Even After Death Chp 3
Sooooooooo, a continuation has been made. Despite how much pain I love putting Kit through, I'm also a romantic who can't write bad endings. Let's hope that I actually round this whole thing out at some point; I've actually sat on this for so long debating whether it's done or not but I've decided I don't care anymore. Enjoy!
Obligatory Parts (if you want context and/or pain): One Two
Read it on Ao3
Content Warnings: none apply actually!
Snippet: Things get tighter; pieces adding in wet clumps to like a rudimentary clay sculpture. Slowly, oh so slowly, toes stretch out from feet attached to dewy new legs. Fingers reach any way they can, testing the range of weakened muscles. Then there’s light, unbelievable light.
As he’s woken up for as long as he can remember, Kit’s eyes snap open. Which immediately burn like Hell.
The weather in Faerie is not that much different than what he saw on Earth. A sun shines on the plains, rain waters the endless forests, and the wind brings smells from unknown regions. Sure, sometimes the lightning flashes different colors than the blinding white he saw in London once and some parts of Faerie never touch sunlight at all. But it isn’t that much different and none of it has ever alarmed him, especially since he’s spent many of his years far above the clouds.
This, though, Kieran has never seen before.
A guard had run in, trembling and exhausted, cutting off the meeting Kieran was having with a general. He all but demanded that the both of them look outside for the world was surely ending. It felt like relenting to a child’s vivid fantasy, but they finally got up once it looked like the guard was about to cry. Now, Kieran can understand the desperation.
From his balcony, it’s like the entire world has been doused in red. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice the change from inside. It’s picturesque in its purity, not a spot where the color fades or alters. It coats everything. Kieran can’t help but think of blood; blood that’s been on his hands and blood that drips down the smooth plane of someone’s back.
In the center of the sky, a perfect, black circle creeps towards the sun. Though it’s impossible, Kieran swears he can watch it move.
Below, small specks of grouped and lone fae drift around the courtyard below, staring up as well and unsure what to make of it. They’ve had eclipses before but never not predicted, never such a color.
Kieran doesn’t know what it all means but nothing about is good. Unexpected things don’t happen in Faerie for the benefit of its people. Distantly, he’s thankful both Mark and Christina are in New York for the time being, debating on his behalf in the creation of new laws. At least they’ll be safe if this entire realm collapses in on itself.
He turns to his guests, the general far more composed than the guard, who’s broken out in a thin film of sweat around his hairline. But Kieran can’t blame him.
“General, I need you to get in contact with my brother. However is the fastest.”
They nod, silent, and are off the balcony in a blink.
“Your Majesty, what are we going to do?” The guard asks.
Kieran looks back at the sky. Yes, the form had crept closer in the few moments he looked away. “I need to speak with the Seelie Queen. Whatever this is, it affects us all.”
✩
Consciousness comes with a feeling of being broken into pieces. Thankfully not painful, but incomplete. The sensation is difficult to grasp, covered in thick cotton that its sharp edges can’t be made out. Out of it all, a crushing pressure surrounds from all sides can be made out; pulling and pulling into what can only be considered the core. A center, pulsing and alive but not yet ready to live.
Things get tighter; pieces adding in wet clumps to like a rudimentary clay sculpture. Slowly, oh so slowly, toes stretch out from feet attached to dewy new legs. Fingers reach any way they can, testing the range of weakened muscles. Then there’s light, unbelievable light.
As he’s woken up for as long as he can remember, Kit’s eyes snap open. Which immediately burn like Hell.
He struggles to gain purchase but his hands and feet swipe through cool nothing. There’s no sound around him, giving space for his heartbeat to thump painfully in his ears. Opening his eyes doesn’t give much either, the stinging can’t be seen through.
But Kit’s lungs burn so he has to bare it. The second try is more bearable than the first and Kit takes in his surroundings.
Everything is blue, perfectly blue. Spinning in place, Kit can see it extends all around him. He’s underwater. And sinking. He flails helplessly until coordination finally settles in his limbs, pushing him to follow the column of bubbles rising to the surface. Kit can’t watch the light of the sun grow closer, fearful of an illusion revealing itself, so he clenches his eyes tight until the tips of his fingers touch air.
