Chapter 3 Both nettles and lilies

On the fated night Strange awoke sweaty and aroused, his penis hard and burning with lust planted in him by the vivid xxx-themed dream that befell him. The release never came to him while asleep, for he had for years been deeply ashamed of the contents of his subconscious fantasies. A proud man like him? Man of intelligence, money, professional success and allegedly 'inflated ego' who's been avidly pursued by so many women should never indulge himself in so... self-depreciating, disgusting urges. And, what's more, what would his conservatve father say? But since then the accident happened, the impoverishment happened, the Kamar-Taj happened, the Almost The End of The World happened and suddenly Strange realised it really isn't the biggest of one's problems that one dreams of huge, muscular men taking him fiercely. Still, shadow of the past attitude remained and Strange always, invariably has been awakening before reaching orgasm.

So, still half-asleep, he proceeded to make up for that deficiency manually and reached for his swollen member. The shaking hand irritated him badly but he still managed to get a proper grasp and started intensive massage. Usually all would be nice and dandy very soon, but, maybe because of rather stressing and irritating day he's had, it didn't seem his body wanted to easily grant him release...

And then, all of a sudden, his blanket decided to get alive and engage in squeezing and crashing his whole body, one of its hems surrounding and pressing his neck, some other part attacking his genitals and other parts of his body. Strange's mind immediately filled up with all the stories about powerful sorcerers murdered in the quiet of night, when they've let their guard down asleep or entertaining themselves with lovers. He did have some protective devices on him, but whoever cursed the blanket and aimed at the very Sorcerer Supreme would be foolish if he didn't do research proper enough to cast on this item spells powerful enough to override known protectives.

So he kicked and hitted and tried to release his hands enough to procure any useful spell. The fight ended surprisingly quick as the blanket almost immediately released him and floated up and a couple of meters away. Strange immediately created a shield with one hand, quickly casting a reality checking spell to detect where could an enemy sorcerer hide. The blanket tilted its collar as it floated in front of Strange. Collar?

'FUCKING HELL!' shouted Strange eloquently.

His mind was a mix of negative emotions – fear and shame – the latter especially strong and always particularly loathed by the proud genius and, as always, it immediately translated those into an emotion he much more preferred – anger. So he did something he was particularly skilled at in all his relationships. He fucked up. To be more precise, he had – literally - kicked the Cloak out of his bedroom shouting some very angry (and embarassed) words.

He slammed the door with the loudest thud and fell onto his bed. 'What the fucking hell!' still filled his ashamed and indignant mind. He was mad at himself for panicking like that, he was mad at himself for masturbating without checking beforehand if the bloody Cloak wasn't around, he was mad that he somehow triggered some sort of reaction obviously coded into the relic, he was mad he had slept sound enough not to notice the Cloak sneaking between him and his original blanket, he was mad at the bloody creator of the relic who OBVIOUSLY was a FUCKING PERVERT, goddamnit. He fumed like that for some time before he had calmed enough to assess whole situation more objectively.

When he actually managed to do it he admitted to himself the whole thing wasn't all that unexpected. The Cloak was supposed to protect and help its master. Many sorcerers were killed while asleep - by other sorcerers who managed to sneak into their bedroom, by means of enchanted items (blankets, beds, pillows), by their lovers. So it was quite logical the Cloak would be programmed to cover its Master during the night. After all, very strong spells woven into it made it almost impossible to penetrate the relic with any weapon, even enchanted. Until now only Dormammu managed to destroy the ancient garment. It was just that Strange has never noticed Cloak's overnight presence before. The Cloak must have been lying down when Stephen was already asleep and leaving before he awoke.

The... 'helping' part was more... unexpected, but still it could count as serving its master. Strange wondered however if it was relic's own decision based on general principle to aid its Master in everything or was it specifically designed to also serve in sexual situations? That would definitely say something about its creator, sheesh. And it also said something about how little Strange knew about the Cloak, which was beyond irritating. He hated using things which mechanics he did not fully understand.

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Next morning passed rather uneventfully with the exception of Cloak not bothering Strange at all.

Well, if I were less self-concentrated dick that should have given me a hint, thought Stephen displeasedly, lost in his memories.

It wasn't until afternoon that he had realised something might be wrong. He was about to leave for yet another meeting with Master Sorcerers, the event he just so couldn't wait for and called for the Cloak.

It didn't come. The fact in itself was irritating, but wasn't surprising – it wasn't the first nor second time that the Cloak left for who knows where. Strange suspected it was designed to regularly check the area of Sanctum for any possible threats. Weaving this kind of obligation into the relic would be most sensible. But as he was heading towards the Room of Agamoto he noticed the Cloak hanging with other garments on the coat stand as if it was a normal piece of clothing.

'Come, Cloak!' he demanded outstretching his arm.

Absolutely nothing happened. Not even a flinch of the material.

Strange frowned. That has never happened before. The Cloak not always listened to him, granted that, but still there always was a reaction of sorts. If it didn't obey, it was always because it chose to do something else or wanted Strange to do something else. Stephen felt a seed of worry plant itself in his chest. Still the meeting would not wait and this puzzle could. Yet it was at the back of his mind, distractedly, throughout the whole conference.

By the end of it he already had a couple of theories concerning what exactly could set off such behaviour. Strange has learned that magic, however mystic the name sounded, was very much like programming. You basically forced reality to react in a certain way if certain conditions were met. Sorcerers powerful enough could bend reality to some extent even without help of magical objects or mandalas, just with the power of their extremely precise concentration and will (and of course energy coming from other dimensions used as a necessary fuel as the law of equivalent exchange demanded). But when creating longterm spells or magical objects that were supposed to work independent of its creator existence, you had to write all sort of thaumaturgic algorithms into the item to make sure it would work properly. So, all Strange needed to find was a command or situation that would cancel the currently working algorithm that forced the Cloak to shut down.

He remembered he did shout something like 'DON'T YOU FUCKING BE TOUCHING ME LIKE THAT AGAIN' - maybe it was interpretated for some reason, like some sloppy writing of the spells, as an order to cease getting near its master? Maybe kicking the Cloak made it interpret him as one of the enemies that clashed with the fact that it has chosen him and resulted in an error? That seemed quite unlikely at the first thought, considering how amazingly complex and intelligent the object seemed to be, but it was the very level of intricacy that could end up with most unexpected errors. Simple things don't break since there isn't much that can break. Complicated objects could be far more delicate and easy to break.

So, Stephen had got himself a puzzle. A difficult one, since he did not know what spells exactly were used to create the relic and how exactly were they written into the magical garment. He wasn't sure what was the main interface - was the relic reacting more to words or to gestures? Or maybe feelings? The state of mind of its owner? And Stephen loved a good intellectual challenge. The thrill of it had overriden the quiet worry over the fact that he had actually managed to somehow, even if temporarily, break one of his most prized possesions, acquisition of which had always filled him with pride.

So he dived into working on possible solutions. He had tried all sort of commands that came to his mind, he had tried every possible wording that could cancel his previous 'don't touch me' order, he had tried to verbally reestablish their relation by reminding the Cloak he was the Sorcerer Supreme chosen by the Relic, reminded their past cooperation, he had tried to explain there was no animosity in him, when he had kicked the thing, he had mentioned his future noble plans. He had tried to force the Cloak to start working by wearing it and getting himself in situations that might trigger the Relic to help him. He had tried all sort of spells that might repair the Cloak or awake it or rewind it back in time to the previous condition. In short, he had tried everything that came to his brilliant mind.

And nothing worked.