Battle Hymn of the Republic

Two Months Before Pursuit of Knowledge...

Something was bothering Jane. It had been bothering her for a long time. She could feel it when the faculty looked at her a certain way. She could feel it when she mounted No Name's saddle. And she had decided to do something about it.

Now she was stuck on how. How does one contact the person pulling your strings? Or, to make the metaphor more precise, how does one contact the person staging the play when you're always stuck at center stage?

The obvious answer is to make a scene. Not the scene, but a scandal-- go off script. Call them out and break the immersion. She tried it, but to no avail, and she couldn't bring herself to try in front of an actual audience. Making a fuss just wasn't in her nature. So, back to square one.

In a world of magic and constant surprises, it's hard to ever be truly shocked. So it is important to note that Jane was genuinely shocked during her walk up the gravel driveway home when a small portal opened and a satyr stumbled through. After brushing himself off, he looked up to see Lightning bearing down on him. He visibly began to sweat, as if on command, and did his best to look past the barrel of the gun at the gunslinger on the far side.

"Hehe, good afternoon madame. I am... a business associate of a powerful... mage." Jane wasn't sure whether he was being coy or dodgy, and assumed the latter. She inched the gun closer. The satyr shrank away, as if a couple inches would make any difference at that range.

"P-please." He was wringing his nervous hands. "I'm merely here to ask a couple questions, and possibly arrange a meeting. Between you and my boss."

Jane holstered with a sigh and resumed her walk. "Then keep up, n talk fast."

"Certainly!" The satyr bounded after her to close the gap. "Just to confirm: you are, in fact, one 'Calamity' Jane Smith."

A darkness settled on her face, and she did not look at the small minion. "One n only."

"Excellent! Are you familiar with one Emilia Venezia?"

Jane's brows knit close together and she frowned at the satyr. "Sounds familiar, though I couldn tell ye why."

"Mm. I see. Immortal Lady Emilia Venezia is a... powerful necromancer, and she would very much like to speak to you, if you're willing, about some past adventures of yours. She is looking for an old friend. Would you happen to be available?"

"When?"

"Oh, let me just..." The satyr produced a book half as thick as himself from nowhere and pulled it open by a bookmark. "In about two months? Yes, eight weeks exactly."

Jane had put one boot on the first step up her porch, and paused to look down at her hoofed companion. "Busy lady."

"The busiest, I'm afraid. Running business... she can only bend time so often before someone complains. Or worse, notices." He glanced to the side and shivered at some unknown recollection.

"Fine. Pencil me in yer book."

"Yes! Excellent. She will be most delighted." He gave a polite bow and backstepped through a portal with a practiced ease that was mildly impressive.

Jane spent the evening stewing on the strange interaction. Was this her patron? A necromancer? Unlikely, but the satyr had said Immortal Lady, and it was very clearly a title. Perhaps ageless mages got bored, and needed to spice things up. Or she'd just signed up for the biggest, stupidest trap in her life.

The thought pushed her up from her chair. Inside, she fetched her reload kit and filled her bandolier belts with disruptor cartridges. Or she would have, but she realized there were only 11. She paused, reflecting on her carelessness. It was very unlike her to be so lax. Then she stopped to really think back. How long since she'd had a proper gunfight? Nine months? No, it was last spring. Over a year ago. The idea knocked her back onto the couch.

"A whole damn year," she murmured to herself, arms folded as she examined this oddity. Was she done? When was the last time she'd had so much peace to spare? Maybe this was the real cause of her discomfort. She felt unneeded- unnecessary. It felt true, but incomplete. There was more to this. All the more reason to hunt down the person she needed and ask. Politely. With force, if necessary.

The Day of Ruarc's Request...

She was done. Her lesson plan for her first year as an instructor were complete. Each day's lesson was only a page in total. Most of them barely filled half a page. But she smiled at them. She knew what they meant, and she knew she was ready for this. She wanted this. Jane Smith wanted to help someone without having to kill someone else. Without having to raise a gun or swing her fists. Before the satyr, she hadn't raised her gun in over a year. Incredible. She had entered a new phase of her life, and was quite pleased.

