Daryl isn't expecting to be followed. Honestly, he defaults to being alone and left to his own devices. He hears someone behind him, and winds up to swing-- but it's that guy again, the one from the snow drift, the one he promised not to fire on.

That means something.

It means something, too, that the guy doesn't kill the stupid kid. He's just a kid, after all, pulled into a war even dumber than he is. Daryl nods at the other man's decisive action-- he isn't someone to fuck with, from the way he carries this all out with a practiced hand-- and watches the kiddie soldier crumble into the snow. From there, it's easy work to tie his hands back and stuff him up a tree. They're out of the line of sight of both parties for now. They should be safe if they're fast.

"Thanks," he says, hoarse with exertion. "Daryl." He nods to himself while he shoves the kid under the heavy branches of a fur tree.