"You drag me back, I'll fight you." He doesn't know what a threat that is. "Not like last time." Joan knows it doesn't sound like much; he's never seen her fight. And there's no guarantee she'll win. She doesn't care. A fight, for her, isn't about hurting or winning or striking down the enemy. It's about making everyone involved pay. He'll win, but it won't be fun for either of them.

She won't try to kill him, she knows. It's not about killing, for him. Go for what hurts, she thinks. Shoot off his other hand.

The thought sits uncomfortably in her mind, but more comfortably than killing him. For some reason, she can't let herself do that. She can't. If she does, maybe she can't come back. You kill too many old men, you become something else. You take on whatever they were. You inherit the sin like debt.

"Away. We already talked about this."