twd: the last silence

Chapter 90 – "Same Thing, But Different"

The sun had dipped low enough to cast Alexandria in hues of gold and orange. The fence was fixed, for now, and Rosita sat beside Axel on a low bench near the guard tower, both of them quiet—surprisingly.

Rosita glanced at him, breaking the silence. "What did you mean earlier? When you said this place felt like a fairytale?"

Axel didn't answer right away. He lit another cigarette, the flick of the lighter sharp in the still air. He took a drag, held it in for a second, then exhaled slow, like the smoke helped him put his thoughts in order.

"Well, you know…" he said, voice a little rough. "After my family was killed, I didn't exactly become the poster boy for mental stability."

Rosita looked at him, but didn't interrupt.

"I had one thing in my mind—revenge. That's all. Nothing else. So I started using people. Built this little village, filled it with survivors who thought I was some kind of savior. I told them straight up—I'm using you. I said it out loud."

"And they stayed?"

"Yeah," Axel chuckled bitterly. "Because I was protecting them. People will let you use them if it means they don't die. That's the game."

He took another drag, eyes squinting at the sky like it might argue with him.

"Then I killed Alice. The woman who slaughtered my family. After that, I never went back to that village. In my head, it was over. No more purpose."

Rosita leaned forward slightly. "So that's why you think Alexandria is a fairytale?"

Axel nodded. "Yeah. Because when I see a place like this—safe, quiet, normal—I don't think 'community.' I think: who's using who? And when's it gonna fall apart?"

He looked at her now, more serious than he usually allowed himself to be.

"Rick… he's using you guys. Not in the same cold way I did. But he's still doing it. He leads with weight on his shoulders—carries all the guilt, all the decisions. You follow him because he holds that weight. That's still control. Just painted prettier."

Rosita stayed quiet. Not because she agreed—but because she understood what he meant.

Axel sighed, his shoulders dropping as he leaned back on the bench and stared at the darkening sky.

"God damn it, I'm twenty-one years old, i think..." he muttered. "I shouldn't be thinking like an old man. I should be thinking about girls, drinking, dumb shit."

Rosita smirked. "You can still think about girls. No rule against that."

Axel turned to her with a crooked grin. "Well in that case... what are you doing after this?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not you, that's for sure."

He laughed, and for once, it didn't sound forced or bitter.

The fairytale might still feel fake—but for the first time in a long time, Axel allowed himself to hope it wasn't.

---

The days after the walker breach were quieter, steadier. Alexandria breathed again, and so did Axel—though he wouldn't admit it out loud.

He spent his mornings helping fix fences, reinforce gates, clean bloodstains off the streets. He didn't give orders, didn't bark instructions. He worked alongside everyone, sleeves rolled up, sweat on his brow, his silver-streaked black hair tied back.

Sometimes, Daryl would join him. They'd sit on the stairs of the watchtower at the end of the day, sharing smokes without speaking. No stories. No questions. Just the quiet crackle of the cigarette tips and the low hum of a town rebuilding itself.

Other times, Judith would wander over when no one was looking. She'd plop beside Axel like she'd known him forever and reach up to play with his long, strange hair. Axel never said a word. Just let her do it, a soft smile twitching at the corners of his mouth like it surprised even him.

Father Gabriel came once, standing beside Axel as he sat against the wall by the community center. The priest didn't ask permission—just knelt and began to pray in his low, calm voice. Axel didn't interrupt, didn't mock, didn't join. He just listened, his eyes cast forward, unmoving. When Gabriel finished, Axel simply nodded, as if to say: Thanks. For not preaching.

Then there was the katana.

It wasn't the katana—Michonne's famed blade was still slung across her back—but a spare one, rarely used, clean and sharp. She gave it to him after the night he saved Judith without asking for anything in return. No words, no ceremony. Just handed it over and nodded.

Axel cleaned that katana every night. Sat alone by the fire, legs crossed, blade balanced across his lap. He moved slowly, deliberately—every stroke across the blade careful, reverent.

Maybe it was the way he looked at the sword. Like it wasn't a weapon, but a memory.

Or maybe it was how, every now and then, a kid would run by and wave, and Axel—without even realizing—would wave back.

He didn't talk about change.

He just kept doing little things.

And in Alexandria, that spoke louder than words.

---

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