Kit breaches, gasping a short breath before the waves knock him under again. His upper arms scream for him to stop, but to stop is to sink like dead weight. He doesn’t understand why it feels like he’s wearing that damn vest Jem sometimes makes him run with for endurance training. Examining his chest only shows there’s nothing there, well and truly nothing that extends all the way down to his feet. But he can’t focus on why he’s completely naked in the ocean or the frequent flashes of something grey in his periphery every time he turns; there are more pressing issues. Like trying not to drown.
Another brief breach reveals a distant red dot, bobbing with the choppy waters. With no other plans making themselves known, Kit steels himself to make the swim. The waves are too rough for him to stay righted, leaving Kit to stick just below the surface until he’s forced to pop his head out again to breathe. He narrows in on his counting, the same method Jem taught him when it feels like his legs are about to give out beneath him. Just get through the next ten seconds. At every ten, he breaks for air and restarts the count.
It feels like it helps but that could be the memory of Jem at the gate of their garden, a wide grin visible even from the treeline. How he gripped Kit tightly regardless of how sweaty he was, congratulating him for doing so well.
Enough time has passed that when the buoy comes into focus, Kit’s muscles are threatening to slide off his bones. They ache with each stretch of his shoulders and quiver once given the slightest break. But he musters just enough strength to hit its side and wrap his arms around the base. It’s bigger than he thought, which means it’ll be harder to pull himself on top of the platform; but he’s seen pictures of seals basking on them, and Kit is at least more dexterous than them.
Everything shakes as Kit’s nail dig into the metal, barely providing enough leverage to heave himself out of the water. He flops heavily, wetly, on top and though it dips with his added weight, it holds.
The buoy isn’t salvation. Its platform isn’t nearly big enough for Kit to curl up on, leaving his lower half hanging off the side and at the mercy of the frigid waters. But he clings to the light post, a vice grip on its supports. Pure desperation. Kit knows if he falls, he won’t have to strength to fight the current again. He’d surely drown.
So he continues to count: up to ten, down to one, back up to ten. Calm his racing heart, bring even breaths back into his lungs. Gently lead his body from fight-or-flight back into a headspace where he can think critically. Safe, for the time being, Kit thinks. He can’t remember how he got here. A crowded room is in focus and the feeling of Hazel’s arms around him is sharp–as is the smell of her clearance perfume. There’s another sharp memory, but it brings pain and no visual. But then there’s nothing. Images transition into a blackness that’s only revived when Kit’s already underwater.
What had been doing after talking with Hazel? Jem and Tessa might have hugged him, but that also could have been the night before. Why did they hold him so tightly? Why was Tessa’s arm shaking around his shoulders again?
The battle. Warm, damp grass that Kit pretended was just from a recent rain. Weathered leather rolling out of his palm. What happened during the fight? Did he get captured and somehow escape? Did someone magic him here, without clothes, a weapon, or memories? A chill unrelated to the winds cutting across his wet, exposed back settles in his core. Did he succeed? Was he killed? But that wouldn’t explain how he is very much alive, very clearly breathing, right now. Unless this is a very fucked up version of the afterlife.
No. People don’t just come back to life, not without someone to perform the spell. Not without a price. So he pushes it from his mind. Something more reasonable must have happened. Kit will figure it all out once he’s back on land, preferably with some pants.
Speaking of, Kit stretches as much as he can to scan around the light post in the middle of the buoy. The same blue as underwater surrounds him, only cut at the horizon line where the grey sky meets the sea. Typical English weather. But, it means that there are no boats to be found. He lays back down, resigning himself to just waiting. He has no idea where he is or how far offshore he woke up. Even a well-trained swimmer can’t go indefinitely and though Kit isn’t the same kid he once was three years ago, grimacing at the sheer idea of exercise, it’s a death sentence to pick a direction and go.
There’s nothing to do but wait until a passing boat spots him or he dehydrates.
