Work Text:
The melted snow fell in large drops from Clary’s boots, making not a sound as they landed on the ruined carpet under her feet. At her side were a handful of blades and whatever cans of tinned goods they had managed to find after scrounging up the house. Ash held an open one between his hands, distractedly stirring the lukewarm soup as they sat in front of the fireplace. He chanced a look at Clary, who was working with her head bowed, cataloging the supplies they had found, and continued to toy with his spoon, moving his gaze back to the flames.
“Do you think anyone will notice we’re here?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Clary replied, her hand stilling on the paper, “We have been very careful so far. And as long as we don’t use electricity in any unauthorized area the Forsworn can’t trace us. The trick is doing most things by hand and avoiding crowded areas as much as we can; we will have to find something to disguise ourselves with before risking so much,” she glanced up at him and smiled through the stiffness of her body. “Now, don’t worry about it, finish your dinner and get some rest, we still have some time before it’s time to get moving again.”
When Ash first encountered Clary, during the last moments of his captivity in the Unseelie Court, he hadn’t thought much of her. She was loud, colorful, and looked like she had never been touched by the harshness of life. That only seemed to confirm all the stories he had heard during his childhood. His mother had never held her in particularly high regard, Ash had always found this peculiar because the opposite could be said of his father, her brother. The Queen had described Clary as a woman who had never known fear; not because she was particularly brave, but because she’d never had to endure the ruthlessness of a Shadowhunter’s life. She thought Clary silly, unremarkable, and too gentle-hearted. Until he noticed her among the crowd in the Throne Room, Ash never had reason to distrust his mother’s word. Then their eyes met, and he saw reflected back a story of loss and grief so familiar and tired.
He had known immediately Clary knew who he was just from the look in her eyes, no need for an introduction.
Then they had ended up in Thule together, the world around them cruel and poisonous and forcing them to stick together. She had fed him, kept him warm, and spoke quietly to him. She did not rush him as she guided him through the great dangers around them, and her understanding disposition slowly chipped away any wariness he held in her regard. When the nights came, they found refuge in one of the many unremarkable suburban streets of New York, where the houses were all dark and boarded up, no sign left of the presence of those who had once owned them. Clary often stayed the nights awake at the foot of his bed to let him rest in safety. In the course of a week, she had won his trust. And when mornings came, he was ready to follow her into the unknown.
In their time together, Clary had proven herself a knowledgeable ally, surprising him at every turn with some scheme or other to keep them safe and away from the attention of the Endarkened. They had gotten hold of a car on their second day here - well, Clary had stolen it from a parking lot of some restaurant - and zig-zagging through the checkpoints scattered around the city she got them across the New York Arbor and away from the harsher control the Legion held over the city.
Ash could see the ruins of the city’s skyline from the gaps of the boards at their windows. With the night approaching, and the risks of demons roaming increasing, everyone would be holed up inside, and he and Clary would be well hidden. He ate close to Clary’s side nonetheless. As he did, he watched her working, stacking their findings inside her backpack.
“Are you ready to continue?” she asked, holding her hand out toward him.
He took it without hesitation, following in her footsteps, small debris of the wood they had gotten for the fireplace crunching under their feet. “Someone will notice us sooner or later. We’re going to mess up, to be careless and someone is going to find us eventually,” he said, gaze lowered to his feet. “There’s too many of them, and they are everywhere. We can’t keep avoiding checkpoints forever.”
But Clary didn’t seem too worried. She placed her hands on his shoulders and crouched at his eye level. “We can’t avoid checkpoints forever,” she agreed, “But we will need to keep moving until we find a safe enough place to settle in.”
“They know we’re here. The people we met this morning might have told them.”
“And I told those people we were headed east,” Clary replied. She gave his hair a ruffle and lifted herself back on her feet, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “People always think in opposites, and they lie in opposites as well - the simple ones anyway. They’ll think we’ve headed west.”
“But we’re going north.”
She grinned and winked mischievously at him. The cans clattered inside her backpack as she swung it over her shoulder, Ash quickly grabbed his own and followed out of the door, shutting it behind him.
The lane was thin and quiet, lined with the bare skeletons of trees that had once dappled the path with shade. From the look of the road surface, it hadn't been traveled in years, or at least not by car. The concrete was cracked and worn to the point that it looked highly unpractical to travel, thanks also to the fresh layer of snow that had not been shoveled to the roadside. And then there was the darkness. It was startling, to have no streetlights or illuminated windows to shed some light along their path, just nothingness and shadows and the quiet sound of debris crunching under their feet.
