Loki clutched his fists in rage. “Where did you find that armor!”
Patrick smiled, holding the hourglass-shaped hilt of the sword to his chest. “From my real kinfolk.”
Loki’s expression fell momentarily as he looked between the design of the weapon and the hourglass resting on the table.
“Well then,” Loki said, regaining his composure and throwing off his cape, drawing his sword. “We will just have to do this the old fashioned way.”
#
Katherina cursed as the bronze arrowhead snapped off in the crack of the door. She looked at the useless shaft in her hand and threw it down, and screamed in frustration. All that time wrestling the arrow free of the statue. All that time just to find that it was no match for the stout door and lock.
She paced, chewing on her thumbnail trying to think, but nothing came to mind.
Giving up, she returned to the scene unfolding in the mirror.
#
“I had no idea you were so ferocious,” Loki said glibly, hopping onto the long table. He kicked the tray of goblets. Wine splashed Patrick and Loki danced to the other end of the table. “I never gave you enough credit. I always took you for a brooding has-been. The triumphant Crusader returning home with nothing but war stories. At least you got free room and board at Greensprings to show for it.”
“Give it up, Loki. Your silver tongue, however offensive, will not enrage me to mistakes, nor buy you enough time.” Patrick flung a half-f goblet back at Loki, splashing his shirt with blood-red wine, and hopped onto the table.
Loki leaned on his sword. “So stoic, are we? Well, if I cannot anger you, then perhaps I can
―
” he rushed forward, growing, bristling out “
―
frighten you!”
Patrick’s eyes widened at the sight of the bull-horned monster barreling towards him. The thing was frightening, but no more than the dragon, the wolf, and the Apparition, so he steeled himself and slashed firmly sideways with the sword, knocking the horns aside and stopping the beast in its tracks. It bellowed in frustration, swung around with its horns again. Patrick stood his ground, grasping his sword with both hands and rained double-fisted blows on the creature. Finally, Patrick won a slash to its shoulder. The Loki-thing squealed and jumped from the table.
Its lavender slitted eyes melted back into Loki’s dark ones, and it was again the man, standing there nursing a shallow cut.
“I am impressed. Stark horror does not seem to unnerve you.” Loki kicked a chair across Patrick’s path. “But there must be something...something that pulls the cord of panic, anger, or loss of control within you. Every mortal has one.” Loki parried blows, smiling as he did. He raised his eyebrows. “I wager that I can find your cord, and play you like a church bell. Do you think?”
“The fact that you are warning me makes me think you are quite stupid.” Patrick caught his breath and made a series of double-handed swings that Loki danced around.
“Well said, Irishman! But, are you sure of that? Perhaps I am that good. Maybe I am setting you up with anticipation.”
Patrick wrung his hands on the hilt of the sword, alternating between a one-handed and two-handed grip. He tried to control his breathing, tried to stay calm, but his labored pants came noisily through his nose. His jaw clenched. He began to fret that these telltale signs of fear were evident to Loki, prompting the man to openly divulge his strategy in order to unnerve him. As much as he hated to admit it, it was working. Loki was toying with his mind; speaking with a maddening confidence that dug at him.
Patrick tried to sharpen his concentration.
“What of this?” Loki sneered, and his form elongated and darkened, slipped low to the ground: the wolf.
“What is wrong, manling?” it said with that chilling voice, “thought you killed me?”
Illusion!
Patrick’s mind screamed. The wolf leapt. He stabbed at the incarnation. Its fore claws ripped at Patrick’s armor, shearing off scales. Patrick went flying and landed hard. The wolf sprang again, wet fangs aimed at his throat. He raised his sword point.
The wolf skipped to one side and yelped. Loki was again standing there, hand over a red bloom on his chest. He swiped material from the table in anger. Patrick pushed at his own ribs; still in one piece.
“Damn,” Loki said. “Most fortunate ass you are.”
Purple fire shot from Loki’s free hand and engulfed Patrick’s feet. Patrick paused, but after a brief examination that revealed no damage, he strode forth. His legs snagged on something, though, and when he looked down he saw a mass of green vines coiling up from the floor.