And then there’s still the weight trying to drag him over the side. Out of the water, it’s heavier; sharper. Twin hooks, lodged into the meat of his upper back, carrying lead weights at the mercy of gravity. One wrong move and they could tear his entire spine out like a Mortal Kombat fatality. Kit risks a gland, praying someone didn’t actually try to weigh him down to drown him. But instead of heavy, iron chains, there are wings.
Sodden, dirty wings, but wings nonetheless. Dark grey clumps crowd sections of grey-blue feathers together and there’s what looks like blood the closer it gets to his skin. Kit can just stare at them. They’re limp, the wind only managing to rustle a few fibers. It explains how heavy they are. But Kit can’t comprehend them, that they’re somehow attached to his back.
Any attempt to move them like he would any other limb results in nothing. Then again, Kit doesn’t know if he could move his arms or legs either. Another piece to a puzzle that Kit can’t understand. But the drying salt water makes his skin feel two sizes too small for his body and no amount of smacking his lips generates moisture. He’s already incredibly thirsty. He can’t guess how long he has as he can’t figure out how long he’s been here. Any minute before he woke up is a minute stolen from his final countdown. He needs to stay awake; be prepared to signal help in case anyone comes.
Exhaustion weighs on his eyelids and he’s not given enough time to protest.
He barely wakes up again to a shout, distant and muffled but there all the same. A shape behind the scaffold tower approaches. Kit’s heart rate kicks up but he can’t move a muscle.
“You doing okay?” The voice booms across the water like a cannon shot. He blinks and it’s impossibly closer. He can’t conjure the energy to call back, raise a hand, anything. An engine’s rumble cuts through the silence, growing louder and louder.
“Hey, please, say something bud,” A man pleads. He’s bent heavily over the side of a pristine white boat, a single hand steadying him against the waves knocking against the hull. The bush of his mustache hogs most of the space on his face but that could also just be Kit’s eyes refusing to focus. Shoving down his embarrassment at a stranger getting a great view of his bare ass, Kit kicks to the best of his ability. It’s a pitiful splash, but the man straightens up. “David, I saw him kick!”
He sounds American, which only serves to confuse Kit more. Is he not even in English waters? The man turns to the ship’s cabin, though the windows are too dark for Kit to see inside. “I don’t care what you think you big downer. I’m dragging him aboard, dead or alive. Regardless, someone ‘aught to be missing him.”
The boat creeps ever closer but when Kit closes his eyes, he opens them again already onboard–swaddled tightly in a wool blanket and propped against the boat’s side. The man from earlier crouches in front of him, blocking out the sun that must have appeared while Kit was out. Either of the times. He smiles brightly as Kit blinks, trying to clear his vision. His mustache really does steal a lot of the attention from his face, but it’s like the rest of his features have tried their best to make up for it. The smile lines and crow's feet are deep and his dark eyebrows are more reminiscent of caterpillars.
“Whoo-wee, there ya are. I’ll tell ya, I worried we’d lost you for good.” His voice is far too loud so close to Kit’s ear but Kit can’t do much but flinch minutely away. They wrapped him pretty damn tight. At least the man had the means to look bashful. “Sorry, kid. Have always had a volume issue.”
“Don’t overwhelm him,” someone calls from the cabin, notably more British. David, the man had called him.
“I wasn’t,” he argues but shuffles back some. It brings the sun directly into Kit’s eyes but at least he has space. The man blushes again, before wrestling his cap off and slapping it onto Kit’s head. He sways with the force of it. The man’s blush deepens as he wraps two hairy and sturdy hands around Kit’s shoulders to stabilize him. “Ah, geez, not very good at this rescue gig am I?”
“Blimey, Jesse, take the helm.” Jesse scrambles back as another man appears. Usually, just one middle-aged man would be enough to cause a light sweat to appear on the back of Kit’s neck, but fear immediately shoots through his veins looking at David. He looks far too similar to Kit’s dad. Jesse mutters under his breath but still obeys.
David’s sandy blonde hair is already starting to grey and his brown eyes are faded like a sun-worn stone. Contrasting Jesse’s unruly facial hair, he’s clean-shaven. But unlike Johnny Rook, the lines around his mouth say his serious expression isn’t permanent. And he gets on his knees to look Kit in the eyes.