Ash wished they still had a car. There was something comforting in being lulled by the gentle rumble of the engine under him, the ruined road slowly revealed to them by the headlights. But the last car Clary had stolen had run out of fuel days ago and they had been forced to ditch it. She had said it didn’t matter, that they had reached a less populated area and they could afford to walk for a while, even though they would still need to be careful.
Kicking away a piece of concrete, sending it flying on a pile of snow, he raised his gaze to her. Clary looked haggard and tired, but she walked with a steady step on the roadside, one hand firmly clasped around his. He knew she mustn’t be getting a lot of sleep, between their constant moving around and the exhausting guard shifts she took while he slept.
They followed the lane as it broadened and merged into the main road, as the path turned less crumbled and more smooth, leaving one ruined house behind and another and then the next until they were walking up a gentle slope that curved around the urban area. Once on top of the small hillside, Ash glanced out over where the fields fell below, realizing just how far they had come. The occasional dots of light of the town beneath them were almost hidden by the hills, but he could just make out a few specks of light.
They kept on going, up and up and round and round until they weren't facing the town at all anymore, and the view wasn't quite as grotesque. It didn't look out over the valley but instead, they were surrounded by...nothing. The grassland ahead was filled with endless snow and ice, white from horizon to horizon, and Ash felt that he had melted into it, become part of nothing more than a harsh, endless plain, part of the freezing chill and icy presence, barren and inhospitable.
In front of them stretched the edge of a vast lake. Ash expected they would be traveling along its edge until the sun set again.
Once at the lakeside, they stopped. Its surface was far vaster than he had expected, the waters reaching out on either side of them and stretching on and nearly disappearing towards the horizon. Yet in the distance, Ash could see the faintest trace of dry grass. The middle of the lake was dotted with patches of emerging land: refuge in the vast expanse of ice. To the left of them, the occasional cluster of houses and the familiarity of the road. To the right, ice and desolation and, eventually, the safety of vegetation. The range curved all around the country, stretching on and on into other lands. It would be a hard climb, but Clary would help him, he knew. Ash turned expectantly toward the right.
Clary stopped their march and set her backpack down on the frozen ground. She rummaged around for a while and eventually her hand remerged wrapped around a pair of rolled-up chains.
“What are those for?” he asked, shooting the objects a suspicious look.
She helped him get hoisted up on a rock and lifted his boot, wrapping the chains around each of his shoes’ plants and tying them at his ankles before extracting a new pair of chains from the backpack and repeating the process for herself. “They should help us not slip on the ice,” she told him, hopping down the rock and shuffling her way to the lake’s edge.
Ash looked onwards, towards the intimidating size of the plane of ice with a great deal of concern, and then looked back at Clary. “Where are you going?”
She pressed the point of her feet on the ice, testing the strength of its surface. “We’re moving on, headed north,” she said.
“North is that way,” he protested, pointing east. Ash could see the land curved around the lake in the distance, running along its length and eventually heading in the right direction. “I’m not sure crossing the ice on foot is a good idea.”
Clary merely stepped onto the frozen lake. With small, tentative steps she moved forward, leaving no marks beneath his feet. “Not crossing the lake would mean taking the long route. It would take too long and we can’t afford to spend too much time in the same area.” She smiled and nodded her head further up the lake. “But once we will get a decent distance we will stick to traveling by road,” she promised. “We can even find a new car so that we won’t have to walk in the snow.”
Ash wobbled his way to the ice, careful to find balance with those new contraptions at his feet. “These aren’t anything like the skates I’ve used before. I used to skate all the time during the winter. One year my mother gifted me skates made of carved bone. These haven’t got much of an edge to them.” He tried to mimic the skating motions, but he barely managed to glide forward.
“They’re not meant to skate, just to avoid breaking a bone when walking on frozen ground,” Clary said, smiling apologetically.
Ash lowered his head. It wasn’t his place to complain. He hadn’t made a plan, hadn’t helped to make the things they needed. It was beyond expectation, and the chains did work. “They’re a clever trick,” he offered, falling in step at her side.
They trudged out onto the ice, the shore shrinking behind them as they approached the first block of unfrozen land. There were branches and things frozen in the water, sometimes sticking out of the ice. There was snow as well, and the clouds above promised to break into another flurry of snow at any moment.
“I used to go skating too sometimes, you know,” Clary mused loudly, startling him out of his thoughts, “It wasn’t often. Usually, around December, it was usual to build an ice rink near Central Park. When I was your age and I was home for the holidays my parents and I would spend a whole afternoon on ice and once we got back home we would have the biggest mug of hot chocolate we could find to fight the cold,” she remembered fondly.
