Valla had learned at an early age that life wasn't fair. She had learned it when she could do nothing but watch in frozen terror as her parents were eviscerated before her eyes. Her mother and father, two of the most hardworking and kindhearted people imaginable, who had never desired anything but a simple life, savagely destroyed for no reason except that they were there. Any faith she'd had in a benevolent force looking out for humanity had died on the floor of her house along with them.
Nothing she had seen since then had done anything but strengthen her despair. She met demon hunters with stories almost identical to hers, watched women break as they were told their husbands would never return from battle, saw children killed in the streets by vile creatures that had no right to blight Sanctuary with their existence. And no matter how many times she witnessed injustice forced onto the innocent, it never became any easier to bear. Every stolen life, every destroyed home, every desperate prayer to a deaf god chipped away at her soul a little bit more.
More than anything it hurt her to see pain in the eyes of the people closest to her, the men and women who had stayed and traveled with her through all manners of Hell. A group that she would have called her family if the word did not terrify her so, for the one thing she was certain she could not survive was the loss of another one.
And of all the suffering she had seen them through, nothing had bitten as far down into her core as the death of Lyndon's brother. Memories of Halissa that she long thought under control were dredged to the surface, and stung as if she had just dragged her sister's bloated body from the river. She could see the same soul-crushing despair in his eyes, see him drowning in the same guilt of the belief that It's all my fault. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
Valla wanted more than anything to help, to take away even a fraction of the burden, but she knew that there were no words in the world that could ease the pain he was suffering. So she stayed mostly silent, and she watched, and she saw him throw himself into their battles with a vigor that only came from trying to forget. And she thought that maybe he would begin to recover, that he would use combat in the same way she had to channel the pain and keep moving forward.
Then he lost his arm, and now she worried.
He had nothing to do but think, and she knew thinking would be one of the hardest things for him to do right now. There was a great pain in him as well, both physical and mental, and she could see it slowly eating away at his spirit. He no longer teased or quipped, and barely spoke at all except when pressed to. For all the times she had rolled her eyes at his remarks or silenced him with a harsh word, she found herself missing the constant distraction from her own dark thoughts. Neither one of them had anything to gain from getting lost in their own minds.
Valla was not ready to lose anyone else, and she definitely wasn't going to sit around and watch Lyndon slowly break. There had to be something she could do, and she would find it.
As soon as the lingering effects of the drug wore off, the pain began. It was a sort of burning sensation, unusual because it existed in a part of his body that should no longer have been able to feel anything at all.
Lyndon had assumed the pain would subside as his body healed, but he became increasingly distressed as this did not seem to be the case. Even after his ribs had reformed themselves and the wounds on his chest closed into ugly scars, he was still plagued with the feeling that his left hand was clenched into a painfully tight fist, and nothing he did seemed to help. The sensation would leave on its own after a time, but would always return to torment him at seemingly random intervals.
Kormac had examined him multiple times and insisted that he was perfectly fine, to Lyndon's annoyance. "An injury of the mind" was the only explanation he could come up with for Lyndon's continuing discomfort, which neither comforted him nor made the pain any less real.
Lyndon couldn't decide which was worse, the chronic, untreatable pain in a limb that no longer existed, or the inescapable look of pity that crossed the faces of anyone who looked at him.
There were few things in the world Lyndon despised more than pity. He could handle being mocked, scorned, ignored, even beaten - he was used to those - but pity was something he simply couldn't stomach. He would rather be hated than looked at like he was some pathetic, injured animal.
It had barely been two weeks, and he was already being driven insane by how helpful everyone insisted on being. Any time he struggled to pick something up or put something on or anything, someone would be there in a moment to do it for him. It was utterly humiliating.
Worst of all was that most of the time he really did need the help. Between his missing arm and the sudden bouts of crippling pain he could barely function. He had never realized how much he used his left arm until it was gone, and now something as simple as dressing himself was another miserable reminder of how broken he was. More than once he found himself wishing the beast had just taken his head and been done with it.
For the first several days he had at least been able to drown his suffering in liquid comfort, but then he had downed the last bottle of whiskey he filched from Westmarch and they had been on the road ever since.
Now he had nothing to do but stare at the slowly darkening horizon as his companions prepared to camp for the night. He was getting cold, but he had left his jacket in one of the wagons and he couldn't be bothered to get up from where he was seated to go find it. It wasn't quite cold enough to be worth the effort, and besides, he hated the thing. It was black, a color he never really felt suited him, and a bit too small, but it was all they could find after his last one had been torn to shreds.
He involuntarily shivered slightly, and as if in response he heard quiet footsteps approaching from behind. It had to be Valla; no one else would tread so lightly even when there was no present threat.
Lyndon waited until she came up beside him before turning to look up at her, and was a bit startled to find her with his jacket draped over her arms. She wordlessly held the garment out to him, and he idly wondered if it was possible for nephalem to develop mind-reading powers.
He took the jacket from her a bit reluctantly, knowing he had no good excuse to refuse it, and with some maneuvering was able to get it on in fairly good time. He fumbled with some of the buttons, and he half expected her to jump in and offer to do it for him, but he was thankful when she remained silent and let him struggle through it on his own.
Feeling slightly better now that he was no longer shivering, he looked at Valla again and noticed that she was carrying a folded hand crossbow in front of her, unusual only because it clearly was not one of her regular ones. The ones she wielded were etched with so many enchantments he could barely see the color of the materials they were carved from, and inlaid with spectacular emeralds. This one was simple wood and string, nothing special about it at all.
"Got yourself a new weapon?" he asked somewhat sarcastically.
"No," she answered simply, "This is for you."
Valla held the crossbow out to him handle first, as if expecting him to take it. He could only stare dumbly back at her.
