The Survivor's Cloak

I sat with my knees curled to my chest, watching Eos spread her rosy fingers across the horizon. My cloak whipped against my shoulders, its comforting scent battling the dominating salt of the sea. It was a a bitterly cold morning, but the goddess kindly offered her warmth. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below filled my ears, leaving no room for anxious thoughts or horrible visions.

I’d only seen the glorious blue of the ocean a few times despite living on an island surrounded by Poseidon’s perilous domain. My father and I rarely left our village, trying our best to go unnoticed by the king’s lackeys. We had come once, though. It was a journey that would dwell in my mind for lifetimes.

We came to sacrifice. People dressed in whites and golds and oranges dotted the rocky shore. The last of those faithful to the god of prophecy. They sang songs and played lyres. The smell of incense had been intoxicating to my young senses. Faintly, I imagined I could smell it. An undercurrent in the flowing aroma of the sea.

The sound of blankets shifting pulled me out of my stupor. I glanced behind me. Mavros was stirring. It had surprised me that he didn’t get up earlier the first few nights. I climbed to my feet, adjusting my cloak to keep in the warmth; the fire needed to be stoked. 

I’d been making breakfast for us in the past few weeks of traveling. That way, I could maintain my mind’s illusion that I was being a help. In reality, I owed Mavros so much more than hot tea and a warm meal. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the life he’d saved me from.

I waited quietly as the sage and jasmine tea steeped. My father used to drink it every morning; he claimed it prolonged life. True or not, drinking tea had become its own morning ritual. I had bags upon bags of the mixed herbs. 

“Aris?” Mavros’s voice was rough and gravelly. “It’s the crack of dawn. Why are you up?”

“Why aren’t you?” I challenged, offering him a steaming cup of tea. He eyed it suspiciously. I rolled my eyes; I’d quickly learned that Mavros was suspicious of everything.

“It’s tea, Mavros,” I sighed, “You drink it.”

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” Mavros sluggishly got to his feet and lumbered over to Magnus, our equestrian companion. I watched him grab two bags of dried fruit from one of the packs. In the short time we’d spent traveling together, we’d created our own kind of morning ritual. Tea, fruit, suspicion. Mavros always ended up drinking the tea, and I always ate his fruit.

“It wasn’t poisoned yesterday,” I argued. “Why would it be poisoned today?”

Mavros tossed a bag of fruit at my feet. “Maybe you're just waiting until the moment I trust you.”

“Well, you don’t trust me now,” I opened the bag and popped a piece of fruit in my mouth, smiling. “So the tea’s clearly not poisoned. In fact, I’m told it is beneficial to one’s health.” Mavros sighed and took the cup. I ate another piece of fruit. He kept his eyes on me as he took a sip, watching my every move.

“Well?” I wondered, “How is it?”

“It’s,” He cleared his throat, looking peeved, “delicious.” I smiled, pleased. It was strange, having nearly the same conversation with Mavros every day. My father was an eccentric man; every day brought something new. But Mavros was…steady. He was predictable. And decisive. It was intriguing.

“We’re taking a ship to Rhodes today. It’s a five-day journey; I want you to be ready to depart by midday.” Mavros broke our uneasy silence. I nodded in reply.

Mavros had spent the first few days of our uneasy partnership –if it could be called that – bombarding me with a wide array of questions. Wherever he had come from, a dark power was on the rise, and he’d heard a fair amount of prophecies about it. 

Coincidentally, or not, he heard of a temple-caretaker with a true gift of sight. Mavros sought out the man, but he’d turned out to be a fraud. This man, however, pointed Mavros to my father, and, in turn, me.

He asked me about my dreams. I told him about my visions. He asked me about the oracle. I told him about my prophecies. He asked me if the world would truly be destroyed. I told him about the seven faceless children of prophecy who haunted me. I told him he was one of them.

Neither he nor I spoke as we watched Helios mount his chariot and begin his journey through Zeus’s realm. Eventually, we started to pack up camp. I took care of the fire. Mavros loaded Magnus with camp supplies. It was incredibly strange how easily two people can learn to work together. Considering the first night we traveled alone, Mavros slept with his armor on, and I didn’t sleep at all.

