he sat on his bed, tossing a small ball into the air. Her brow furrowed in curiosity. "Where'd ya get that?"

Carl straightened at the sound of her voice, his face lighting up with a faint smile. "Infirmary," he replied nonchalantly. Elodie's brow furrowed deeper; she had almost forgotten about his visit there, along with the image of Lori's displeased expression. Carl set the ball aside on his bed and looked at her with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes?"

"Good. Come here, I got something for you."

Elodie tilted her head, eyebrows arched with intrigue. She opened the cell door and walked inside, her gaze fixed on Carl as he reached for something tucked beneath his bed. Carl pulled out a necklace with a strong-looking chain and a pendant that caught the dim light. The pendant was looping in a shape she didn't recognize. It looked like a twisted figure eight.

Carl extended it toward her with a shy grin. "It's for you. Your birthday present—late birthday present."

Elodie's eyes widened as she looked at the necklace Carl was holding out to her. "For me?" Her voice was a breathy whisper as she hesitantly reached out, her fingers grazing the cool metal. "What's this twirly thing?"

"That's an infinity symbol," Carl explained, his smile growing wider. "It means forever. Like, you know, forever and ever. It's like saying we'll always be friends. Forever, right?"

She looked up from the necklace to meet Carl's gaze, a smile spreading across her face. "Forever? Really?"

"Yeah," Carl affirmed with a nod.

Clutching the necklace tightly, Elodie's grin grew.. She couldn't remember the last time someone had given her something so meaningful. The idea of forever was comforting, like the warm sun on a cold day.

A smile spread across Elodie's face. "Thank you."

"Some girls at my school used to call each other their 'BFF.'" He wrinkled his nose slightly. "They'd say it all the time, but I thought it was kinda weird."

"What's it mean?" Elodie asked, still admiring the necklace with a curious tilt of her head. She would need to ask Daryl for help putting it on later; she had no idea how.

"Best friends forever, is what it means," he said, shaking his head.

Elodie's face lit up with a playful grin. "That sounds just like us. Can I call ya my BFF?"

Carl looked at her with exaggerated horror, a mock frown on his face. "Oh no, not that. I might have to take this necklace back if you're gonna call me that." He reached out as if to snatch it away, but Elodie quickly swatted his hand away and scooted further from him.

"No, that's mean!" She pouted, curling her hand into a fist with the necklace safely hiddin within. "I like it."

"Well, yeah, 'cause you're a girl."

Elodie gave him a sidelong glance. "You're just sayin' that 'cause ya don't wanna be called someone's BFF."

Carl rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "Maybe," he admitted. "You really like it?"

"Yes." She opened her fist, confident that Carl wouldn't try to take it back, even as a joke. "I'll wear it forever, like ya said."

"Good," Carl said, glancing around the small cell. "I was worried you might think it was lame or something."

Elodie shook her head, her curls hitting her in the face. "No way. It's the best present ever."

She swallowed, feeling a lump form in her throat. She wasn't sure how to explain to him just how much this simple gift meant to her. It wasn't just that Carl had given her a present—it was the thought behind it, the "forever" he'd promised. Elodie had never really gotten a cool present like this before. Most of her birthday gifts had been practical, hand-me-downs, or things she didn't really care for.

"I'm gonna find Daryl or Maggie and ask 'em to help me put it on," she said, standing up with a wide, genuine smile. She glanced back at Carl. "Thank you, BFF."

Carl groaned dramatically, throwing himself back onto his bed.

AUTHOR NOTE:

not proofread, so if you spot any mistakes pls don't hesitate to point them out!! just had to publish something rq, so i might come back and fix some things laterrrr

(meaning i don't really like this chapter BUT OKKK!!!!)

love u mwah!!!