"I don't even know how to use that thing," he finally grumbled irritably.
"That's why I'm going to teach you." She pushed the weapon a little closer to him, and her eyes showed a stubborn determination that promised she was not going to be convinced otherwise.
Lyndon wasn't quite ready to give in, however. "Why? What is the point?"
Valla was quiet for a moment, which surprised him. She seemed to be searching for the answer herself.
"Because you have to do something."
There was something odd in her voice, a hint of what sounded like desperation, but he could think of no reason she would be in such a state and passed it off as his imagination.
Lyndon was in no mood to learn anything new, but he knew from experience that if Valla wanted something to happen she possessed a stubbornness that was only marginally less impressive than her fighting prowess. It would likely be less painful for them both if he just played along. Besides, it couldn't possibly be that much different from the crossbows he was used to.
He grabbed the weapon from her a little more roughly than he meant to, and he felt his finger catch on something near the trigger. The two prods suddenly sprang from the sides of the crossbow, unfolding to form the bow. He jumped at the unexpected movement, and he caught a smirk form briefly on Valla's face before she settled back into her regular grim expression.
"That button causes it to unfold," she explained matter-of-factly, and the fact that she didn't sound condescending somehow managed to make him feel even more embarrassed. "When you would like to fold it again, hold it down and carefully push the prods back into place."
After giving her explanation Valla stared at him in silence, and after a few seconds of feeling slightly uncomfortable Lyndon realized she was expecting him to show his understanding. He felt along the stock until he found the button again, and after holding it down he stared at it helplessly for a moment, wondering how he was supposed to push it back into place when he lacked a second hand to do it with. A thought finally occurred to him and he pressed the back of one of the prods against his leg, and was relieved to find it snapped back into position with relative ease.
Evidently Valla was satisfied with his demonstration because she began speaking again.
"Firing it is mostly the same as a two-handed crossbow, but the string does not carry as much weight so you will need to be more precise. You will also need to be wary of recoil, since it is smaller and you will have nothing to steady it against."
Lyndon looked from her back down to the weapon in his hand and pressed the button again, watching it spring open with mild interest. "Wait," he spoke up incredulously, "You're telling me this thing is more difficult to fire, but it has to be fired more accurately to even work? Why in the bloody Hells would anybody choose to use this thing?"
Valla looked a bit offended and for a moment he thought she might snap at him, but when she spoke her voice was even. "The main advantage is the ability to fire in two directions at once."
Lyndon suddenly felt sick, and his phantom left arm burned a bit. "Wonderful. Even if I do learn how to use this blasted thing I will still only be half as useful."
"That's... not true," Valla insisted, and her carefully controlled voice took on a distinctly angry tone, startling Lyndon out of the dark thoughts he had begun to fall into. She seemed somewhat embarrassed by the outburst, taking a moment to regain her composure before speaking again. "If we find you a good quiver it will not make a difference."
Lyndon wasn't quite sure how a quiver could possibly make up for a missing appendage, but questioning her required more energy than he was willing to expend so he settled for making a noncommittal "hmph" in response.
The sun finally disappeared below the horizon, leaving various lanterns hanging from wagon tops to send scattered light throughout the camp. Valla was standing in shadow, and the darkness made visible the dim, ever-present glow of her eyes. It tinted them a ghostly yellow, and Lyndon had the strange thought that he wasn't actually sure what color her eyes normally were.
He must have stared for a bit too long, because she titled her head at him curiously. "What is it?"
"Nothing," he mumbled, suddenly feeling immensely tired. He used the back of his hand to rub at his eyes, still clutching the crossbow.
The cue was not lost on Valla, whose tone softened perceptibly. "It is late, we can do this another time. You should rest if you are tired."
Lyndon always felt tired, but decided it wasn't worth mentioning. He started to get to his feet, but lost his balance and pitched forward, dropping the weapon as he flailed to keep from falling on his face. Valla caught his shoulder and held him upright with a strength that someone of her small stature should not have possessed.
Even after he steadied himself, she kept her hand on his shoulder, looking him over with visible concern. Lyndon tried to smile, but it was strained and he was certain she would notice. He tried to think of something clever to say to alleviate the tension but he felt as if a fog clouded his mind and kept any of his thoughts from connecting. He eventually gave up and pulled away from her wordlessly, turning to drag his tired body over toward his tent.
Valla followed, perhaps worried he might stumble, and it wasn't until he arrived at his tent and turned to bid her goodnight that he noticed she was carrying the forgotten hand crossbow, neatly folded and free from any dirt he would have expected it to accumulate in the fall. As soon as he gave her his attention she held it out to him expectantly.
This time he took the offered weapon after only a second's hesitation.
Valla nodded to him. "Rest well," she told him sincerely before heading toward the edge of camp. He assumed she had volunteered for first watch, as she often did.
Lyndon had been struggling to fall asleep for weeks now, and as soon as he laid down he knew tonight would be no different. He held the crossbow in his hand, opening and closing it again and again, listening to the oddly satisfying noise of the gears grinding together as it sprung outward. It occurred to him he might be wearing it out, but he didn't much care at the moment.
His thumb drifted along the stock and he felt a slight indentation he had not noticed initially. Pulling the crossbow closer to his face, he noticed a carving along the bottom. It was well worn, but now that he looked closely he could clearly see that is spelled "Valla."
Lyndon took a moment to inspect the entire weapon more thoroughly, and noticed that the wood looked worn with age but well maintained. This crossbow was both old and cared for.
Suddenly feeling guilty for having abused it so, Lyndon carefully folded the prods back down and placed the weapon gently on his pack to keep it from touching the ground. He stared at it for a long while, wondering where it had come from and what significance it held to its previous owner. Before long he had drifted into an uneasy slumber.