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Stephen might be its master, but the Cloak of Levitation had a mind of its own. It could materialize whenever and wherever it wanted.
And it always materialized whenever Stephen tucked Morgan in.
That night, the fabric wrapped around the little girl and lifted her into the air for a bit, rocking her gently, coaxing giggles from the happily surprised child.
Then it carefully set her down on her bed. A corner of the fabric swept lightly down one side of her cheek.
Not knowing any better, Morgan would think it was Stephen’s doing. She would believe Stephen was the one making the Cloak do all those fun things, as a last act of play before the day ended.
“G’night kiss?” the little girl asked hopefully, looking up at her Uncle Stephen.
Stephen bent down and granted the child’s request. Planted a soft kiss on the spot the Cloak had earlier caressed.
“Good night, little one,” Stephen said with a smile, before turning off the light.
As he left her room, he mused on that term. He had called her “little one” - not “Moggie,” or “Maguna,” or any other pet name used by her parents (and therefore, he used as well).
It was just something he tended to call Morgan at times.
But it was only now that he realized, he only did it during bedtime.
When the Cloak was present.
***
“You do love that little girl, don’t you?”
The Cloak turned to Stephen as if to ask What are you talking about?
“I mean, I get it.” Stephen continued walking down the cabin stairs, confident that the Cloak would follow him. “It’s hard not to love her. You know how I feel about her, and her parents.”
He spoke softly, so the little girl still working on falling asleep wouldn’t hear. And the Cloak never said a word, so he at least knew the Cloak would not disturb her.
“But I think she means more to you than I know,” he pointed out. “And I want to understand.”
The Cloak briefly hung in the air.
Presently, it sped ahead, and finally hovered in the center of the living room, under the stairs.
Stephen had always regarded the Cloak as its own person. After having spent so much time with it, he liked to think that he and the Cloak had come to understand each other intimately - he knew its intent, just as it knew his.
And it influenced him, just as he influenced the Cloak, the way old friends do.
The Cloak waited patiently as Stephen settled on the floor of the living room, in a lotus sitting position.
And called on magic to envelop both him and the Cloak.
***
When Stephen was younger, he knew what he would do if he could time travel.
He would, for starters, travel back in time and observe Paracelsus at work. Watch Lizst playing the piano live. Maybe knock back a cup or two of tea with Confucius. Or visit the Ancient One as a child.
But now that he was older, and wiser, he knew that traveling through time came at a hefty price.
Seeing through time, however, cost nothing. Except one’s sanity, if one is careless.
He no longer had the Eye of Agamotto, which could have helped him move through time - but he didn’t need its powers to see through time.
So he looked. And he saw.
***
A long, long time ago - before “time” was known as we know it now - there was a tailor.
She worked with cloth and leathers. She was the only one in her peaceful town who did so. All the other villagers gathered, hunted or defended.
She had no other skill. She could not hunt, or kill living things to eat, or even weave. But the one skill she had was enough.
Merchants from far and wide brought exotic cloths for her to sew.
Alone, she would work through the day and night, making clothes fit for royalty.
Her clients said her hands were magic. But her clients did not know two things...
One: she was born with magic. A little bit. Enough to infuse just a tiny spark of glamor in all her creations, so that they mesmerized all who beheld them.
The tailor did not even know she had this magic. She simply used it as naturally as she breathed.
And two: she kept the trimmings, the few scraps of cloth, that were left behind after she had made her majestic robes and dresses.
***
The tailor had a son: her beloved boy, her little one.
He had none of his mother’s magic, but all of her heart.
As soon as he came of age, he told his mother that he wanted to set off and see the world.
The tailor let him go to seek his fortune. But before he left, she gave him a gift:
A patchwork cloak, made of scraps of fabric, of different textures and colors.
She did not tell him that all the while she was making this cloak, from bits and pieces of discarded, forgotten cloth, she had him in mind.
As well as a wish:
A wish for safety, and for coming home.