“Ignore him. He don’t know when to shut up.”
“Hey!”
“You’re only proving my point,” he replies calmly. He turns to Kit again. “You’re safe now, I promise.”
Kit feels himself relax despite so much of his instincts screaming to not trust either of them. Too many people have tried to kill him over the past few months; too long under his dad’s roof for a handful of free years to pry those lessons loose. But muscles still slack against his mind’s objections. Maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s exhaustion. He nods and David’s shoulders loosen.
“Here, take small sips of this.” He hands over a crumbled water bottle hidden in a coil of rope. With some struggle to free his hands from the blanket, Kit cradles it between his palm to drink. It’s only water, but it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He tries to chug it, but David puts two fingers on its base to prevent Kit from tipping further. “Small sips, remember?”
Kit glares. David chuckles but doesn’t relent. He gently guides Kit through the entire bottle and doesn’t comment when Kit waits for the last drop to hit his tongue.
Kit swallows, cataloging the immediate effects on his throat. His voice is still barely more of a croak but at least it’s audible. “It’s sweet.”
David does smile then, less bright than Jesse’s but no less warm. “It’s an old coast guard trick. A little sugar helps draw the electrolytes into your bloodstream.”
“Did you give him the peanut butter?” Jesse calls and David sighs.
“Not yet. Give the boy a minute.”
“You said he might need the calories!”
“It won’t do him any good if I shove it down his throat.”
Kit’s stomach chimes in with an echoing growl. David’s eyes widen and Jesse laughs deep in the cabin. He barely ate before the fight and who knows how much time has passed since then. Or how many calories he burned swimming.
“I could eat some peanut butter,” Kit says.
“Fine.” David pulls a small packet from one of his cargo short pockets. It’s the same color as the plastic of the boat, with a large brown drop printed on the side. “I mean it when I say eat this slowly. You can puke otherwise.”
He tears the top off, thankfully, as Kit doesn’t know if his fingers are strong enough to grip it right, and all but places it in Kit’s hands. It’s strange to eat with someone watching him so closely, especially when he’s basically drinking peanut butter like it’s a juice pouch. He can’t help but feel like one of those cats in the squeeze-tube treat commercials.
Clearly, these two men are mundanes. Kit doesn’t get the same goose-pimpling as he does around some Downworlders and they don’t carry themselves with the same authority and entitlement most Shadowhunters do. It doesn’t explain why they haven’t commented on the state they found him in, wings or lacking clothes. But he continues putting off asking as he squeezes the last bits out of the packet and David has made himself comfortable just off to Kit’s side, clearly not going anywhere. Done, he tucks the bottom edge up to start rolling it in on itself.
“Where are we?” Kit asks. David looks confused for a moment before his face clears.
“You don’t know?”
A familiar trill sings up Kit’s spine. It’s been a while since he’s needed to lie on this scale and he hasn’t been given enough time to come up with something believable, but hopefully, they’ll believe anything due to his situation.
“Everything is pretty fuzzy,” Kit admits. David looks off to the horizon, expression cloudy again.
“Do you remember anything at all? How you ended up in the water, maybe?”
Kit takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. In the dark, he gets a better vision of the character he’s playing. Like sliding on a mask, he falls into the role. “I was on a boat with my friends. I think I tripped. Next thing I knew I was in the water.” Kit opens his eyes again, looking at David, trying his best to appear downtrodden, forgotten.
“I didn’t get any calls of a man overboard,” David says. Kit can only shrug.
“I don’t think they noticed.”
David looks at him, eyes hard but sympathetic. “Were you kids drinking?”
Kit flinches back but thankfully David reads it as fear of being reprimanded and not surprise. “I’m not a cop kid, you’re not gonna get in trouble.”
For a moment, Kit looks away, biting his lip. Then, he nods slowly. “We’re just trying to have some fun.”
David just nods. With a groan, he stands up; remarkably stable against the rocking of the boat. “Well, we’re on our way back to Dover. We didn’t find a phone on you and we don’t have one on the boat. So you’re going to have to call someone back on shore.”
