Title: Selfishly Selfless
By: Emmelyn Cindy Mah
Category: Game/Diablo III
Sub-category: Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Oneshot—Demon hunters fight for others. Still, there are times they need to be reminded why they choose the path of war. Set tentatively after Dead or Alone.
Disclaimer: I don't own Diablo; Blizzard does. These kids, however, are mine.
"Sometimes, I think I could die."
He quirked a brow at the inelegantly-sprawled lump by his side. She was curled in on herself, draped in a mossy blanket. The frayed bits had caught dirt and lint, but it was warm enough to serve its purpose. She met his eyes, her gaze dull, reflecting weariness.
"You're lucky. Most of the time I think I should." He shifted his weight in the cot; she protested in manner of a grunt. He chuckled faintly, then lowered himself once again. "I know you're recovering, but people are going to misunderstand if we keep this up. Your father's going to think we're up to no good."
She was quiet for a moment as she contemplated his words. Her shoulders quaked briefly; he leaned back, studying her face, the pallid, bloodless hues of her cheeks and the circles that darkened her eyes. "It's good to have company when you're hurt, though." Her voice cracked slightly; the eyes that watched him were misted. One hand lay curled over several worn sheets of yellowed paper. She hid the carefully-printed words from sight, but every once in a while, he fancied he saw her eyes dart to them. Then she blinked, turned away. "How many today?"
He let out a sigh. "You almost died a week ago. Don't you think this sort of talk is best saved for another time?"
Beneath the straggly clumps of unwashed hair that hung limp against her cheeks, her gaze wavered. "How many?" She repeated, faintly.
"It was just a skirmish." He gripped her shoulder. She met his gaze with her own—bordering impatience, yet fraught with anxiety. "Twenty nine. Cesaire led the counter-attack, but by then they'd charged the West row. We lost the Hayes'. The youngest boy lived, but the sister didn't make it." He swallowed, felt her cold, sweaty palm tighten about his wrist. "I'm okay."
"Who else?" Like him, she often danced, light as a feather in sidestepping the grief, and fear, and sadness. Caught in the swirl of denial, they danced together, doggedly dodging the nightmares that haunted them all. "Tell me who else."
"Bekkah and Alban. Quint. Kato." He turned to her. "Marnel met your friend in the skirmish. You know, the flaming bastard with the scythe."
She swallowed, trembling visibly. Her lower lip quavered. "Is she—?"
"She didn't make it."
She was quiet just then, though the hand tightened about the papers she clutched. "Oh."
He pursed his lips, then tentatively, tightened his grip about her. She tensed. "You're lucky it didn't slice right through you."
"What's it matter at this point?" She hissed through her teeth. The despair was hard to miss. "Maybe you are right. Maybe we're just meant to die, all of us. I mean, what the hells." She took a deep breath, wincing, then drew one hand to her abdomen, fingers digging gingerly into the crook between her breasts. He could just see the newly-formed scar tissue peeking through the neckline of her loose blouse, blazing an angry, serrated path of red. "Why are we even bothered at this point?"
Despite himself, he managed to quirk a faint smile. "You aren't seriously expecting a rousing speech from me, are you?"
She glared at him. In the haze of despair, the venom didn't quite stick.
"Look." He took a deep breath. "You know this. We don't fight for ourselves. Cesaire doesn't fight for herself. I sure as hell don't give a damn whether I drop dead today or tomorrow. Your papa doesn't fight for himself, he fights for you. And you, you're out there day and night because your filial piety doesn't allow you to not. If everyone were selfish, this shitty rathole we call our Sanctuary would be a blazing inferno of destruction by now. We'd all be dead, because when it boils down to it, you and I both know it's easier to die than to suffer."
She blinked at him as he spoke, brow furrowed. At the first sign of wetness in her eyes, she blinked harder, faster—then to spare him the sight, turned and buried her face in her pillow. He let out a sigh; he wasn't sure she felt any better for his gingerly patting her shoulder, but he had never been very good at offering comfort.
It was some long moments before the sniffling ceased. The papers remained clutched in her hand; read, re-read, and re-read again. He knew better than to pry. She didn't share that part of her life with him—the part of her life she was fighting to keep.
The part of her life that was her joy and comfort, which she fought tooth and nail to return to.
He often wondered if she'd survive the war long enough to return to that joy. In this, she was both selfish and selfless. They all were.
"Stop crying yet?" His voice came out hoarser than he'd expected. She was so small. So helpless, and so fragile in her current state.
Just like Delilah had been. She was… too young. So young.
She let out a hoarse grunt. He pushed his sister away and returned to the present. "Come on. Stop crying or your father's going to think it was my fault."
The hand tightened about the papers she held. After a pregnant pause, she turned her head, meeting his gaze. Red eyes, red nose, red face.
He smirked. "Attractive, are we?"
"I hate you."
"Fight so you can dance on my grave, then." He rubbed at her arm; she did not resist.
"I intend to." She curled in closer. "But not tomorrow, or anytime this week."
"Not tomorrow." He echoed. "Or anytime this week."
He didn't tell her. He chose to not tell her. Death was easy for him. Death was almost desirable at times. He didn't tell her, but he knew, that she knew.
Neither said a word. Neither spoke. In the darkness, they clung to one another.
They clung to hope.
-End