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"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."
— Oscar Wilde
In every day, there exist two times at which the world becomes a little less than real.
There is the moment when dusk descends, violet smudges spreading across the sky and smothering the flaming light of sunset into shadowy indistinctness. And there is the moment before the dawn, when gray half-light is all there is and form is made fuzzy with uncertainty, when strange things can be glimpsed out of the corners of one's eyes. Those moments are when magic has its space in which to breathe.
It was easier, when Clary was small. As a child, the whole of the universe was magical, was swelled to bursting with unimaginable possibilities. A copse of trees became a wood, a wood became a forest, a forest became a great uncharted wilderness — and Clary became queen of it all, darting across meadows on feather-light feet, careening around the wide, white-stripped boles of birch trees with arms outstretched, magic trailing in the wake of her spread fingertips. Whole worlds formed beneath her reaching hands.
And Ava formed with them, a firelight in unfriendly darkness, a voice that spoke from shadows with a sound like the ringing peal of bells.
Ava, Clary would whisper, beneath a wheeling sky so blue as to be blinding, Ava, let's run away.
To which Ava always whispered back, laughing, shaking, breathlessly promising, Yes.
The whole of the world was wilderness before them, peppered with hidden pockets into other places, kingdoms and castles and seasides where Clary and Ava alone could explore. They whirled through the cosmos hand in hand, caught up in each other's company and inescapably entwined.
It isn't quite the same, now that Clary has gone and rendered herself grown. The hidden places flee before her, leaving only the ordinary reality of books and classes, of odd jobs after school and meetings with her teachers, of routines that become bland for the countless rounds of repetition. A young lady of Aspirations has no place for dreams within her heart.
She lies awake some nights, deep into the darkness that draws out while morning waits to come, lies awake and thinks of magic. She breathes slow through the witching hour and stares until sparkles form behind her eyes and her gaze burrows into nothing, breathes and knows that it isn't yet the time when reality grows weak.
Ava, Clary will whisper, soft into the grayness when dawn at last draws near, Ava, let's run away.
She receives no reply save the whispering of the wind outside her windows, the rushing in her ears that begins to sound like breath. She holds hers, until she's dizzy with oxygen deprivation and the shapes begin to crawl, writhing and spinning and squirming at the corners of her eyes.
Ava, Clary whispers again, and this time, she swears she hears the peal of bells.
The wind sighs, and on it comes the breathless whisper, Yes.
She's paler, in the shadows of pre-dawn, lit with a low glow like embers rather than bright with her own internal spark. Clary's hands reach out, fingers dragging loosely through the air. Ava meets them, her touch feather-light, ephemeral as a ghost. The bed dips, and Clary wills her all the more hotly into presence, wills her stubbornly to have weight and depth and into being there.
Do you really have the feet for it? Ava asks her, voice an echo, soft and shy but still with a shadow of her familiar laughter. Do we still have the strength to run?
Always, Clary promises, because even amidst her nearly-adult reality of books and duty, she will forever have time for this. I'm always strong enough to run with you.
Ava laughs and this time it's a little louder, a little brighter, her voice taking shape out of the gloom. The edges of her body remain soft and indistinct beneath Clary's gaze, but it's better, better. She can make this work.
We only have a little time, Ava reminds her. Morning will come, and then you won't see me any more.
Clary only pulls her forward in response, dragging her by her fingertips to sprawl over top Clary on the bed. Ava's breath gusts out in a surprised burst, and the warm feeling of it on her cheeks is real enough that Clary could cry with her delight. Her hands dance up Ava's arms, mapping the shapes of them with only the lightest of touches, proving to herself again and again that Ava is there, Ava is solid, for this fleeting moment Ava can be real.
I wish you were real, she whispers, the barest echo of the thought ricocheting around the inside of her head.
Aren't I? Ava asks, and for a moment Clary is stunned into silence.
Ava is warm beneath the hands Clary presses to her shoulders, solid enough to be pulled near against Clary's chest. She sinks against Clary's body, a soft, familiar blanket of girl, grown larger as Clary has done, grown greater with the passage of years. Clary cradles Ava tightly to herself, wraps her arms around her friend and clutches her close.
Are you? Clary asks back, soft into the dark cloud of Ava's hair. Are you real enough, when it's only for minutes in the day? I'd give so much, for you to be real every hour of my life.
Ava laughs, high like the pealing of bells, sad like a church's call to mourning. She laughs and the exhale of her breath is too faint against Clary's cheek, weaker already than the last time she'd done it. Light is beginning to creep through Clary's curtains, glowing off the edges of the fabric with more radiance than the gray, muddled illumination of pre-dawn.
I'll wait for you, Clary says, though it feels impossible. One day. I'll wait, and then we can run away.
I'll keep my feet waiting, Ava whispers back.
And with that, she's gone, faded into the familiar dull backdrop of Clary's bedroom as if she'd never been there at all. But there's still magic tingling on the air, buzzing like the burn of ozone near sharp enough for Clary to taste it on her tongue, and she knows that for as long as there is dusk and dawn, Ava will be real to her.