A Mix Of Metals

Chapter Nine: Griffith's Tale

Hiya!

Sorry for the very long break, it was very tricky to find the time to write out chapter 9 with all the many many distractions holidays offer.

I might not be able to publish the next chapter next week, but I'll pick up the weekly rhythm from September onwards, if all goes well!

This chapter is slightly longer to make up for the wait.

Beware, it contains shocking narration and revelations.

Tread carefully and enjoy!

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The late night's half-crescent moon lit up the path the horses treaded without rest. Heavy hooves beat the earth with a rhythmical but dull and cumbersome pace as the four animals edged on towards the City of Vice.

London.

As they advanced, the bodies of the steeds were increasingly unwieldy. Froth built up at the edges of their mouths, and their large globular eyes closed slightly with exhaustion.

Harriet, or rather, Henrietta, led the way. Her brow had been furrowed for so long that it looked as though the crease it left would outline her forehead forever. She was deeply concentrated on the path, the events of that very morning going round and round in her mind. She thought of the chief-in-command she'd recognised and who'd remembered her. Of the soldier she had so keenly killed in the heat of the moment. And she thought of Mizu.

Mizu.

... that she had salvaged from this man she'd beheaded. She'd had to face death from the other side; from the angle of the perpetrator. This angle, she had not experienced it before, but being in the company of the Japanese man had changed that. It was a darkness of a different kind, to be a killer. She felt as though she had left some part of herself in the process, as though she had sacrificed a piece of her heart or her soul; which one, she wasn't quite sure. Perhaps, both. And a new emptiness filled her now, one that she'd been acquainted with on several occasions, but the nature of it was slightly different. It was... emptier still. Like a never-ending void at the pit of her stomach, into which all feeling, all emotion was absorbed continuously.

She glanced at the Japanese man who was crouched low over his horse galloping at full speed, his face invisible beneath the large-brimmed hat. It struck her that the experience of killing was likely the reason he always appeared unwavering, hard like stone, even when confronted with violence and blood. Killing must have killed him; it must have finished him off, and who he had been before. She knew there was that fire inside of him, dancing there, violent and unnourished, screaming for oxygen, for a vengeance.

Who was he? Who was he before all of this? Maybe he had been an entirely different person. Could it be only the act of killing that made him the way he was?

Henrietta winced as the aches in her body manifested themselves in waves. She brushed over the cuts and bruises on her face absentmindedly, absorbed in her tumultuous thoughts.

... No, probably not. A hell of a lot of things must've happened to him, to make him who he was now. That fire inside him, it burnt through his pupils, his irises.

That fire, it was mesmerising and terrifying all at once. She had perceived it twice. Once in the inn, as Mizu had slaughtered the three men from the NMA. And a second time, when he had chased after her and the groom, as they were being trailed by the two remaining soldiers on the path towards London, that very morning.