Chapter 5: Part 11 - Strong Arms and Sharp Minds

Jean's world had contracted to a single point: Vasha's face. He watched the waves of emotion pass over it, fear and determination and exhilaration. He watched her flinch as her bullet thudded into flesh, as Roan howled in more fury than pain. And finally, he watched as her jaw tightened and her finger squeezed the trigger once again.

Jean moved. It wasn't a conscious decision, or even a particularly sensible one. Before Vasha could fire a second time, he threw himself at her, knocking the pistol aside. The shot was loud enough to make his ears ring, but the bullet passed harmlessly through one of the illusory pillars and disappeared.

Vasha wrenched away from his touch. Her gaze flickered back to the fight, Roan and Artair now grunting and huffing as they fought.

Jean refused to look that way. All his attention was on Vasha. "I'm not going to let you do this," he said.

"Do what?" she spat, jerking the pistol in the direction of the fight. "Kill Roan?"

"You don't want to do this," Jean insisted. He raised one hand, as though mere fingers could stop a bullet. "And you don't want to join Artair."

Was there the faintest hesitation in Vasha's eyes? Her voice certainly betrayed no hint of it. "How do you know what I want?"

"Because I've been in Artair's position. I tried to shape you into someone you were never meant to be. I regret that, I truly do. But this?" He gestured towards the fight. "This isn't you, either. You don't want to become Artair's puppet."

There was that hesitation, once again. It could almost be mistaken for Vasha being preoccupied by the fight, deciding whether to draw back or intervene.

After a moment, though, her face hardened. "Who said anything about being a puppet?"

Jean opened his mouth to reply, but Vasha was quicker.

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't pretend you know the first thing about me. How long were we together in Divinity's Reach? Three months? Four?"

"Eight," Jean said firmly. "Long enough to know this game has changed you."

Colour surged into Vasha's cheeks. "Don't be so bloody condescending. Eight months, then. Eight months that you spent trying to make me into some perfect princess. I didn't want it then, and..."

"And you don't want it now. I understand."

"No, you don't." There was frustration in Vasha's face, enough to make Jean's heart ache. "You grew up behind the walls of your mansion. You don't know what it was like on the other side."

"Fine. I don't know ‒ but I'm trying."

"It's too late. That future you were so keen to give me wasn't the one I wanted." Vasha jabbed her pistol in the direction of the fight ‒ pointing at Artair, who was keeping Roan at bay with easy sweeps of his greatsword. "He can give me that. A place in the world ‒ and on my own terms, not as some pampered wife living on ancient money."

Jean could see, finally, that he'd lost the argument. Vasha was fixed on that single vision: a future at Artair's side, one she thought was won on her own merits. And maybe it was. Maybe Artair really wanted strong arms and sharp minds to work with him.

Jean couldn't help remembering the despair on his sister's face, though. Marissa was the strongest person he'd ever met. Only Artair had ever made her look so broken.

Without quite meaning to, Jean raised the hand holding his sceptre.

Vasha's eyes widened. She laughed, in what sounded like surprise. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Stop you ‒ if I have to."

"You can't," she said, disbelieving.

He knew what she meant. Not that he wasn't physically capable of it ‒ that he couldn't strike down the only person outside his family he'd ever loved.

Before either of them could find out, the room erupted on all sides. There was a shout from Roan; Artair had his greatsword almost pressed to the charr's throat. Gull and Haki, already tense, threw themselves into the fray.

Neither reached Roan. There was a cacophony of feet and a crowd of people rushed into the room. Most were Order of Whispers – Jean thought at least some of the Nth Degree were with them ‒ but he was more concerned with Vasha.

The flood of new arrivals had carried him away from her. He shoved against a nearby charr, almost getting an elbow to the face for his trouble. By the time the charr moved, Vasha was in the middle of the room, moving purposefully towards Roan.

Or towards Artair. Jean still couldn't predict what she might do when she reached them.

He raised his sceptre. Ice bloomed beneath Vasha's feet; she lurched to a stop, then swung to study the crowd with a furious expression. Jean darted around two asura, coming up on Vasha's left. She met him with a pistol in each hand, both aimed at his head.

"You don't need to‒"

Vasha fired. Only the fact he had his dagger in his hand gave Jean the chance to throw a shield of ice around himself. The shots thudded into the ice and Vasha recoiled from the chill, shaking her hands ‒ but by the time Jean had shaken the shards of ice from his weapons, she was gone.

He caught up to her only a few paces away. Again, Jean struck the ground beneath her feet, turning solid rock into sand. She sprang across it, landing lightly on one foot and spinning to rain bullets down on him. Jean dodged aside, blasting Vasha with lightning and getting a volley of poison darts in his upper arm in return. He washed them away with a stream of cool water ‒ and when he looked up, Vasha was right in front of him.

She was holding a shield, a simple wooden thing with metal studs. Jean had never seen her wield one; it looked huge against her tiny frame. He slammed a blast of ice into it, realising too late that Vasha had been ready for it.

Ice met a static charge, exploding in a shower of sparks. Vasha rammed the shield forwards, straight into Jean's chest. He couldn't remember the moment of impact, but he blinked and found himself lying on the ground, staring up at the domed ceiling of the fake room. Vasha was gone.

Someone helped him up; he didn't even see their face before they vanished back into the melee. Jean searched for Vasha ‒ and there she was.

She was only a few feet from Roan and Artair, the pair still locked together. Haki and Gull had been swept away by the fight; Jean saw the latter raining arrows on one of Yinn's golems. He could see only the side of Vasha's face, but there was blood on it, and both her shield and her pistols were gone. In her right hand, there was a knife with a black blade.

He couldn't imagine where she'd got it from. It looked like something stolen from a thief. Vasha held it in a tight grip, as though she wasn't quite sure how to use it.

Even a knife in an untrained hand could do damage, though.

Jean flung himself forwards, lightning giving him speed. He grabbed for Vasha's arm, wrenching the knife towards his own chest. Vasha yelped in surprise and tried to twist away, but Jean had the edge in height and weight. As she struggled, he held firm.

The same struggle was taking place mere feet away. Artair's greatsword had been pushed down and to the side; it was still in his grip, but trapped and useless. Roan had one hand on Artair's right arm, the other gripping the sylvari's throat. For all Artair's skill, it looked like Roan's sheer strength would prevail.

But all of them, Jean included, had underestimated Vasha's resolve. Even as he tried to step between her and the fight, she twisted in his grip and brought a booted foot down on his toes. Jean held on, but Vasha snarled at him in fury, and the next kick connected with his knee.

Somehow, between one heartbeat and the next, Vasha was free. She shot past Jean and he turned as though trapped in ice, every second stretched into an eternity. He saw Roan's fingers tightening around Artair's throat. He saw the dagger in Artair's free hand, scraping harmlessly against Roan's armour.

And he saw, above all, Vasha. Vasha darting forwards with the speed of one of her own bullets. Vasha raising her black knife, the one Jean had failed to take from her.

Vasha reaching the fight and, finding a chink in Roan's armour, thrusting the blade home.