Loki cried out triumphantly and ran forward, sword raised.
Hesitating only briefly, Patrick hacked at the vines. Of his few choices that flashed through his mind in that split second, this must have been the most prudent, because the vines relinquished their grasp, and Patrick had just enough time to duck and catch Loki on his shoulder.
Patrick charged forward, forcing Loki against the table, between the mirror and hourglass. His and Loki’s swords were locked at the hilt, and Patrick forced Loki farther over the table.
“You know what they say,” Loki grunted, “if at first you don’t succeed!”
He raised his free hand and purple fire danced about it.
With his own free hand, Patrick grabbed Loki’s fiery wrist and forced it into the mirror.
#
In Katherina’s tower prison, she watched the two combatants through her mirror. Occasionally their actions took them out of sight. She found herself shouting encouragement to Patrick and trying to warn him through the device, though it was evident he couldn’t hear her. That, and she found herself helplessly chewing on her nails, ardently wishing she could do
something
, or that something else would happen.
No sooner had she thought this when Patrick forced Loki over the table right before her, as if this mirror were the other side of the mirror below in the hall; again giving the impression of a window. The image was so real she jumped back, fearing that Loki’s back was going to be forced through the glass, spraying her with shards as they struggled.
When nothing of the sort happened, she tentatively approached the mirror again to watch, but almost immediately jumped back when this time Loki’s hand did appear on this side of the mirror, gripped at the wrist by Patrick’s fist. Though no glass showered her, she ducked away. Loki’s hand was awash in purple flame.
The flames leaped and passed over her head. They hit the ceiling of the dome, bounced back and struck the floor next to her. His hand slipped back into the mirror and was gone, leaving a ripple effect like that on the surface of water.
“What the...” she said, putting her hands to the mirror. It was solid. “No! That isn’t fair!” she cried, and beat her fist on the surface.
A sound to her right caught her attention, and she turned and gasped.
Where Loki’s fire had struck the ground, vines had sprouted and were spreading towards her, their thick sinewy arms uncurling like reaching claws. Yellow buds sprung along their lengths, rising skyward and blooming into broad leafy flowers. She took a step back, but continued to watch them curiously.
Her curiosity, however, turned to horror when the centers of the flowers fully developed, revealing little faces. Faces surrounded by manes of yellow petals. Green feline eyes set above tooth filled muzzles glared at her, followed by a multitude of miniscule roars. The flower heads lunged at her, snapping their jaws.
#
Patrick and Loki exchanged blows for some minutes, in the process demolishing most furniture in the room. Eventually they leaned on their swords, staring at each other with hate and fatigue.
“The sands, Sir Gawain,” Loki said between breaths, gesturing at the hourglass. “Soon, no more sword play. I will simply blast you from existence. Or, better yet, I will spellbind you, enslave you so that you can watch for a very, very long time what I do to Katherina...”
Patrick stood and wiped his brow. “I guess I better hurry, then.”
Loki put a finger to his temple and closed his eyes for a moment. “I know what truly scares you, Sir Gawain. I can see it on your mind, burning like a flame.” He snapped his fingers. He was the Apparition. Hooded, silent, ominous. But this Apparition held Loki’s sword and it attacked. Patrick put up his sword and locked hilts.
“This image,” Patrick hissed between clenched teeth. He pulled back the hood of the robe to reveal his own face, which leered with Loki’s smile. “No longer frightens me!”
Loki pushed him off. “I beg to differ. Reconciliation with yourself, with your own personal demons is no easy thing.” He swung hard, again and again. “It! Takes! A! Long! Time!” A shower of sparks punctuated each word. Patrick was beaten to his knees, but before Loki could bring down one final blow, Patrick tackled him at the waist and lifted him into the air. He barreled him into the ruined table. Wood and dust flew in the air. They struggled and grappled and ended up on their feet again.
Patrick stood facing himself. Loki swirled his sword in the air, tauntingly.