Before Kit can ask about his clothes, Jesse pipes up from the cabin. “Sorry ‘bout your clothes, by the way. They were soaked so we’d thought it would be better to get you out of ‘em. I have them hanging right here though!”
Kit doesn’t want to think how they’re going to give him back clothes that don’t exist. Which is another problem, why did they see him having clothes in the first place? Shadowhunter glamours are usually complete invisibility. Only in a few instances has Kit seen werewolves and vampires hide some of their more obvious features from mundanes without resorting to concealing themselves completely. But they were always intentional, never something that just happens.
At least it also clears the anxieties Kit has about his new wings, which tucked underneath the blanket are still cold and damp. And not an exhaustion-fueled hallucination. They’re going to be a pain to dry out, something tells him he can’t just leave them be like he would with his hair. Ty would know. Ty would know all the steps to properly drying a bird’s wings with care and respect. But thinking about Ty still feels like standing over a towering drop, toes sticking out over the edge just begging someone to push him over. So he shakes the thoughts away.
“I think my phone is still on the boat. Or with my friends, if they’ve docked already,” Kit says.
“That’s good. Do you remember your number?” David asks. Kit only nods because it would probably be too suspicious not to. “Alright. We’ll take you to the police station in Dover and they can call your phone there. Hopefully, your friends will be in a sober enough state to come get you.”
There is absolutely no way Kit is going to the police. But he does remember the map of active Institutes in the UK that Jem and Tessa asked him to be familiar with, just in case something were to happen and he needed somewhere to go. Three years ago, Kit would have never thought of any Institute being safe but now it’ll be salvation. He’ll be able to contact his family.
This time, Kit doesn’t have to pretend to be thankful. David looks uncomfortable under the spotlight of Kit’s gratitude, so he just nods and goes back into the cabin. For a moment Kit thinks they’re going to leave him be until they dock but Jesse comes back to the deck with a dark cloud overhead.
“You know I hate it when you boss me around,” He protests.
“This is a special situation,” David replies. Jesse rolls his eyes but plants himself across Kit. He bends his knee to rest his elbow against and the foul mood passes, replaced by another deep flush. This man goes through more colors than a cheap mood ring.
“Also, we didn’t look or nothin’ when undressin’ ya. Honest. I covered you with the blanket and Davie was real quick. No peakin’.”
Kit wasn’t worried about it until he started talking. He slides the flaps of the blanket to cover his chest better.
“Plus, you’re a little young for me. What are you, sixteen, seventeen?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Whoo, you’re just a baby. I like my men older these days. Aged like a fine wine, I say.” Jesse almost shouts out the last part, which David just grunts at. It’s then that Kit notices the smooth, golden band on his ring finger. A surprising miss with how it glitters in the sun. He can’t remember if he saw David wearing one.
“Are you two, married?” Kit asks.
“It’ll be fifteen years in four months.”
“I didn’t see him with a ring.”
“That’s ‘cause he never wears it on the boat, the shit. Says he doesn’t want to lose it in the water.” Jesses leans across the gap between them like he’s sharing a secret despite his voice not being able to reach a whisper. “I think he just wants plausible deniability if we ever stumble across some mermen on our trips.”
“Don’t fill that boy’s head will lies, Jess.”
Kit, despite himself, laughs. Since they really are in the English Channel, how he’d love to tell them of the colonies of mermaids that call it home. Though Hazel says most of them avoid mundanes due to their frequent ferrying causing heavy pollution, a few like to wave to passengers from the water’s surface.
Jesse gives Kit an impish look. “He’s just trying to keep ‘em all to himself.”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting a mermaid,” Kit says, barely able to look out over the edge to the horizon line. They’re moving quite fast, faster than it feels slouched on the deck and out of the grasp of the winds. Jesse isn’t so lucky, his hair is whipping in all directions as he stares at Kit. “Or a merman,” he adds, like an afterthought.
Jesse’s blinding grin returns, somehow a hundred watts brighter. “Maybe use this to your advantage. Everyone loves a good story of defying the odds.”
“I don’t think tripping off my friend’s boat is very heroic.”
