Gabriel has had enough. He is only willing to take so much ridicule from this false god. He releases his vessel, exploding out of it in a burst of brilliant golden light. It throws Loki from him, a nearby table reduced to tinder, and gives him just enough time before the dark haired being is on him again, the wicked looking blade slicing into Gabriel's grace before disappearing, wielder reappearing behind. The archangel realizes the weapon is enchanted in some manner, it burns and freezes when weapons of the mortals are but the nipping of bugs in comparison, and turns faster than a thought, ready to meet Loki's advances.

In the next few minutes, the two find themselves surprisingly equally matched, neither able to gain the upper hand for long. The little cabin suffers for it and when it's finished, they find themselves in the rubble of their destruction. Gabriel had had the foresight to extend the smallest of his power to lay the unconscious woman in a field of wild flowers many yards distant from the clash of their combat, she'll wake later and find herself alone, full of longing and blurry ungraspable memories.

The battle is ended, with Gabriel sheathed once more in his human flesh and sitting astride Loki's hips, a gleaming angelic sword offering a deadly kiss at Loki's pale stretch of throat. The pagan in turn hovers the tip of his own jeweled blade at the grace pulsing beneath the angel's confiscated ribs. The assurance of mutual destruction stays them.

"It would appear we're at an impasse," Loki's velvety voice had a rasping edge to it as they both pant, lungs eager for air. Their bodies are battered, bright red mixing with deep purples and blues, the rags of what clothes they wore scattered, scraps clinging still in wounds.

"Your time is ending," Gabriel tells him, voice soft but firm, the knowledge of the truth's burden heavy in the quiet, "You know I speak the truth. We can help each other. Lend me your power, you can survive the fall of your faith hidden from the world and I will be hidden from my kin until Heaven's prophecies come to pass."

The lanky body beneath him twitches before settling, Loki's gaze level and considering. The other's weapon is suddenly gone, vanished as suddenly as it had appeared and the archangel slowly lowers his own weapon, letting it rest briefly on Loki's shoulder before preforming his own vanishing trick, dismissing the sword with a thought. Gabriel is becoming aware of the heat gathering where he still sits on Loki's bony hips, confusion warring with surprise, but he hides it for the moment, more keen on the trickster's reply than anything else.

"If you perish," he pauses, licks his lips, continues, "when you perish, my powers return to me. Along with your own. When Ragnarok comes, I will rise again, and I will have need of such power. That is my deal. You will have your masquerade and I will have all of you." He moves under Gabriel, squirming as if for a more comfortable positioning, and it brings a rush of previously unknown sensation to the archangel and a flush to his cheeks. The trickster looks innocent to this knowledge but he must know what he's doing, it's his business to know, likely this is purposeful.

"So be it," Gabriel knows the price to be steep but he plans on surviving and at the moment he's willing to take on this debt, "we're agreed."

The offer of his palm is ignored, elegant hands of the creature beneath him coming to rest on his hips instead. Loki's grin is wickedness epitomized and Gabriel's brows rise, eyes questioning.

"We're also going to do the exchange my way," he enlightens the angel, rolling his hips gently, a wordless covenant, though Gabriel can't help but think his tone is tinged with a certain kind of defeat, sorrow flowing just beneath the confidence, "The Asgardian way is far more gratifying."

Burnished gold eyes watch Loki and he thinks of honey and sweetness, of beginnings and endings, the budding spring and fierce summer of his people turning to autumn so quickly, though the brush of winter winds should not frighten one of his lineage so.

"Our stars are waning, a bright new sun rises, burning the splendor of the Aesir and the Vanir, leaving us cinders in it's shadow," the cunning green eyes betray nothing of the Trickster god's feelings on the matter, his expression nearly serene.

Gabriel has not yet had great experience with liars, though his holy righteousness has already begun to fail him, but he is an archangel and not without significant power of his own, and he can read the truth beneath the guise, can feel the despair in the minute tremor of Loki's hands on his flesh.

The messenger of God says nothing but leans into the forbidden touch, breath stuttering through his borrowed body. He has his own concerns and the pagan's vexations are little to him.

The tongue Loki flicks across his own lips, taunting and promising at once, is not the silver of tales but red and lush and no matter the lies it's spilled, Gabriel wants to taste it with his own