“I seemed to have found your cord, Irishman, despite your valiant denials. Now, how long will it take to snap that cord in half? Oh, I have an idea.” He brightened, and he snapped his fingers again. Nothing changed. “How about you be me, and I you? See?” Patrick looked at his hand around the sword’s hilt, and saw the narrower bones. “Is not this such a marvelous juxtaposition? You hate me, everything about me, and I dare not say that you care too much for yourself, either. And you are now me, whom you hate, and now you fight you, whom you also hate.”
Patrick examined his forearms. They were Loki’s thin ones. A goatee protruded from his chin.
Loki attacked. Sword stroke after sword stroke, Patrick reeled backwards. His strength was waning, the pile of sand was mounting in the bottom of the hourglass, and Loki was joyous.
“Now, how about the Lady Katherina? What would she think about our new guises? Ironically, you would be in her favor with her again, you know...” Loki’s smile was victorious. “But only because you are now me.”
Patrick stumbled over a broken chair and Loki’s blade grazed his shoulder. Patrick cried out and scampered away.
“You did not come here for her sake, did you?” Loki paused his attack to watch Patrick’s pain. “She will not love you any more for it.”
Patrick growled and swung wildly, but missed and went staggering across the floor, taking another of Loki’s blows with him. He was bleeding inside and out.
“You know it, yes. She is gone. Even should you defeat me, you will still just be Sir Silence, Sir Brooding. After you chased her away, your loss became my gain.” Loki sent a flurry of blows at the knight, who fell underneath their weight against a pillar. Again Loki stopped to take a step back so he could survey the emotional damage he was inflicting. “How does it feel, Gawain, to chase after something that does not want you? To try to be a hero for an audience that does not care?”
Loki clicked his tongue as Patrick struggled to his feet. “But fret not, friend, I will soon put you out of your misery, and you will no longer have to worry about such things. But before I do, I want to ask you something...” He leaned closer. “Do you not find that the Lady Katherina kisses very, very well? I mean incredibly well? What do you think of those pink, soft lips? How they move passionately? How warm and moist they are...?”
Patrick threw everything he had at Loki. It was his turn to rain blow after blow, sending his doppleganger back and back while the sands drained into the bottom of the hourglass.
#
Katherina dodged the dandelions and ran to the door. There she retrieved the bronze rod and prepared to defend herself against the creeping, growing plant.
Katherina glanced over to the mirror to see how Patrick was faring and froze when she saw his image flicker and turn into that of Loki, and Loki’s appearance into Patrick’s.
She didn’t have much time to ponder the matter because the snarling little flowers were upon her, lunging forward and snapping their teeth. She swung with the rod, missing most, but causing them to think twice about their attack. When she did make contact, a flurry of petals erupted followed by a feline hiss of dismay.
They moved to surround her, and she dashed away, swinging wildly at her pursuers. One of the little lion heads dove through her defenses and latched onto her shoulder. The little fangs bit deeply, like multiple bee stings. She cried out and grabbed its stem, pulling it off. Backing out of range of the vine, she inspected her shoulder and noted the thumb-sized red blossom on her dress. Though not a terrible wound, she could only imagine what a hundred would feel like and all at the same time.
They creeped closer to fill the last of the space in the room, and Katherina took another look at the mirror. Patrick looked to be faltering in his struggle, or was it Loki? Their images were changing back and forth at random and she had lost track of who was who.
A snarling flower shot out at her as she pressed herself against the wall, and more were surrounding her. The lead-most flower lunged again, ducked under her swing, and wrapped itself about the rod. Katherina struggled to keep it from being ripped from her hands and she kicked at the next approaching head.
“Patrick!” she shouted at the mirror. “Hurry, I need you!”
#
Patrick reached deep inside for the last reserves of what ever he had left. Loki was wrong. There was an audience watching, and it did care. If nothing else, God was there. Perhaps that was the source of his strength.
At first Loki staggered back and struggled to keep up with Patrick’s attack, but once he regained his balance, he forced Patrick back. His appearance wavered between his own and that of Patrick’s, as if the spell were faltering.
“I tire of humoring you.” Loki growled, his voice turning bestial. He currently wore the guise of Patrick, but with fangs. He knocked away Patrick’s sword, and with his free hand he grabbed Patrick’s throat and forced him over the table. “Time to go.”