“Muddle some of the details then, emphasize others. A little fib never hurt anyone.” It almost makes Kit laugh again, he has no idea how much that truly applies to Kit’s life. “Did David ever ask you your name?”
Kit shakes his head. Jesse throws his head back but doesn’t look surprised.
“David, why didn’t you ask for his name?” He calls. There are a good few beats of silence before there’s a response.
“I was more worried about making sure he was okay.”
“It’s about bein’ polite. You old cod.” Jesse turns back to Kit. “What is your name bud?”
“Kit.”
“Kit! Ha! Easy to remember, I like that.” Jesse laughs. “Well Kit, do you wanna hear how I used a real good story to lasso the most handsome man this side of the Atlantic?”
“Jesse,” David warns but he gets waved off.
“Oh, hush. Focus on not crashin’. I’ll leave out all the raunchy details, promise.”
Kit nods, which is enough for Jesse to launch into a story of an American businessman meeting a British Coast Guard in a pub. How Jesse experienced love at first sight for the first time in his life and how at the time he felt suaver than James Deen but looking back was more like a fumbling teenager at thirty-three. How David took pity on him and invited him for a walk after paying the tab. How they ended the night in bed, with no details besides a hearty wink in Kit’s direction when David started to protest.
The story kept stringing into others: Jesse’s first marriage to a woman in the States that was a terrible mistake–she was lovely, just that Jesse is gayer than a fruit bowl, the disaster of David trying to propose romantically and nearly losing the ring in Abbey Lake, and their two foster daughters preparing for year nine.
It’s a nice distraction, especially when halfway through Jesse gets more peanut butter and a package of saltines to smear them on. Kit clenches the trash in his fist, fighting the anxiety of going to shore. Something happened during the battle, something big. Big enough that he grew a whole new set of limbs out of it. As Jesse talks, Kit tries to subtly shift and shake out his wings. Hydrated and fed, his muscles respond better. Their movement is limited but there; learning to use them will be a big hurdle. But he’s putting that on the back burner for now.
Despite all the fear, Kit wants to see his parents. He wants to kiss Mina’s forehead; relish in Tessa’s perfect mom hugs; listen to Jem’s stories. It feels like he hasn’t seen them in forever, which could be possible. Though he can’t feasibly ask Jesse for the date without really sounding crazy. But the animated way Jesse tells his stories helps keep everything from flooding his system; keeps him occupied as the shoreline gets clearer and clearer.
The stories also give Kit a chance to feel for any injuries. But surprisingly, Kit isn’t hurt anywhere. There is an ache in his upper thighs where they dug into the edge of the buoy that will surely bloom into dark bruises and soreness on his chest from dragging himself on top. Overall nothing too severe. Most alarmingly is a dip just to the left of his breastbone. And another cutting across his abdomen. Kit can’t remember getting them. Jem would never aim for something as vital as his heart during training, never hit hard enough to leave a pink and shiny scar behind. He runs his finger up and down the divot, as Jesse keeps talking, almost soothingly.
Despite his approaching three years away from Los Angeles–on top of his well-sheltered existence there–the bustle of the docks and the speckling of families walking the rocky shore, is blissfully familiar. Not a shot to the chest like he thought it could be. Their docking goes smoothly, which Jesse says is because David is at the helm and not him; one poor docking job resulting in lots of scrapped paint caused him to be banished from the job. It’s also a little funny watching them try to find Kit’s supposed dried clothes that Jesse swears he hung just by the wheel. Good grief, Kit, I’m really sorry, you’d think with how small our boat is things would be impossible to lose. It’s as if they just up and disappeared. Eventually, they just dress him in an old pair of David’s swimming trunks with pink seastars and flip-flops Jesse found buried in a trunk. They assure him that the police will have a spare shirt he can have and while Kit can’t express it, he is grateful for not needing to tear a shirt to accommodate his new wings. Which he’s going to have to do to all of his tops, shit.
It’s David who insists they walk Kit to the police station on the docks, even when Kit practically begs them to just let him go alone. The walk is short, thankfully, but Kit’s mind is a whir trying to come up with a reasonable excuse not to have them walk him inside.
