Battle Hymn of the Republic

Mr. Caxton had nothing he could say to Willow after that. Instead, he watched her walk-off, biting down on just how right she was. There was a yearning in his stance, to go and involve himself in what was unfolding with Diligence. Catching himself, he carefully sat back down, and took his tea.

“We’re so close,” he reminded himself, setting the cup down, shoving his knuckle between his teeth. Percival clenched his eyes shut, “... we’re so close...”

Diligence drowned out all conversation and noise with his booming voice.

“Whaddya mean ‘What’s wit tha’ axe?’” he roared, throwing his arms up, “We’re here t’render judgement. Y’know? That judgement you asked about. Gunna’ renda’ it now. C’mon.”

He elbowed one of his small kin and repeated the words in jocular delight.

“‘What’s wit tha’ axe’?”

The quarrids around him, especially the one with the axe, did not laugh. Like extras whose pay depended on their austerity, they kept dead, straight faces.

“Tough crowd,” grumbled Diligence, who the pointed at the spriggan, “alright, someone get’m set up. Nice and central. We can read out tha’ crimes and get to tha’ fun part.”

Ghyslain, still holding the spriggan aloft, began walking his chair over to the artisan.

“Give me your worst!” rattled the spriggan, kicking his feet, “I am son of she who sleeps, of the kin before time, we fear nothing!”

“Oh,” grinned Diligence with a demented flare, “it’s pretty bad.”

All Willow could do as she listened to Diligence was watch slack jawed as he joked. Once it became decidedly clear what the Artisan had in mind, Willow stepped forward and held up a palm to Ghyslain signaling for the berserker to hold back. Approaching the Forge god she put a hand on his shoulder and leaned close so she could talk in a hushed tone.

“Hey, I know I asked you to pass judgement, but I was more thinking of incarceration rather than capital punishment,” the Brit spoke softly as though offering counsel. “Admittedly, that’s on me for assuming this wasn’t a thieves lose their hands realm; at least, hopefully just their hands. But mostly I just wanted him out of my room so I could get my rope back.”

“What’re you even talkin’ about?” Diligence gave Willow one of the most side-long looks she had ever been on the receiving end of, “Capital punishment? Naw. No. No no no. Nuh’uh. That’s too quick. Too clean. Too easy. You gotta’ have some imagination for these things, Willow.”

He clapped his hands on her shoulder twice, before breaking off, “Alright you lugs! I’m here t’make my judgement. The crimes:

• Stealin’!
• Evadin’ arrest! and…
• Inhibitin’ the great work!

We don’ harbor fugitives out here, just free people tryin’ t’do good! Wrongdoin’ won’t– can’t be tolerated!”

“Why does this sound familiar…” murmured Noble, having come up to witness the display.

“I think ye said somethin’ similar in a previous speech, sair,” Phyllis came up to Willow’s side while Ghyslain bumped the spriggan around.

“So, by m’authority, I have chosen the worst punishment imaginable, to make an example!” swelled Diligence, throwing his arms up. The quarrids around him began to tense up, some of them beginning to shake. Their grim masks were tight, and intense. “I here-by sentence… uh, what’s y’name?”

“Horst!” rattled the spriggan.

“I here-by sentence Horst to tha’ worst fate imaginable! Bein’ stuck with Willow Fairburn!”

All at once, the quarrids around them burst in uproarious laughter, some exhaling so hard they nearly fainted.

“I demand an appeal!” Horst spat in response, kicking his feet.

“Nah,” dismissed the Forge God with a wave of his hand, “I’m the boss, and I say you gotta stick with Willow, til her job here is done.”

Willow squinted. She had been prepared to object if the punishment seemed too harsh, what with the axe and all, but she had certainly not been expecting the punishment to be her. As her brain wrrrrrr’d and processed the unexpected turn, she was now set to object for entirely different reasons.

“Okay, one, that’s rude,” Willow spoke up, pointing a single finger at Diligence, then extended a second finger as she moved to her next point. “Why am I getting punished as well? Did ya see the rest of the smallfolk following me around and think I needed a complete set like this is some kind of gotcha game?”

Swinging her arm towards the spriggan, Horst, her thumb extended.

“The little zealot’s probably gonna beat feet the minute we’re out the door. Ten to one odds,” Willow continued and extended a fourth finger. “What degree of authority do I have in acting as the sprout’s parole officer?”

A hand clasped upon Willow’s shoulder, the most Noble had a stern look on his face.

“Diligence makes light of his position as an artisan,” he explained, “but you must remember Willow, this world exists because we will it. Each of the smallkin peoples exist because we demand it, even the Spriggans. They, without an artisan of their own, must honor our words.”

Horst began kicking again, “That does not mean I have to like it.”

