how to clean old bones
Daryl Dixon x pagan!reader
CW: cleaning a carcass; knife collecting; paganism; survivalist upbringing
Daryl killed a deer. I wanted the bones for.... purposes. It certainly got Daryl's attention.
(I just like writing the moment someone catches Daryl's attention, that's all)
"Hey. Can I have it when you're done with it?" I asked Daryl, confidence in my voice I didn't actually feel. Inside, I was twitchy and nervous, wondering if it was a mistake.
This was Georgia, after all, and maybe coming out of the broom closet wasn't the best decision in the world. Some hippie tendencies were one thing, but what I wanted from the deer was another beast altogether; the kind of beast that got women like me burned at the stake in old Salem not all that long ago.
Actually, no it hadn't. That was the thing most people didn't remember- there weren't any witches killed in Salem. Just women.
Daryl glanced at me, surprise in his eyes. "Whatcha want the carcass for? Gettin' all the meat from it I can."
"Yeah, I can see that," I said, eyeing the buckets at his feet. One held the offal, one held long, expertly-removed strips of meat. He was damn good at what he was doing, that's for sure. "I want the - I want the bones. I'd take the hide, too, but I don't think I have what I'd need for tanning. And the time it would take would draw the dead with the scent."
Daryl stopped what he was doing completely to stare at me. "Ya know how to tan a hide?"
"Yeah," I said, shifting uncomfortably. "I know a lot of things. Grew up out in the woods, practically. Dad made sure we all knew how to fend for ourselves. Survivalist type."
"Shit," he muttered. "Merle an' I, we's just redneck assholes. Too damn broke not to be huntin' our own game."
That made me laugh, a grim twist of the lips. "Don't think we were much better, honestly. But seriously, can I have it?"
He grunted. "Help me finish dressin' it down, it's yours."
"Ew," I muttered, but that was fair enough. "Hang on. Let me go get my knives."
"Knives? More'n one?"
I came back with my knife roll. Unbuckling the straps, I unrolled it along the ground and grabbed the skinning knife from the collection. It was impressive, if I did say so myself- all of my extremely utilitarian knives were Damascus steel, horn or wood handles, hand-forged. It'd been a hobby of mine, finding the best, most well-crafted knives to add to my collection.
And yes, I knew that made me strange.
"Shit," Daryl whistled, eyeing the leather roll. "That's- a lot of knives."
I shrugged one shoulder. "I like collecting them."
"Sure." He turned back to the deer, shoving his bowie knife between the skin and the flesh to keep working it down.
I grimaced. "That's the wrong knife for that. Move over."
I shifted him out of the way, slipping the skinning knife- made for this exact purpose- where he'd been hacking away with his bowie. I let the knife do the work like I'd been taught, and in moments the rest of the carcass had been cleanly skinned. I set that knife aside and pulled out my boning knife to tackle the remaining meat.
Daryl was watching me, a look almost possessive in his eyes.
"What?" I asked, heart beating harder than it should have. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Naw," he said, still openly staring. "Just ya face. But I think I'm in love with it."
I blinked and chose not to dignify that with a response. I turned back to the deer, and this time when Daryl and his all-purpose bowie knife started working with me I didn't protest. In silence, we had it handled in no time.
I set the boning knife aside to clean with my skinner before I tucked them back into the roll and made a mental note to ask Glenn to look for knife oil on his next run. I contemplated the tendons and remaining bits of skin and meat holding the bones together and how best to get what I needed from them. "Can you cut it down for me, and drag it out into the woods?"
Daryl grunted, eyeing me sideways as he slashed the ropes holding it strung up. "Sure. What I'd have done anyway. What you want it for anyway?"
I hesitated, back not my worries about not letting everyone here know I wasn't exactly a cookie-cutter Christian southern belle. "Uh. I want the bones."
I could feel Daryl's eyes on me as I grabbed a strip of ripped-up tee shirt from my back pocket and a water bottle from the ground where I'd dropped it. I cleaned the knives as thoroughly as I could without running water and dish soap, then dried them even more carefully on my tank top. Slipping them into their places, I rerolled and buckled the leather and slung the strap over my shoulder.
I raised an eyebrow at him, gesturing to the carcass at our feet. "You get that? I need a shovel."
"Sure," he agreed, still looking at me. "You're an unusual one, ain't ya?"
"You have no idea."