Then a dark rift rent the air before her desk. Before the dark-cloaked figure was even half-formed, Jane had risen from her seat and drawn both guns. Got ahead of myself, she mused sardonically.

As she watched, the cloak seemed a part of the portal itself. So as the dark figure stepped through, its edges were pulled and drawn closed, then finally fell to the floor where they skirled and roiled like pitch-black fog. Then the cloak parted to reveal two pale hands and black-clad arms that removed the hood. Auburn locks tumbled down over shoulders down to her waist. And it was a her: a striking woman with flat green eyes and permanent, self-assured smile. A smirk, really. There was a world's worth of entitlement in that smirk, and it was obvious the woman knew it too.

Those green eyes settled on the guns, then met the steely blue of Jane's own. "Do you mind?"

Jane holstered with a derisive snort. "Usually, one knocks when makin a call. Or were ye raised by wolves?"

"Close enough," the woman answered, her smile growing. Something about that confidence rubbed Jane the wrong way. "As you've probably deduced by now, I'm the Immortal Lady Emilia Venezia."

"Big title fer a small woman," Jane jibed, just to test her. And it was true to a degree: Jane had a solid four inches on her guest in height.

The smile dimmed slightly, and immortal eyes narrowed, judging 'Calamity' Jane Smith. It made the American shiver. "It's a shame. I really wish there had been more time back then. I would have liked being your friend."

Jane tried to mask her confusion with a frown. Emilia only stared, watching the gears turn. "Emilia," Jane said aloud when it finally fell into place. A name from a story told long ago. "Death's daughter?"

"Just Death, actually. Mother has retired-- I've never seen her so happy." There were more than a few implications in that sentence that Jane spent several seconds parsing. So Death filled the silence. "She never liked the work. Hated the tedium; hated the constant chatter. And the bureaucracy. I find myself quite enamored with the whole thing." Her arms emerged again from the cloak and pushed it back, revealing a floor-length dress of the emptiest, darkest, most unknowable black. It shaped to her shoulders chest and waist, then flared and left the rest of her form a mystery. The hem splayed on the floor as if it both bore great weight and also desired to devour the whole floor, conceal it within the vast, infinite darkness of itself.

"But that's not why I'm here. I wanted to ask some questions."

Jane raised a hand to stop her. "Hold on. Ye must think me a slick foal if this is goin one way. I have some questions."

Death's smile became amused, as if entertaining an absurd comment from a toddler. "Certainly."

"I wanna know bout Fate."

"What about her?" Death spread her arms. Ask anything you like, the gesture said.

That felt far too easy, and Jane hesitated, but there had been no strange deal, no contract. There were no 'loopholes' or question limits here. This wasn't a sphinx or a fae or a demon. It was Death. She had no need for the connivings of lesser entities. "I wanna talk to er. Ask er why things... Why it's like this." Saying the words was like pulling the trigger on a black powder rifle. An explosion of every positive and negative emotion flared through her. This was her life, but was it actually her fate? She was on the cusp of something that could make or break... everything.

Emilia's smile faded away and there was finally solemnity in her face. "I'm not certain if that can be arranged, but..." It was her turn to raise a hand and stop Jane. "I will speak to her. My word for your immortal soul." Before Jane could question this phrasing, she felt another, much more visceral chill course through her body. It was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, as her soul shook hard enough to be physically felt. While the gunslinger recovered breath she didn't know she had lost, Emilia explained. "There. Now you know I'm serious. If I fail in this task, you will live forever."

"Jus like that?"

"Just like that."

"Alrigh, Immortal Lady, ask yer questions." Jane straightened up and took a deep breath to settle her nerves. No one had made her misstep in years, and now Emilia Venezia had done it twice in less than ten minutes. It really was something else, being face to face with an avatar of a Cosmic Truth.

"Just Miss Venezia, I think. Immortal Lady is for the dead and sycophants."

"Mizz Vee, then."

'Miss Vee' chuckled and rediscovered her smile. "Very well. Now, my questions." As swiftly as it had arrived, her smile disappeared again. "How is everyone?"

Jane came up short for a third time and carefully deliberated on her answer. "Y'know, Mizz Vee, they're doin alright."