They stop right at the doors when Kit finally turns on the ball of his foot to look at them.
“I’ll be okay from here. You don’t need to walk me in.”
They look at each other, hesitant. Definitely parents. “You sure Kit?” David asks.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to make it up the stairs.”
“I am surprised with how much energy after swimming for Lord knows how long,” Jesse comments.
“I’m an active kid,” Kit says, growing ansty. They’ve been incredibly nice, nicer than Kit could have possibly imagined. But he really needs them to leave. “Thank you, for saving me.”
Jesse’s face scrunches, which is all the warning Kit gets before he’s enveloped in a warm hug. He’s at the perfect height to hide his face in Jesse’s neck. Though Kit isn’t very keen on touching strangers, it’s the recharge he didn’t even know he needed.
“Okay, Jess, don’t suffocate him,” David says, gently pulling him back.
“Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” Jesse wipes away a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m so glad we found you kiddo. Take care of yourself, ya hear?”
“I will. Promise.”
Jesses just nods while David places a warm hand over Kit’s shoulder. “You’re a damn lucky kid.” Kit can’t even respond, it’s more true than they know that it clogs his throat up.
David takes Jesse’s hand as they leave, but Jesse calls over his shoulder as they’re walking: “Keep the shorts! As a reminder to keep your partyin’ on land, yeah?”
Kit just shoots them a thumbs-up. It isn’t until they turn the corner and he’s sure that they’re not coming back that Kit goes in the other direction.
The marker of the Dover Institute wasn’t on an exact street, but they’re typically grand enough that they’re hard to miss. As he walks, he racks his brain for any cracks in the impenetrable darkness in his memories. There’s a possibility that someone could have put a block on his memories like he recalls Clary had done to her for most of her childhood. But it feels less like someone creating a fortress around a set of memories and more like an absence of them. A void.
The thought alone is enough to make Kit shiver. A complete and perfect gap in recollection is terrifying. But he wanders the picturesque British streets of Dover, squinting at every brick-laid building and shop face. The glamours meant for mundanes never caused him any trouble but sometimes out of the corner of his eye they’re still successful. When he first visited the London Institute it took him a few blinks for the boarded-up church to fall away and its towering reality to show. Then again, that was still before his Vouyance rune.
Once he’s exhausted the major streets with no luck, Kit takes a chance to tuck himself into an alleyway. With no one around, Kit manually stretches out his wings. They’ve been pressed tightly against his back out of fear; clearly, he isn’t fully glamoured but his wings are and while they may be hidden from sight, they’re still physically there. Someone getting knocked in the face by an unseen force as a random boy passes by is weirder than he’d be able to pass off.
He barely retrains a groan as he unfurls fully. Sensation floods through them in pure bliss; it’s heavenly. And with them out, he can examine them more thoroughly.
They’re gigantic, for one. The tips brush either side of the alley when he stands in the center, far past his arm span. He gives them an experimental shake without his hands. They’re still pretty difficult to move but they jostle a bit. So, for now, they’re mostly for show. No flying yet. Though flying would be sweet. He runs his fingers through the inner feathers, still mostly damp and dirty with that gray stuff from before. But they’re really soft; and sensitive, as a jolt of electricity hits him square in the brain. No touching then, either.
He’ll have to clean them at some point, but that’s a plan he can form when he has access to a shower. At least their color still comes through. Two different shades of grey-blue, darker on the bottom feathers and lighter at the tops. He’s not sure if they’re reminiscent of any bird species or something entirely of their own. Again, a problem for later.
As of now, the sun will be setting soon and Kit doesn’t want to be roaming around at night in just swimming trunks and old flip-flops. So he carefully folds them back, but not too tightly–he needs blood flow–and sets back out to the streets.
He’s momentarily distracted by the cliffs in the distance, almost too white to be natural. But signs around town call to tourists to buy postcards and other memorabilia of the famous cliffs made of chalk, so he has to assume they’re real. Or a very elaborate scam. Glancing at closing tourist shops has another perk, spotting the date. With mounting horror, Kit realizes it’s been nearly three months since they fought the Fae. Not an eternity, but not a normal amount of time either. Was he in the water the entire time? If so, were people looking for him? Was his family worried? Was Ty?
