This fic was written in response to all the angsty friendly reminders flying around regarding Harry's death in the Kingsman tag on tumblr. I'm looking at you kingsmanposts. Also written as my little hat-tip to Sir Terry Pratchett, may he rest in peace.
Harry awoke with a start, staring up at the sky. A few wispy clouds decorated his view from the ground and he wondered why he was lying there. And then, equally as abruptly, he remembered.
He sat up. Not insomuch sat as lifted himself from the ground. It was a strange sensation, if he could feel anything. It was rather alarming that he couldn't, and he wondered if he might be paralysed. He looked down, and there he was, lying on his back with limbs sprawled outwards, glasses broken, suit stained in large swathes with blood that wasn't entirely his own, and a gunshot wound to the forehead dribbling rivulets of blood that matted his hair and joined the puddle pooling beneath his head.
"Pity. I rather liked that suit."
I AGREE. IT WAS A RESPECTABLE GARMENT. LESS PEOPLE BOTHER WITH THEM NOW. A PITY.
It was not like any sort of voice Harry had heard before, if one could hear a voice that materialised directly into their headspace, bypassing the ears altogether. It had the intonation of two tombstones slamming together in the recesses of his mind.
He looked up to regard the skeletal figure cloaked in a shroud steeped in abyssal darkness, brandishing a scythe whose edge appeared to cleave the afternoon sunlight glinting off it into two. Within the blackness of the skull's eye sockets, a pair of glowing blue supernovas that looked to be much further away than spatial reality allowed seemed to affix a sort of focus on him.
"This can't be real, can it?"
REALITY IS RARELY WHAT IT SEEMS.
"I suppose I'm dead then."
IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING. I HEAR MANY PREFER TO CALL IT PASSING ON.
Harry looked back at the church and shuddered. His stomach would have stated up an unpleasant churning feeling right about then, except in the course of being dead, one was typically forced to abandon such bodily sensations.
"What about…"
THEY TOO, HAVE PASSED.
"I killed all those people."
INDEED. IT IS HIGHLY IRREGULAR TO HAVE TO UNDERTAKE THE DUTY EN MASSE IN THIS AGE. I HAD TO ASK THEM TO FORM A QUEUE. THEY WERE NOT AMONG THE MOST COOPERATIVE I HAVE MET.
Harry didn't quite know how to form a response, being somewhere between total shock and confused embarrassment. An awkward silence passed between the two.
"What happens now?"
THAT DEPENDS ON WHAT YOU BELIEVE. MOST GO ON.
More silence. Harry thought hard, and then spoke.
"But I still have work to do here. Many people will die if Valentine isn't stopped. It seems unjust that thousands more will depart this world not knowing how or why they came to be dead."
THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO. YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF YOUR TIME, AND WHEN IT'S TIME, IT'S TIME. THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT. IT IS MOST UNFORTUNATE. IN THIS WORLD, THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST ME.
This time, Harry's expression – or at least what he thought to be the manifestation of his expression – came to a halt at the intersection of stunned and defeated.
IF IT HELPS, Death said, not unkindly, DON'T THINK OF IT AS DYING. JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH. BESIDES, YOU WOULDN'T WANT TO KEEP THEM WAITING.
"Them?"
TWO OF THEM, AND A FEW MORE. THE TWO LOOKED A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR WHEN I MET THEM. IN DOING THE DUTY I HARDLY EVER SEE PEOPLE AT THEIR BEST, BUT THEY CAME CLOSE. LOTS OF YOUR AGENTS HAVE.
It dawned on Harry that the people being referred to were James and Lee. And all the others he knew who had departed life.
"Oh."
YES.
Finally, he understood.
"On." He agreed, looking contemplative.
The surroundings began to unravel around him, the visage of Death appearing more and more real – if that was even possible from where he stood – as buildings on the horizon were swallowed by nothingness one by one. The remaining ground seemed to cluster about his feet. In the distance, he could see the swell of black desert sands pushing its way towards him like an incoming tide.
"May I be permitted to say a few words before I pass – as you say, on?"
IT IS UP TO YOU.
The blue sky was nearly done being eclipsed by the dark canvas of endless night and space that stretched into forever. He chose his words simply.
"Stay strong Eggsy. I know you'll make me proud. I wish you a happy life."