“Were you a good skater?” Clary encouraged.
Ash gave a careless shrug, a timid glimmer in his eyes. “I had plenty of time to practice,” he replied. “At least compared to most of the other kids. That didn’t stop stupid Rufin from joining the contest at the end of the season. I bet he came the last week of Winter Celebrations just to steal my place. Horrible local boy. I never had any chance to get the first place and then he had to go and steal the second too...” Realizing his reply had turned into a full-blown rant, Ash trailed off, feeling embarrassment swallow him whole at having been caught complaining about something so childish.
Just then, Clary broke out in a laugh. “He sounds the absolute worst,” she told him with great solemnity, tongue clucking in disapproval. “Do you think you’re faster than me?” she asked, “I haven’t got much practice, but my legs are longer. Might be an even match.”
Ash’s fragile smile shifted into a teasing one. He turned his eyes towards the little patch of land and then back to Clary, brow furrowed in mock consideration. “Well, your legs are not that long,” he muttered.
“I- Wow,” Clary blinked at him, bringing her hand over her heart in an exaggerated show of suffering. “My own flesh and blood! I never expected it from you, Ash,” she shook her head and stood abruptly, “I think I can see why that Rufin boy hates you, now. You’re really mean.”
“Shut up,” Ash muttered, struggling to hold back a smile.
Clary took a careful step onto the frozen surface of the lake, then another and one more. Ash watched her test the ice back and forth in front of him. Once she deemed sufficient, Clary stopped and motioned him to follow. “Come on, let’s see how fast you can really go. We need to cross the lake, so the first one of us manages to reach the next island wins. The loser pulls the other to the next island. After all, what’s one little race inside of a larger one?”
Ash hesitated. There was something wrong about playing now. It felt like tempting fate. To steal a moment of fun, to relax for even a moment, there would be consequences shortly after. That was how it was on the run; to rest was to make oneself vulnerable.
“—Two, three, go!” Clary cried suddenly, waddling precariously on the ice.
As if by instinct, Ash raced after her. At first, in panic, for he didn’t want to fall behind and lose sight of her. He wouldn’t, he knew: Clary would never leave him on his own. But there was still a lingering fear there. Ash didn’t want her out of reach for a moment.
Then, as she was turning her head to look at him, Clary’s foot skidded behind her on the ice, and she ended up landing flat on her stomach like a seal. She made such a pathetic squeak of surprise that Ash couldn’t help but laugh.
Clary, dirty cheater that she was, began batting at his shoes with hands and legs as he swerved around her to avoid her hits. “Right, that’s it! You better start running, kid! I’m coming after you, and when I get you, I’m going to get revenge for my wounded honor!”
She tentatively picked herself up and began the chase. She made comical growls, arms raised high. Once she managed to run up to him, Clary wrapped one arm around his waist and seized hold of him, tickling his neck with her icy fingers. “Vindication!” she exclaimed gleefully while Ash shrieked and wriggled in her grasp in an attempt to escape both her hands now tickling his sides.
Clary tightened his arms around him, making a lot of silly noises as her hands darted everywhere, tickling mercilessly and opening and closing like a biting mouth on his arm and nose and cheeks. He pushed her hands away and broke free, zipping forwards with his hands raised victoriously above his head.
She laughed and shrugged her backpack off her shoulders, untangling a piece of rope from where it was rolled at its side. “Come on then,” she said, tying it around her waist and handing him the other end. “I’ll give you a lift.”
He adjusted his grip and leaned back, gliding lazily over the frozen lake. How fine it would be if they had a sled. With his feet aching from the time spent on the road and heavy from the cold, he found himself wishing for the comfort of getting curled up under a heavy fur, watching the world slip by as someone pushed them along. When he had been little, and his mother was busy with her royal duties, his nursemaid used to take him on long trips to the lands near his mother's Court where he would inevitably end up falling asleep, pressed up against her shoulder. Rarer were the times when his mother would leave the Court and join him but, upon their return home, he woke up in the same state.
Clary had a very comfortable shoulder too, he thought. He happened to have dozed against it one night in an inn while she negotiated with the owner for their dinner. It had been a steady shoulder, padded and warm. It felt almost the same: like family. She had pulled the drooping puddle of him from the bench and carried him to bed that night, just as his nursemaid had done when he had been very small. Clary now guided him across the ice, and something in that felt just as comforting.
