A Fickle Thing
Chapter 7: Cold
The cloak has been buried alive.
As it struggles underneath the enormous weight on top of it, it can't help but be astounded at the realization that there is something else that it dislikes more than liquid water: white, flaky, clumpy, icy H2O.
Otherwise known as snow.
Otherwise known as a major pain in the cloak's nonexistent derriere.
The last thing the cloak recalls was a violent blast from evil Baron Mordo that separated it from its chosen, tossing both man and mantle like brittle leaves onto the frozen tundra of Nowheresville, Antarctica. The impact on the cloak was so strong that it plummeted through several feet of snow beneath the surface before coming to a stop.
It only hopes that Dr. Strange didn't suffer the same fate.
Wriggling to get closer to the surface, the cloak experiments bunching up and expanding its cape, finding enough success in the technique that it repeats the motions, breaking through sections of hard-packed snow and ice, getting closer to the powdery substance of the surface.
There is no sound but the swirl of frigid wind above it. There is no sensation but the frosty kiss of cold, pressing inwards, claustrophobic, dark, and hypnotic.
The cloak is impervious to temperature, but it dislikes the cold almost as much as the sensation of wetness on its burgundy cloth. As a garment forged to protect its wearer from the elements, it can't help but have an instinctive dislike to any extreme climates or situations that could endanger them.
How many minutes have passed? Has it been five? Or twenty-five? The cloak has not heard Dr. Strange (or any other creature, for that matter) in all that time. Is it possible that Strange's nemesis left, taking Stephen with him? Or was the Sorcerer Supreme left behind? Could it be that the cloak's chosen is currently searching for it? Then why does the cloak not hear his voice?
At last, with a final desperate tug, the cloak pushes past the surface like a breaching whale. Spiraling upwards, it wrings out any remaining moisture and shakes itself off, scattering droplets of snow in a messy spray.
Feeling somewhat better, the cloak glides across the pristine terrain, snow glittering white like opals beneath it as it searches for the doctor. The overgarment calculates how far it must have been flung after their immediate separation. It fights back a panic it knows is completely illogical. Strange mustn't be far away. So then where is he?
It doesn't have to travel far before it finds him.
The cloak perceptibly shudders, whisking downwards towards the figure of its chosen, lying on his left side on the frozen ground.
Strange's body is still. His left arm is outstretched, head tucked in slightly to his chest. A light dusting of precipitation has collected upon his form, coating his abdomen and partially burying his extended hand. The cloak, finicky, brushes the snow off his figure as if it is a swarm of poisonous insects. In its movement, the cloak raises Stephen's arm, but he remains unresponsive, and his hand falls limply back to the ground.
The cloak moves in closer to its chosen, examining his face. Icicles stick to Strange's beard like tiny shards of glass. His eyes are closed, and blood (almost black in color) coats his nostrils. And is it just the proximity of his cobalt-colored suit, or is his skin tinged blue? The cloak leans in further and tickles Stephen's cheek with its soft frilled edges, willing him to wake up, wake up, wake up.
But the doctor doesn't move.
Never one to resist a challenge, the cloak lifts his outstretched arm again, bringing it up to drop it back down. It tries a second time, a third, a fourth.
Still, the doctor doesn't move.
It swoops into the air, hovering directly above the Strange, and reaches out with a folded corner for thickness, like two fingers put together. Then it proceeds to poke Stephen on the head repeatedly.
Tap…...tap…tap…
It does so slowly at first, gently. However, it soon grows tired of the lack of response, so the cloak picks up its pace:
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…
Nothing.
Without any success at reviving its chosen, the cloak feels a mixture of exasperation and fear. It can't be. Dr. Stephen Strange isn't…
The Cloak of Levitation flits above the man's body and gently drapes him, protecting him from his knees to the nape of his neck. It pauses briefly, like taking a deep breath, and then entwines around his limp form, pressing into him.
Thus, the magical fabric feels for its chosen's heartbeat.
It is initially alarmed at how little heat the man's body gives off. Nevertheless, the cloak remains motionless, keenly listening, pushing into his chest to sense any echo of life.
Cold wind swirls around the pair, and it seems like an eternity has gone by before the ancient relic perceives, faintly, from what seems like the last remaining patch of warmth on the doctor's breast, a pulse:
Thud…thud…thud…
And now that the cloak is concentrating solely on covering Strange, not letting the faintest breeze billow its find threads, it also feels his chest expand and contract. The cloak perks up when it notices the puff of air shiver from his lips.
Repeating the gesture from before, it gathers two layers of cloth into a bunch and sets into his head.
Tap….tap….tap?
Nothing.
TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP—
Dr. Strange moans, rolling onto his back.
Success!
The cloak scrambles and moves with the doctor, its collar mere inches from his face, as if peering at him. After a few more groans, Stephen's bleary eyes open and focus on the crimson cloth.
"Thought i' was you," he mumbles, bringing up a fist to absently wipe at his nose. Then he proceeds to stare at his hand, blinking bemusedly at the blood he smeared away. This gives the cloak the idea that the good doctor is not quite all there…
"Wait," Strange starts, shifting his gaze sluggishly back to his companion. "Are you… backwards?"
