It's never clean, living wasn't, and why should coming back from seeming death be any neater? She curls into Sasha's leg, jerking against Daryl's hand where it's on her shoulder. Spasms that are feverishly warm, sounds that are whimpers of distress in her effort of keeping quiet. Her eyes shut tightly and clinging so tightly to them both. Loose and jerking in turns, feels the warm splash of tears on her face that falls as gentle as rain and another time, perhaps, she'd offer consolation, kindness to ease them all through this. Vulnerable as it is.
Most of those times, however, those wounds aren't the difference between life and death. Aren't so messy. Most of the time, she isn't rendered so useless, the wounds that she can feel, muscles reforming around the bone, the veins spluttering like old pipelines into use, the tendons that hold it together, then the skin that centimetre by centimetre seals itself over the area. The sickening way a tooth is there, being pushed back up through her skin, where it had ripped out of the Walker's rotten gums in her flesh. It clatters as it falls, hitting the ground and rolling away. A wonder done in front of their eyes with but a sip. Her leg kicks out, grinding against the floor uselessly as the healing wracks through her. Sweat pouring off her for the effort, drenched in it.
Then all at once, she goes still, without breath, without movement, head rolling back into Sasha's leg, and the wound - is nothing but a strange white line at the back of her neck that seems no more than an old scar, and is gone - completely gone. Like nothing had ever touched her, the proof of her recklessness. Aged, but not in the way that matters.
Then she breaths again.
She's too exhausted to move, right now, and too tired to open her eyes. Wets her lips, forcing the words - because she thinks she can see it now, the frown on his face that is his concern, Sasha's grief.
Sasha will know now. That will be the end of it, she thinks. Rick and Daryl, they were reasonable to her only request, but Sasha? Maggie? Abraham?
They wouldn't.
She didn't even blame them.
"It's done, now." Doesn't move - she cannot under her own weight right now, and she's tired - Gods, she's so tired, and she is so old, and this body was so past any point it should have ever seen. She can feel it, she can feel is so achingly long in her limbs.
She just wants to sleep, she wants the long dark, she wants her son back and Devi when she smiled and a world she was born too but lost and lost again. Her husband's thoughtful words, Damodar's bubbling laugh. Sir Bors grey, old eyes and Sir Galahad's hand upon hers. "Daryl... I can't..." get up, keep doing this, any of it. Her fingers going lose on his, slipping - and with it, she sinks back, unconscious, but breathing.
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Most of those times, however, those wounds aren't the difference between life and death. Aren't so messy. Most of the time, she isn't rendered so useless, the wounds that she can feel, muscles reforming around the bone, the veins spluttering like old pipelines into use, the tendons that hold it together, then the skin that centimetre by centimetre seals itself over the area. The sickening way a tooth is there, being pushed back up through her skin, where it had ripped out of the Walker's rotten gums in her flesh. It clatters as it falls, hitting the ground and rolling away. A wonder done in front of their eyes with but a sip. Her leg kicks out, grinding against the floor uselessly as the healing wracks through her. Sweat pouring off her for the effort, drenched in it.
Then all at once, she goes still, without breath, without movement, head rolling back into Sasha's leg, and the wound - is nothing but a strange white line at the back of her neck that seems no more than an old scar, and is gone - completely gone. Like nothing had ever touched her, the proof of her recklessness. Aged, but not in the way that matters.
Then she breaths again.
She's too exhausted to move, right now, and too tired to open her eyes. Wets her lips, forcing the words - because she thinks she can see it now, the frown on his face that is his concern, Sasha's grief.
Sasha will know now. That will be the end of it, she thinks. Rick and Daryl, they were reasonable to her only request, but Sasha? Maggie? Abraham?
They wouldn't.
She didn't even blame them.
"It's done, now." Doesn't move - she cannot under her own weight right now, and she's tired - Gods, she's so tired, and she is so old, and this body was so past any point it should have ever seen. She can feel it, she can feel is so achingly long in her limbs.
She just wants to sleep, she wants the long dark, she wants her son back and Devi when she smiled and a world she was born too but lost and lost again. Her husband's thoughtful words, Damodar's bubbling laugh. Sir Bors grey, old eyes and Sir Galahad's hand upon hers. "Daryl... I can't..." get up, keep doing this, any of it. Her fingers going lose on his, slipping - and with it, she sinks back, unconscious, but breathing.
She's alive, again.