The anxiety fuels him through the final stretch of searching so that on his second lap around the street enclosing downtown, Kit spots the familiar glow of witchlights. They’re set into lamps low to the ground, leading from the paved street up a foot-packed path into the forest. He’s more than happy to follow the trail with the prospect of a phone at its other end.
The Devon Institute looks more like a stereotypical English bed and breakfast than a hub for Shadowhunters, ancient thatch roofs and all. Unlike the Los Angeles Institute which looked like it could comfortably hold dozens of Shadowhunters at once, this just looks like someone’s house.
Ivy crawls up the walls and nestles into blooming window flowerboxes and grooves in the stone siding; but, the front garden is well-maintained and lush. All the curtains are drawn but light still shines through like a beacon. The front door is painted a cheery, wisteria purple. Thankfully, there’s a Toyota parked in the driveway, a sign of modern living.
Kit drags his feet up the dirt drive, craving nothing more than a bed to probably sleep through the next few days. But, call Jem and Tessa first. Then hibernate.
He finds himself knocking before he can think about it. It’s an Institute, he can just go inside. But his brain on autopilot just treated it like how he’d show up at a friend’s house. Before he can just open the door, a woman is already there.
She’s young, maybe a little older than Tessa looks, with the kind of hair that gets kids called carrot-top in 90s shows. She looks confused to see Kit there as if she was expecting someone else.
“Oh, I thought you were a Downworlder. Most Shadowhunters don’t knock if they show up at all.” Her accent is thick and is most definitely not British.
“Why would I be a Downworlder?” Despite back aching and exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, it’s all he can focus on.
“Lots of Downworlders flee the Continent and come here for a safe night's sleep before they move on.” Her face pinches and she gives Kit a harsh look. “It’s not against the Law. I’m allowed to run my Institue how I please.”
“Where do they even stay? They can’t enter, right?”
“They can if I let them in.”
They stare at each other for a moment. Kit doesn’t know what’s going on. “Do you have an open room for me?”
The woman holds the door open so Kit can slink in. For some reason, he feels like a child who got caught sneaking out. There’s a cool drop of guilt in his chest for not knowing who runs this Institute, especially since she’s not anyone he recognizes.
Inside, it doesn’t do much to dispel the intimate charm it holds. It’s a very modest entryway with a single set of stairs leading to the second floor and two open doorways branching to other parts of the house. As he examines the decor, something he could only describe as nostalgic for the Edwardian era, he hears her inhale sharply.
She’s staring directly at his wings, which of course aren’t invisible to her.
“Listen, I don’t know where they came from either. But, actually, do you–”
“Wait,” she cuts him off, suddenly far paler than before. “I know your face.”
Kit tries not to shiver at her wording, thrown back to the last time someone told him that before promptly trying to cut his head off. He takes a shaky step back. There isn’t much he can defend himself here if it comes to that. Though the porcelain urn could make a good distraction.
“Let’s not jump to anything,” Kit insists. But the woman’s face clears, recognition visible in her leaf-green eyes.
“You’re Kit Herondale.”
He takes another step back, blindly feeling for anything he could grab a hold of. “Maybe I should just leave.”
“How are you here? We burned your body.” She sounds equally scared and fascinated. Kit’s heart drops and clangs down his ribs until it hits his stomach.
“What?” He croaks.
“Your body. We burned it, as is tradition. Though your family kept your ashes instead of giving them to the Silent Brothers.”
His breathing catches; his lungs won’t expand. The room blurs and spins around him but his hand clenched tight to an end table keeps him from falling over. So, he did succeed. He did die in battle. Hazel must have told Jem and Tessa his last wish; they must have spread him in the ocean. But why is he back? Why isn’t he still dead?
Kit looks up at the woman, who’s also pressed against the far wall. It’s very un-Shadowhunter like but Kit can’t blame her. Someone back from the dead is nothing to snuff at. Something in his gaze causes her to gulp audibly.
“Please,” he begs, “I’m not here to hurt you. Or anyone. I don’t know what’s going on. Can I just use your phone?”