“She’ll grow on ya, or kill ya, just depends, sprout,” guffawed Diligence, clearly enjoying the situation he had out them both in.

“That’s hardly the tone to take with the demands you’ve made,” berated Noble.

“What? At least he’s gunna be productive, helpin’ Willow out. She’s gunna need all the help she can get, goin into tha’ forest.”

“We’re going back to the forest?” asked Horst, his tone shifting to something lighter.

Deep breath in. Hold. Release.

Did this make sense to Willow? No. Could she argue this? Probably; or at the very least she could threaten to beat Diligence up again. Did she feel like it? No, but that didn’t mean she had to like the situation. On the bright side, she would get her rope back. The bad side, she would need to continue listening the spriggan. Holding her fists in front of her fingers up she back to count softly.

“Willow, Bjorn, Curie, Ghyslain, Phyllis, Helen, aaaaaaand now Horst,” she mumbled. Releasing her remaining curled fingers she raised her arms and clasped her hands behind her head as she sighed.

“Now presenting, The Muppets Magnificent Seven. I’m like Michael Caine, or probably more accurately Tim Curry,” Willow shifted her attention to Horst. “Curb that enthusiasm, chief. We aren’t going anywhere for a while, unless I suddenly become amazing at sword fighting; or get a convenient training montage.”

Noble was confident in Willow’s abilities, and insisted on her taking her hand at the mysterious man. So a duel was arranged the next day, but it took a couple to overcome the guards who unwittingly blocked her path. So on the fourth day Captain stood in attendance to watch his student. His confidence was, however, not rewarded. Willow was struck down in two blows instead of one, and, while this was a drastic improvement, there was no way Noble could know it in his horror.

The following days were harsh, and Willow came to know how canidaer like Phyllis became so drilled. Her awakening was not welcomed with soothing words but with furious calls to action. Training became intense, regimented and fierce. Noble took to the work with a purpose, realizing what exactly the Allomancer was up against.

Even with his help, and the doll-sisters cheering Willow on, she was cut down in three strokes. As the blade left her body, she would realize she was only good enough to understand how much she had to learn.

Now Willow had three of the artisans pouring themselves into her training, devoting their days to building up the dueling ground, dummies for practice, and ways to improve a mere human in such a short time. The garden was flattened, having long fallen into disrepair, and a small stadium was erected. They spend days running Willow through drills. They traded back and forth, with Diligence occasionally attending to mix up the challenges.

Again, with all of them watching, she was able to withstand five strikes before the one-armed duelist took off her head. Diligence, Creative, Smart, Clever, Noble; all were brought in now. The smallkin were roped in as well, helping with the work and creating seats so that everyone could put everything they had into pushing Willow on.

A troop of canidaer had arrived from the Floating Islands, reuniting Phyllis with Yorna and Peter, who overwhelmed her at first sight. Crinkling lattices of lights arrived next, apertures of Smart. Golems came next, righting aloft large cousins who hauled burdened carts of materials. Then, the skies filled with odinkine, chittering and singing, with Aslog chasing Bjorn from tree to tree.

They filled the bleachers and the rafters overhead, they all came for her. The world began to move for her, love her, this young woman who threw herself at this one-armed death that welcomed her. Everyone who had something to offer gave, and those that couldn’t helped those that could. Willow tested herself at not just swordsmen, but axes, arrows and magic.

Yet each time she challenged Percival, it ended the same way, and soon it became clear that she was not the only one training. Each time she felt faster, he became faster, anticipating her, conditioning himself to her moves. Every duel only made it more evident that he was practicing his profession of being her perfect opponent. After a while, the oxfords were discarded for shoes meant for the occasion, a glove for the swordplay, and relaxed wear to help him move.

“Let’s just destroy him,” suggested Smart one day, “One glance and I could turn him to ashes.”

“No,” admonished Noble, “that’s not how this works. What is all this for?”

“Pointless bloodshed and constant suffering,” quipped Creative as he held the doorway open to the dueling arena, “but I don’t always see the truth.”

Willow was waved into the grassy field, walled by limestone bricks. As soon as she stepped through the threshold, she was greeted by a wave of cheers. The smallkin were there to cheer her on, to see her win, no matter how many times they had seen her fail. They broke into the same chant, a four syllable measure where each beat was howled from each corner of the rectangular arena.

“ME-”

“-TAL-”

“-EAT-”

“-ER!”

It bounced around her as she stepped forward, repeating a couple of times before the door on the opposite end opened. Her opponent emerged, and the cheers melted into jeers. It was a hatred thrown over Willow’s shoulders at him, the one that struck her down wordlessly and remorselessly each time. Even the artisans had begun to join in, endorsing the rousing before the fight. Another familiar chant began, this one directed at Percival.

“Fiend!”

“Filth!”