And Jane told Emilia everything she knew. She spoke of the first time she met their mutual acquaintances, fighting for the life of an innocent girl amid lightning and ice. She related various adventures with Ruarc and Percival and Miyuki-- and even a couple stories on her own. Emilia retold the story of how she met the group. And how she soon was called away. Emilia was clearly sad as she talked about going home to help her mother. She smiled wistfully when talking about all the times she tried to go back to the mortal world, but couldn't, though she wouldn't elaborate on why, and Jane had enough sense not to ask. There came a lull and they both enjoyed the silence.

"Where is Percival now?"

"Y'know, I ain't seen im, Mizz Vee. He 'n I ne'er really got to make acquaintances. Didja ask--" Jane halted mid sentence as there was a knock and the door opened. Ruarc would see only the hint of a feminine frown beneath a dark hood before a shadow swirled up from the floor to envelop the figure standing across from Jane Smith and spirit them away.

'Professor' Smith turned, a look of irritation disappearing when she realized who it was. "Mr. Flynn, t'what do I owe the honor?" The way she slammed words together made her rural accent sound all the more crude. It might have even sounded insulting, but Ruarc would know better. Insults were saved for friendly banter and villains. This was business.

The second time Emilia Venezia opened a portal into Jane's classroom was three months after that first fateful meeting. Jane didn't draw her guns that time, though she did frown at the lack of announcement.

"Still don't knock?" she asked, irritated. The American didn't look up from the paper in front of her. It was another lesson plan.

"You can speak with her," Emilia stated bluntly, a knowing smile on her face.

Jane shot to her feet in uncharacteristic urgency. "When?"

That arrogance of that damn smirk grew three sizes just then. "Right now." The ends of the Immortal Lady's cloak stretched and curled upward to form a curtain that became a portal. "Come." She beckoned with one hand.

Jane took a deep breath and rounded the desk. "If yer yankin m chain-" Jane shuddered uncontrollably. It was like an overpowering shiver than ran her whole body, and she glared when it was over.

"As I explained, if I'm yanking your chain, you gain immortality." She made a small gesture toward Jane that was clearly indicating her soul. "Now come." She offered a hand to the gunslinger and a softer version of her preferred smile.

Jane refused the hand, but nodded and followed Lady Venezia into the dark portal.

This wasn't Jane's first trip through a dimensional portal, but it was certainly the most disorienting. It happened so fast and the sensations were so brief as to be subliminal, but she was left with a haunting sensation and impending dread. She took a slow, calming breath and looked to her host.

Emilia smiled back. "Travel to my realm- not mine, really, but this one- it is rather discomfiting to living souls."

Jane shook her head. "Let's get on with it."

They were in a vestibule of sorts. It was a circular room with a series of doors, each utterly unique in size, shape, and decor. They were beautiful and fascinating, but Jane found her eyes kept returning to one door in particular. It was a common size, maybe seven feet high, and wide enough for a single person to pass through. The color was like sand in an hour glass, and there were minor signs of wear along the bottom. The knob was the silver, the brass coating long since having been rubbed away. It was perhaps the least impressive, but something about it called to her. It wasn't the Calling; this was something else. It was what she imagined inevitability would feel like if it were an emotion.

"She's through there." Jane didn't need to look to know Emilia was smirking; so she didn't. She walked forward and opened the door. And that was it. There was no sensation of dimensional drift, nor buzz of crossing mana lines, nor wave of immeasurable power.

Jane Smith opened the door and bore witness to Fate.

The room she entered was nearly a warehouse unto itself. The floor was a uniform wooden brown, probably walnut. Not far away was a woman standing before what was undoubtedly the largest industrial weaver ever to exist. Spools of every possible color, shade, and hue lined the ceiling and fed into the top of the weaver. Pulleys guided them down into their many places, where they met the racing shuttlecocks. The weave fed onto a belt that ran away from where Jane stood. At the end of the belt, that weave fed into a spool that turned so slow it was almost impossible to notice. One end, the 'older end,' trailed out of the spool to a smaller hall beyond the belt. It was hard to say, but Jane estimated there had to be thousands of those spools lining the walls in that hallway, each connected to the next by the unending weave.