The cloak bobs its collar up and down, nodding. Its edges ripple against Stephen's cold clothes eagerly, trying to show him how happy it is that he's awake and that they can finally leave this frigid, bitter, hellish, wrinkle-inducing place.
Can't they?
As if Stephen gleans the overgarment's intentions, his head falls back in defeat.
"Mordo…took my sling ring with him… And I d-don't have the s-strength to…"
The ancient relic stiffens, but it's not because of the cold. How could it have forgotten? Its powers of flight (with wearer in tow) are contingent on said wearer's magical energy. If its chosen is drained, the cloak cannot even lift them in the air, let alone around the world.
It finally sinks into the cloak's thoughts: They are stuck on this giant ice cube, with no foreseeable way out…
"'m so c-cold."
Dr. Strange rolls to his left side again and curls inwards. The cloak scuttles off him and hovers, fearful of its chosen's condition in the way his teeth chatter and in the way that his speech is becoming increasingly more incoherent. He is shivering.
The cloak wants nothing more than to lift Strange up like a precious parcel and carry him away, but it can't, and this causes it to panic. Suddenly jittery, it darts diagonally in the air above its chosen.
"S-so c-cold…"
Then it begins to snow.
This is the final straw, and the cloak overcomes its dread to take action. Because it will not see its chosen suffer like this.
Soothingly, it bends the doctor's knees forward so that his legs are tucked in. Then it drapes itself heavily upon Stephen, covering him from head to toe, folding its collar around so that Strange is lying inside a cozy burgundy-colored tent. Snowflakes continue to gather like confetti on its velvety fabric outside, but the cloak flicks them away.
The overgarment is thick and provides an extra layer of warmth and protection from the elements, and eventually Stephen's teeth stop chattering. His body stills, breath evening out. However, observing the blue-tinge of the doctor's lips, the cloak fears he is not out of the woods yet.
Dr. Strange shifts into a doze, murmuring something about wanting "hot chocolate." The cloak rubs circles into his arm for support, trying to keep the man awake. The relic isn't sure what it would do if he falls asleep again. It can't give up hope now, even as the wind picks up and howls around them, even as the temperature drops rapidly with every minute that passes, even as the sky grows darker.
The overgarment begins clinging to Stephen's frame just so it won't blow away from the gusts, and the man continues to mumble in frighteningly clipped phrases ("Mordo," "Book of Vishanti," "Ancient One," "Donna,") that the cloak can't always make out.
Then—a spark ignites out of thin air perhaps fifty feet away. The Cloak of Levitation thinks it must be going mad until it notices that the golden light is tracing the pattern of a circle in the snowy sky. At the familiar sign, the cloak smartens up.
Oblivious to the magic glinting behind him, Stephen stirs and sighs. The cloak begins tapping his right shoulder rapidly, trying to alert him.
"Yeeees?" the sorcerer drawls, eyelids drooping. "I'm awake. I think."
The cloak tugs on Stephen's nose gently, keeping track of its chosen and the circle that is glowing more brightly behind them at the same time. Another flash of anxiety runs through it when it realizes the circle has an equal chance of being a good or bad omen. What if Mordo steps through it instead of a helping hand?
"Hey….Cloak."
The cloak feels Stephen grasp its fabric like a toddler holding onto an adult's thumb.
"I'm glad you're with me…"
The cloak quavers with pleasure just as a figure steps through the amber light and onto the Antarctica plain, approaching the stranded pair. The cloak reflexively stiffens, coiled like a cobra ready to strike to defend Dr. Strange.
But then the stranger's face comes into view, partially obscured by a furry hood, hands that are covered in giant mittens reaching down to carefully peel the cloak away.
Strange looks up, eyes struggling to focus on the other man, but an exhausted smile breaks upon the doctor's face when he recognizes him.
"Wong!"
"It's too cold here," says the librarian flatly. "Even for a blanket."
Usually, the cloak would have taken offense at such a statement, but, instead, it ruffles its edges up proudly. Because it knows Stephen will be all right. And because they are going home.
A/N: Apologies—I'm no medical expert and have never experienced hypothermia (thankfully). So I just channeled what Luke must have felt like on Hoth after that crazy yeti thing attacked him. Pretty darn cold, peoples.
I continue to be amazed and humbled at all of the reviews and favorites and follows these little ficlets are getting. Somebody, please—pinch me. Thank you X 1, 584, 673. Keep those story ideas coming! They are tremendously inspiring, and I hope to incorporate as many ideas as possible into future ficlets.
The Magic Within: I really appreciate your thorough and honest reviews. They always encourage me and give me a little more confidence in myself. Thank you SO much! P.S. I shall have a fic featuring a BAMF Stephen showing off his skills to the Avengers in about four chapters from now. Hope you can wait that long!
Kat: Yes, I love the name Vincent too, but I think Stephen will stick with "Cloak." :) Thanks for your review!
Aria: I'm glad you're enjoying these! Thanks so much for reviewing!
KestrelChan: Thank you for the review! Yes—I was actually thinking the cake was red velvet too. haha
Thanks to all my Guest reviewers!
~Ista ^_^