Ash stared at her back. Something had been pulling at him for his entire life: strangers and the Unseelie King and his own mother too. He grew up feeling the claws of their expectations tugging at his skin relentlessly. But now, a gentler hand was pulling him. It was a helpful thing, guiding, not demanding. Clary pulled him into the safety of a shadowed corner, toward a table with a warm meal waiting, toward a warm bath, a fresh bed, the warmest spot by the fire. She pulled him into her arms when he woke screaming because of a nightmare.
Clary was a strange thing to him: a mix between a guardian, an older sister, and all the same an aunt or some kind of parental figure. Perhaps a mentor of a sort. Ash wasn’t sure, their relationship was still rather confused at this point, and he could not think of a better word to define what she meant to him. But, for now, friend was enough.
By the time the extinguished sun began to rise at the horizon, the light tinging a brighter red, they had stopped along the lakeside to set up a camp. There was no moon to expose the pillar of smoke from their fire, and they were far enough from any sign of civilization to take the risk. Their legs and feet sore and iced, they bundled together beneath Clary’s blanket, sipping slightly bland tea from the old bags they had found in the last house they had stayed in — Clary’s foraging still had some merit, after all. She had managed to find some biscuits too, and this treat she bundled in a handkerchief and kept hidden through their little adventure across the lake and - though they had ended up cracked due to her fall on the ice - it hadn’t affected their sweetness in the slightest.
Then, when Ash had drained his tea and eaten the dried meat, Clary tucked him into his bedroll, adjusting the makeshift shelter they had improvised together, cushioning it with more armfuls of leaves. It was thick enough to provide some distance from the coldness and roughness of the ground, and the night was not terribly windy, but she mumbled under her breath all the same, fretting about every little shift in the breeze. And though he was plenty warm, Clary still laid her blanket over him.
For a long time, Ash laid in silence, waiting for her to curl up on the bedroll beside his. When she rested, he knew it was truly safe. There was always a sense of uneasiness at the pit of his stomach when she spent the night sitting awake; for it meant that danger was very near. Clary always hid her worries afterward, but he could see the fatigue weighing on her. There was a sagging in her shoulders and a shadow under her eyes.
Eyes shut, Ash remained awake, waiting.
He had nearly fallen asleep when he heard the zipping sound of her backpack being opened, the quiet rustle of pages turning. Then, as the pencil began scraping against the page there came the familiar low hum of Clary’s voice. Ash relaxed under the layers of covers, tugging Clary’s cloak higher around him. Better than curling near was the sound of her voice. When she allowed herself to sing, it meant all was truly well. Even when singing quietly, something about her voice carried a sense of safety; she would not sing if it meant being found. He listened to her, her voice quiet enough that he could not understand the words.
The song itself was nothing he knew. Perhaps some mundane tune, he mused, words he had never way of hearing. It was a stark contrast from the lullabies he was sung as a child, the music of Faeries was often made of soft tunes against dark and thinly-veiled lyrics in that peculiarly warped way that old children’s songs were.
Ash cracked his eye open and saw the silhouette of Clary against the fire, her head bowed over the album in her lap like a mother taking care of her child. The flurries of air that had concerned her through dinnertime had ceased now, but he felt cold all the same. Above them, dark clouds blotted out the dark shape of the sun, heavy with promise. He wanted to reach out to her, but he resisted. There was something bleak in her expression that stilled his hand. It was the same worrying expression adults used when they spoke to one another in hushed voices and children were not meant to be listening. The truths they spoke of in such whispers carried such weight that speaking them aloud might seem to break the very walls they gathered behind to speak.
Ash must have dozed off at some point because when he stirred awake again the singing had died away. She was still drawing; he could hear her but she did not sing again. All the while, Ash clung to the edge of sleep, waiting until the backpack was unzipped once more. Clary tucked herself at his side, her back to him, curled over herself to fight off the cold. He turned on his side and draped the cloak over her as best he could, curling his arm around her stomach.
There was a world of danger all around them and, if their presence were to be revealed, they would end in the eye of the storm. Here, the snow did not fall. But there was warmth still, a bit of time to play. They would still be in it when the morning came, and Clary would wake and offer him the little bundle of strawberries she had stashed, to her knowledge, away from his sight. It was waiting in her bag, wrapped in a brown paper bag barely held together by a piece of cord. They hadn’t much of anything left, they would need to stop and loot soon, but Clary had remembered what he had forgotten: that even if around them there was nothing but desolation, there were still reasons to celebrate, even if in small ways and even if they were on the run, and that he was still only a young boy.