Pacing in front of this massive machinery was a thin woman in a thin dress of royalest purple. Jane's entrance had gone unnoticed, and the brown-haired woman continued to pace and stare at the weave as it formed. Occasionally she reached down, though what she did Jane could not see, and she dared not interrupt. It was a lot to take in, and it gave her time to collect herself.

Every so often, the woman-- Fate, undoubtedly-- would look up from the weave and glance at the wall, as if searching for something. Jane followed her gaze. The walls were a deep, dreamy blue that made Jane think of the future-- of many futures.

Jane stirred, though why she was as yet unsure, but the Call urged her out of bed and onto bare feet. Then there came a cry, small and soft. She silently slipped from the room and crossed the hall. The infant cried again, and she knew he was hungry. With a reassuring smile she plucked him from the crib, and returned to her room. "I know, ye hungry runt, quit yer fussin," she cooed as she lifted her shirt.

"Again?" asked a voice from her bed. She looked up from her child to--

--Willow's heavy boots made the stairs creak loud enough to wake Jane. Her chin rose from her chest to meet the young woman's eyes, though it wasn't really fair to call her young anymore. Willow was tall and broad with a runner's build, and a confident smile that creased the corners of her eyes. Her fists planted on her hips, just above the gun belts that crisscrossed her waist, as they had Jane's, so many many years ago. "Sleeping on the job again, old crone?" Willow teased. Jane brushed back hair that was more gray than blond with a three-fingered hand. Then she rose from her rocker. "Now, ye lissen here--

--"Miyuki!" The Ice Queen spun at the center of her torus of wind and bone-chilling frost, staff in hand and fury in her eyes. Jane pulled her triggers in their ancient rhythms. Sheets of ice materialized from the vapors in the air betwixt them, but it didn't matter. Safeholme's greatest contemporary enchantress had cast the spells that activated with the detonation of gunpowder and obliterated everything that stood between them. The blizzard died as Jane's old friend fell from the air. Jane stepped up beside her, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry, --

"So sorry!" Jane was staring at her hands. They were on her desk, so why were they shaking? Where was her natural steadiness? Was she sick? "So, so sorry," repeated the mild-mannered voice. Thin fingers gripped Jane's shoulders. "She should have warned you." The otherwise gentle voice gained an acerbic tone on the emphasis, then resumed in its previous kindness. "The walls can be overwhelming, but the color is relaxing, and it helps me think."

Jane blinked and took a deep breath. The shakes subsided. Slowly, she pushed away from the small writing desk and the letters written in an alien script. When she finally looked at who had come to her aid, she found a round, comely face that housed tired gray eyes and was framed by thin, brown hair.

"Fate," Jane breathed. She was immediately disappointed by the lack of strength in her voice.

Fate didn't seem to notice or mind, and gave a matronly smile. "Yes. And you're Jane Smith." She laughed quietly at Jane's startled reaction, which they both chalked up to her disoriented state. "You're not easy to surprise, Jane Smith. What a pleasure. Please, come over to the weave. We can talk while I work." She gently led the gunslinger to the stretch of floor bleached by countless eons of Fate's pacing, and Jane abided.

"We can do this two ways," Fate began, her smile fading to a serious line as she refocused on her work. "We can chat like old friends, exchanging pleasantries over tea, discuss your business, and then bid farewell. You'll go home dismayed but having enjoyed our chat. I quite like that option, but I know you're a no-nonsense kind of woman. So I also offer a second option: we waste no time. I'll tell you everything right now, and you leave immediately, disgruntled and dismayed."

"Either way, there's no pattern-shift to your Fate. As soon as that damned Grath Nevanda got mortality stuck in her head--" she cut herself off. The last had been spoken like a curse, but there was an obvious fondness in Fate's tone. "--Nevermind. Which would you prefer?"

Jane made to speak, but paused when Fate's haggard eyes met hers again. 'The second option,' had been on the tip of her tongue, but...

The American smiled. "Ye got any English Breakfast roun here?"

The following moments Jane could not have predicted. Grains of sand rose from the grains of wood along the floor and took the shape of two tall stools. They face one another across an equally tall, circular table like you might find lining the wall of your favorite cafe. As they took their seats, Jane observed that the chairs had taken on a realness: cushioned seats, iron-wrought backs and legs. The table was a chic marble, patterned to pair with the chairs. Despite her apparel, Fate seemed to have an eye for design. Or so Jane guessed. She was hardly an expert.