“Fell!”

“Foe!”

Percival Caxton took a breath, and brought his blade up, his eyes on Willow. The words did not seem to phase him, as if deafness had become a new friend among his disabilities. This was just the routine now. If Willow waited long enough, the Alchemist would stride forward slowly, and pick a random moment to lash at her. If she struck first, he would step back and riposte viciously. Then, the count of strikes would begin, and it would end the same as it had many times before.

Except, neither of them knew it then, but this day was the dawn of the last day.

Another day, another walk out onto the greens. It had been several weeks since Willow had stopped counting how long she’d been at it. It had actually been long enough to make a noticeable change in the length of her hair; at least up until Percy had decapitated her. It had left her hair a bit lopsided, so she cut it short. Fearing becoming a Karen, she had some help to trim up the sides into a nice pixie cut that Drysi probably would have loved. Now as she stepped out onto the field she wore what had become her usual sparring gear; her button up, jeans, and her belt, boots, and half-chaps. It was light, efficient, and comfortable; with the added plus side of looking pretty good. Hell, she almost felt like she deserved the cheers sent her way by the crowd. Not to say the cheers didn’t feel good, but outside of training she’d only managed ten strikes; so she didn’t exactly feel like an ace of the pitch.

Nevertheless, Willow offered up some waves to the crowd as they cheered for her. When it started weeks back it had gone to her head, but she had trained to drown it out in tandem with training that would make them cheer more. Although she did wish they wouldn’t jeer at Percival but trying to dissuade that had quickly proved pointless. Hopefully though her performance today would make them focus on the positive feedback. Her goal today was to double her strikes. Ten was the goal, and to that end she was focused. The crowd became white noise, the weight of attention slipping off her shoulders as she drew her saber. All that mattered in this moment was facing off against Caxton.

In duels past, she’d been able to discern (after the matter) how the fight would go from how she opened. Her first two duels were easy the break down. Too aggressive, numerous gaps in what amounted to her form, and just overall next to no experience. Her first real duel, following the beginning of her training, she had remained overly aggressive, but at least that time she had acquired an understanding of the basics of what saber fighting required. Two strikes were all she had managed. The second duel she had reined in the aggression, but still pressed an offensive and netting one more strike than the time before. The third she had tried a defensive approach, focusing on reacting and possibly learning how Caxton moved. This had gained her a marked improvement. Five strikes.

While she knew she had done better in the last duel, Willow also recognized it was unlikely to get her a win. She needed to react, but she had never been one to enjoy being against the ropes. So, for today she had a plan, and she started by watching Caxton; taking the first motions to consciously plan before falling back onto muscle memory and training. Stock still, the instructor was waiting on her. If she lunged in her strike would get countered, so she needed to be prepared to block the man’s riposte.

Off-hand tucked behind her back, Willow circled slowly around Percy’s right side, the tip of her saber never straying for where it pointed towards his chest. After circling for a brief time Willow lunged, swiping her saber downwards across his body. Expecting his counter, she readied to swing her arm upward to bat away the incoming riposte before swiping the saber back down with a quick flick of her wrist.

Once swords were up, a hush fell over the crowd. It was reminiscent of a golf tournament, where so many people could be gathered around a small number and be so quiet. A motion would inspire sudden sighs or short-lived exclamations, before dying down again. Though, nothing could silence their eyes, the tension, and the sure movement as one when the duelists acted.

The opening strike in the peaceful murmur rang like a bell as Percival curled his wrist into a guard, forcing Willow’s blade to travel off before he lunged. Weeks ago, she’d already be bleeding on the floor, but instead, she forced his blade aside in her recovery, before twirling the blade over her wrist again to mirror the move and put Percival on the defense. He turned and let her blade ride down again, before stepping back.

His face betrayed no emotion, or intent, instead he took a breath while he rocked back on one foot. Then, he shot forward in a stab, the crescent sword’s tip swinging in like a curve ball to her neck.

Oh yeah. Moments like this were what Willow lived for. Even with the very likely outcome of serious pain and (temporary) death, Willow felt alive during these tests of skill. Her mind was focused, her body a coiled spring of potential energy, and her veins felt like they were pumping electricity rather than blood. While she had always pictured herself getting more into something like mixed martial arts, she found fighting with a saber to be exhilarating in its own way. The sounds of clashing metal, the intricate motions, and the narrow misses served to make Willow grin involuntarily.

A jolt ran up her spine and she backstepped as her arm shifted into a hanging guard. All of it was intuition; in fact, it almost felt to Willow that she was just as much an observer as the smallfolk in the stands. Merely a guide suggesting courses of action for her body to work towards. As Caxton’s saber deflected, Willow advanced with sure-footed steps as she pressed into a quick series of strikes as she pushed an offensive.