When she gave him the cloak, she unknowingly poured the last of her magic into that wish - so that afterwards, she could not make any more dazzling clothes.
Her son left home, and she never sewed again.
Her neighbors were not happy. They were not a wealthy village, and they did not tolerate people who did not work.
So, one night, as she was sleeping, some of the villagers burned her house and shop, so that they could take her land.
The tailor perished in the flames.
***
Many years after the burning, her young son returned home to the ruins of the house, and to news that his mother was dead.
Heartbroken, he fled. He crossed dangerous rivers, forests, mountain peaks - and emerged on the other side of it all without a scratch.
It was because he never took off the cloak - his mother’s last gift, and dying wish.
The tailor’s son settled in another peaceful village, far away from the one in which he was born. He married, and started a family.
And when his daughter was of age, and wanted to see the world, he gave her his mother’s cloak.
***
So the cloak, through thousands of years, passed from loving hand to loving hand - tearing and being mended, changing color and fabric and form.
Gaining wish upon wish upon wish.
Keep him safe. Bring her home. Don’t let him forget about me. Help him forgive.
This was what had shaped the Cloak, until it came to grow a sense of self: thousands of years of little spells, of caring hands, of wishes.
Of love.
***
Stephen gently undid the spell, and opened his eyes.
The Cloak was still there, hovering - and if it had eyes, Stephen was sure they were fixed on him.
Stephen took a deep breath, as he absorbed what he had just seen.
Relics, as a rule, were made in one go - a strong magic user, or two, or a coven, would imbue a relic with extremely strong magic, and then use it as a focus of a sorcerer’s talents.
But sometimes, very rarely, there were relics that evolved by themselves. Relics that, through time and mystical handling, would accumulate enough magic to resemble a consciousness, and would be able to choose their own wielders as regular relics did.
It seemed that the Cloak was the latter.
Before now, Stephen had always presumed it was the former. Why had he done that?
Moreover, regardless of all it had been through and all that it had seen, the Cloak originated from hands that knew no violence. That knew only love, creation and nurturing.
The Cloak truly was one of a kind.
“My good friend,” he said quietly, in a way that he hoped conveyed his sincere humility, “I don’t know why you chose me.”
Instead of answering, the Cloak left.
It didn’t move at a speed that said it wanted to get away from Stephen, however. So Stephen got up, and followed it.
Into the part of the lakeside cabin that served as Tony’s lab.
***
Tony had fallen asleep over his digital schematics again.
His hand rested near an empty mug of coffee, which sat dangerously close to the work desk’s edge. The first thing Stephen did was to move it out of the way.
As he did, the Cloak settled gently around Tony’s shoulders. Tony stirred, but did not wake.
The Cloak seemed to glare at Stephen, and with a corner of its perpetually upturned collar, pointed sternly at Tony.
Stephen chuckled.
“Yeah, okay,” he acknowledged. He moved to a cabinet in the corridor outside the lab, and took out a freshly folded blanket.
The Cloak only lifted itself from Tony when Stephen came back with the blanket, and laid it where the Cloak had lain.
A still-fairly-asleep Tony caught his hand and kissed his palm.
“Hey, handsome,” Morgan’s father murmured without opening his eyes. “Is it Maguna’s bedtime already?”
“Your bedtime, too,” Stephen chuckled fondly. “Don’t worry, the Cloak and I’ve tucked the little one in.”
“Mm,” Tony mumbled. “What’ll you do without that Cloak, huh?”
Stephen smiled. He felt the Cloak did, too. And even preened, just a little.
“Lose sight of what matters, it seems,” Stephen honestly answered. “Pepper will be home from work soon. I’ll wake you when she’s back. Sleep a little longer.”
Tony sighed and nodded, nuzzled his hand.
Affection flooded Stephen’s chest. Suddenly, he knew the answer to the question he’d asked the Cloak.
The two of us, we nurture. We protect.
He touched his lips to Tony’s hair.
We come home.