On Jane's left and Fate's right ran the belt that slowly drove the freshly formed weave toward the spools of history. Fate watched in silence a few moments, and the gunslinger was making to ask a question when she heard the familiar clink of porcelain. Glancing down, she saw two empty tea cups. Looking even lower, over the side of the table, there stood a hooded robe. It was gray, two feet tall, and roughly humanoid, but otherwise Jane could make no sense of what it might be. Hood, hem, and sleeves were all oversized as to hide the true form underneath. As she pondered this, the creature leaped in perfect silence and poured a perfect measure of tea into Fate's cup. Fate took the cup to her lips without ever lifting her gaze from the weave. She blinked slowly, clearly savoring the moment.

Jane watched with mild amusement as the grey servant leaped a second time to pour the American's tea. Perfectly measured and not a drop spilled. She leaned over to thank the small creature, but it was gone. Jane sighed, then took her cup in both hands. Fate finally looked up.

"What do you think?"

The question was incredibly vague, but Jane got the impression her host was referring to the room and the weave. "It's a lot done with so little."

Fate smiled brightly. "That is the best description anyone has ever given. Yes, so much accomplished with so little provisioned."

Jane gestured to the thousands of hyper-fine threads descending from the ceiling. "Beggin yer pardon, but it looks like our fates need ye bout so much as a river needs a guide."

"You mean why do I exist, if there's this wonderful contraption?" Jane nodded and drank her tea. "An excellent question, but which sadly drives too close to business. I was hoping we'd have more time to talk. Save it for later?"

Jane frowned, but nodded. It was maddening to be so close to answers, but the least she could do was entertain Fate awhile, and she intended to. She'd seen that same weary expression in her mother's eyes years ago, and it had taken Jane half as many years to figure out what it meant. Her mother had been-- Fate was-- tired. Tired and lonely. If only she had understood then.

"I reckon ye don get out much, say fair?"

Fate nodded. "Say fair, say sorry."

Jane's mouth twitched, suppressing her surprise at hearing such a familiar phrase from this near-perfect stranger. "And yet ye prolly know everythin what ever happened."

"Say true." Fate smiled. It was a poor attempt to veil her sadness.

"But it ain't the same as good company."

Fate couldn't bring herself to say it again, but nodded.

"What's your favorite memory?" Jane asked, trying to make some kind of inroad.

"Of yours?" Fate asked.

"No, yours."

This seemed to startle Fate, who didn't notice when she spilled a few drops of tea on the table. "I don't really... Most of my memories are here." She gestured to the room around them.

"I ain't asked what most of yer memories are." Jane's eyes grew hard, though she doubted she could press Fate to bend her way. Not if the Immortal Lady didn't want to.

Fate smiled, reminiscing. "My second favorite--"

"I asked--"

Fate frowned and raised a hand to quiet her guest while she pressed on. "My second favorite memory is the day I learned to read the pattern. I was actually standing right here, and Lady Fate stood right where you're sitting." Fate closed her eyes, hands splayed on the table. She led my hands over the pattern, teaching me to feel it. Not just see it. 'A life is more than color,' she said. 'Life has weft and thickness and cords.'" Fate reopened her eyes. "Would you like me to show you?"

Jane nodded. She was curious, but more importantly, Fate needed her to say yes. She could see it in the Immortal Lady's frame: the lifting of the shoulders, the brightening of the irises. The pair of women dismounted and their accoutrement turned to dust and vanished, giving them uninhibited access to the weave as it trundled ever onward. Fate spread her thin fingers lightly atop the weave, letting its fibers slide under her touch. Looking closer now, Jane could see that not only were there patterns, but patterns within patterns. Sometimes a dozen or more of those hyper-fine threads were wound together to make a thick cord that was itself part of a larger pattern of cords. Trying to look at the whole tapestry, it appeared a random collection of splotches and swirls. A more cultured Jane might have compared it to a Jackson Pollock piece.