Mavros helped me onto Magnus. He seemed restrained, he seemed certain I was made of clay,certain that one touch could break me. It irritated me, but what can one do? It wasn’t as if he was entirely wrong. Magnus quickly broke into a canter as we headed for the port city of Thesia. 

“You’ve seriously never been here before?” Mavros still couldn’t believe the fact that I’d never been to my own island’s capital. We had some time before our ship departed, and Mavros suggested we refill on supplies. Hence, the impromptu visit to the market.

“We never had much of a reason,” I mumbled, heat creeping up my neck. Mavros sighed, stopping at a booth to examine their salted fish. I fingered my cloak, finding comfort in the familiar feeling of my fingers slipping through the holes along the hems. I've been told it was a useless habit. That frayed things shouldn't remain in one's possession,much less be favored above others. But nervous habits don't leave because of the scolding of an absent man.

I stopped when I felt someone’s eyes on me. Mavros had taken to looking very intently at my hand. They dropped to my sides.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, startled.

“Don’t you want a new cloak?” he inquired, grabbing part of the worn fabric with his fingers. “We can get a new one from one of those Phoenician snobs; they're stuck up and arrogant and awfully tricky to barter with, but they have the best prices if you treat them right. I’m sure we can acquire a fine silk thing fit for queens.”

“I like this one,” I swallowed, “Thank you very much for the offer, but I don’t even have the money to pay for such a thing.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“I couldn’t possibly-”

“Great, it’s settled then; the Phoenician booths are this way.” He grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me across the market. 

Upon arrival at the fabric booths, he made me try on every kind of cloak imaginable. Silk ones. Gold ones. Purple ones. Cotton ones. It was exhausting. But unproductive. After what felt like hours of searching, we still hadn’t found one to replace my worn brown one.

“I don’t understand, Aris,” Mavros grumbled, pinching his nose. “You must have tried on thirty different cloaks. There has to be at least one that you like. What in the name of Zeus is going on with you?”

“Maybe I don’t want a new cloak,” I shot back with a glare.

“But why?” came his frustrated answer, “Aris, it’s practically falling apart!”

I just stared at him. He proposed a puzzling question indeed. Why was I so attached to a boring, beaten-up cloak with no practical use whatsoever? My shoulders slumped as I realized the answer.

“It was my father’s.” My response was quiet, barely audible, and utterly dejected. I was ashamed of myself. My father was not a sentimental man. He used something for as long as he could, and then he threw it away and replaced it. It seemed I was not the same. I dishonored his memory by holding on to something he wouldn’t think twice about keeping if it were riddled with holes.

“I apologize.” Mavros didn't answer right away, and when he did, his words surprised me. “I didn’t realize it was so important to you. But please, let me replace it with something that will actually keep you warm. I think I saw a fine wool one of a similar color in the last booth. Would you like to go back?”

Everything about his posture was gentle. But not gentle like it usually was. This time, it wasn’t like he was talking to an injured animal, but a person. I hesitantly raised my eyes to meet him. All this fuss. About a cloak? What had I been thinking?

My father was a wise man. He never wasted anything. He loved everything he had deeply. Some days, I smiled at the memory of my father whispering prayers, joy in his milky eyes as he thanked the gods for his blessings. Some days, I hated him for leaving me to brave the world all alone. But maybe it was time to take a page out of his book. 

“Yes, please,” I finally answered, my lips curving into a wistful smile. He nodded and turned to leave. I stayed behind, carefully untying the cloak and lifting it off my shoulders. A single tear fell on the woolen fabric as I wrapped it in my arms. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying. 

As I left the booth, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Fates. They may have taken much from me. But they had also given me a chance to start over. A strange man in whom, maybe one day, I’d find a friend. Fate does not care for the little troubles of man, nor the passing thoughts of woman. That is what the fortune-tellers will whisper in their rooms of incense. But as I watched Mavros bargain with the Phoenician traders, for a woolen brown thing of a modest price, I knew that those fools couldn’t be any more mistaken.