Out in the woods, I nodded when Dixon dropped the legs he'd been dragging the remains of the deer by. "Thanks."
"Welcome, I guess."
He stayed where he was, watching me. Shit. I didn't really want an audience for this, nor did I want to have to explain any more about what I was planning to do. "I'm good if you wanna head back. I got it from here."
"Sure ya do," he agreed, leaning on the nearest tree with one shoulder and fiddling with his crossbow strap.
He clearly wasn't leaving. Damn it. I sighed and got to work anyway. I dropped to my knees beside the carcass, placed my hands over it, hovering without touching, and said a silent blessing for the creature's life-spirit, giving thanks for what it had given for me personally and us as a group. Then, boning knife in hand again, I started with the ribs and vertebra.
I worked in silence, giving thanks to the deer for each bone I separated. My pile grew steadily- this wasn't the first time I'd done something like this, after all- and I found myself wishing for hydrogen peroxide. We didn't have any, and it wasn't like leaving them in a bucket to clean in the sun was a good idea either.
I'd bury them, apart from the rest of the carcass. Though honestly-
"We should leave the rest out somewhere," I said, breaking the silence that had fallen. The woods were lovely, if I pretended I'd forgotten thee reason I was here at the quarry and not in my own house where my set of bones had be cleaned, cured, and chosen for me by others. "Away from the camp, I mean. To draw any of the dead who might wander this way."
"Ain't a bad idea. Gonna tell me what the fuck you're doin' now?"
I glanced at Daryl, then sat back to examine my collection of bones. I had all twenty-six ribs and thirteen of the vertebra. That was good enough, I decided, for what I needed. Twenty-four runes from the ribs, with two extra in case I fucked up carving, and thirteen was an excellent number for throwing bones.
"I'm going to clean them by burying them for a week or two. Then I'll carve the elder and younger futhark into the ribs to make a rune set. The vertebra are for throwing bones," I added.
He'd helped me so far. And he honestly seemed the least likely in the group to be judgmental.
He cocked his head at me, curiosity in his face. But no judgement, no concern, no freaking out. "The hell ya wanna throw 'em for? There's way better weapons."
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. His eyes danced, but I answered as if that were a real question. After all, I could never be sure. "Divination, asshole. I'm pagan. I throw bones, read runes, believe in magic rocks, and try to understand the universe through random signs. Got an issue with it?"
He studied me for a minute, then shrugged. "Nope. Kinda like it. Don't believe in much of anything, myself. Faith don't do shit, my opinion. What's gonna happen gonna happen, no matter what I believe in or don't."
"That's fair enough. I don't think believing changes the outcomes. We change outcomes. Through actions, decisions. But knowing what choices are coming can be helpful."
He shoved off the tree and wandered over as I rose, taking up the shovel. I started digging as he toed the bones I'd chosen. "Why bury 'em?"
"So bugs can pick the remaining flesh from them, and they can degrease underground," I answered with a grunt. "Works for cleaning them for knife handles too. Not as fast as other methods, but all I've got."
"Kinda- never mind."
I glanced at him. "Kinda what?"
He blushed slightly. "Kinda symbolic, I guess."
"Excuse?"
He blushed harder. "I mean, ya bury 'em to clean 'em. Give 'em new life. Seems like- I dunno. Seems like we could do that with people, too. Bury the old self, rise up new."
Perceptive. I stared at him, surprised by the observation. There was more under the angry, harsh movements and outbursts than met the eye, I thought. "Died and been reborn recently, Daryl Dixon?"
"Naw," he muttered, jerking his shoulders and blushing harder. "Just thinkin' is all. Ain't never gonna be any better than what I am. Any different, neither."
"I don't think you need to be better. You're good enough as you are." It popped out before I could help it, and I blushed furiously.
"Yeah?" He pushed the bones into the hole when I stopped digging, then took the shovel from my hands and started putting the dirt back. "Ain't much, honestly."
"Yeah," I muttered. "Me neither. Just old bones, I guess. Maybe someone will find them useful or interesting eventually. But probably not till I've been dead and buried awhile."
"I think you're interesting now."
I met his eyes over the finished burial, wondering if my cheeks were as red as his. "Well. Interesting's a good word, I guess."
"Better'n boring. Which I think ya anythin' but."
"Flirt," I muttered, turning to the carcass to finish disposing of it. "Stop."
"Naw, don't think I will."