But looking closer, there were patterns. Spirals, geometries, perfect parallels sprang up suddenly and with seeming randomness all over. Fractals and tessellations and other mathematical phenomena she didn't have words for began to jump out at her the more she looked. Some were just a collection of threads, others built of those cords, and still others combined the two into patterns that were as much about color as they were about the ridges and valleys.

As if reading Jane Smith's mind, Fate spoke quietly, "And that's just seeing. There's so much more, once you understand. Once you can sense the greater patterns. The total weave."

Jane smiled. "Well, I ain't here to steal yer job. Don't worry none bout that."

Fate laughed softly. "It would be a waste of your talents, certainly."

"Ye sayin I cain't shoot the weave into shape?" Jane smiled. Fate smiled back.

"Absolutely not! It's a delicate touch."

"Fer readin?"

Fate's smile saddened. "For fixing loose ends." Her thin body leaned forward over the weave, searching for a few moments, and then finally pointing. Even with her keen eyes, Jane had to stare a long moment before she saw the tiniest curl of a thread that wasn't laid neat into the pattern. Then she looked to her host for an explanation.

"There are many ways, but the goal is to be as unobtrusive as possible. Which requires a delicate touch, and great patience. These are lives and fates and memories we tend to. Not everyone respects that."

"Like who?"

Fate began cinching the curled thread tight, pulling it toward the future-- toward the shuttlecocks and the countless threads streaming down from the ceiling. It was easily the most tedious process Jane had ever witnessed. To tighten the thread, she had to pull it loose the next time it surfaced in the pattern; to fix that point, she would have to find the next time it resurfaced and do it again. And on and on... It would take hours, she estimated. Fate's voice cut into her thoughts. "Like your... patron."

Jane barely suppressed a shiver, but the chill lingered. Patron.

"Your circumstances are not my doing."

"What?" Jane's tone was a thin barrier between polite southern belle and furious gunslinger. All this build up, all this waiting for this moment- and she was in the wrong damned place!?

"Chosen Threads are guided and bound by shuttles," she pointed to the wooden needles whipping back and forth within the weave. "Your is a Patron. Your colleague, Mr. Caxton, is subject to a Force. Myself and Lady Venezia are part and parcel of Cosmic Truths. Sometimes those shuttles run awry. Always something small, but something that nevertheless produces a wrinkle for me to iron out.

"The wrinkle that has led you here- that has led us to meet, happened when you were still a toddler, before you were ever even Chosen. But I'm rambling." She sighed and rolled her shoulders, but never ceased her work on that one wily thread. "Your Patron guides your fate. And they... Honestly, they're probably not too happy we're having this conversation. So let me cut to the chase."

Fate's focused gaze locked onto Jane's. "You have-- what do you call it? The Calling. There are forces at work you cannot change, but your choices are still your own. Your aptitudes are your own. That's the beauty of the weave. All these threads seeking their own place in the pattern. It seems a mess at first, but then life is just a messy string of choices. But they're still choices. You are not a puppet. You were chosen because of who you are, not the other way around."

Jane breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank ye, sai."

Fate nodded and smiled, but she was utterly focused on her loose strand. "I would invite you to stay longer, but you have business to be about. And so do I."

Jane nodded. "Thank ye gain. Ye pulled a hefty weight off this girl's heart."

"Of course, Jane Smith, and what a heart it is. What a familiar heart..." The sentiment chilled Jane. Those tired eyes. Those sad smiles. That wistful tone. The yearning. Jane was fairly certain Fate had never intended to voice those thoughts, distracted as she was. She tried to let it slide.

"I'll leave ye to it, Lady Fate." Fate gave a noncommittal, "Hm." She didn't even notice when Jane finally made her exit.

The moments between Fate's Loom and Jane's porch were a blur. Jane could recall a flicker of Emilia's knowing smile; a brief image of the nervous hand-wringing of the satyr that delivered her home; the unruly tear of a portal. If words were exchanged, she couldn't remember them. Her mind was at once numb and consumed by all that occurred.

The rocking chair creaked. She didn't remember sitting. She didn't remember kicking herself into motion. A cigarette found its way to her lips; her lighter found its way to the cigarette. They kissed and caught fire. Jane took a deep, shaky breath and watched the sky darken. When the sun fell away, the only light to mark her was the lonely ember before her face.

She breathed in, and it was gone.