As Sir Riordan continued his tale, his face was etched with sorrow and regret. "Finally, I was the only one left in the keep who hadn't committed treason. I did my best to maintain the keep on my own but eventually, Malik breached the outer bailey, and then the inner keep. I walked along the walls to reach the tower, for there was no entrance at the base. The ice was thick, so much so that several men pursuing me slipped and fell off the wall.

'I made the tower just ahead of Malik and managed to shut him out for a time but I had not been able to carry enough food or firewood to the tower to see me through for more than a few months. The ice had built up in the doorway in such a way as to prevent them from setting fire to the door, or even getting it open until spring. Once they got in though, it was a different story altogether."

"I think I can guess the rest," Brianna told him, hoping to spare him the end of his tale. "Certainly, I've heard him demand your surrender often enough, these last few nights!"

Sir Riordan nodded his thanks. "That night, I swore that I would never surrender, never betray the church, or God, even if Malik killed me a thousand times. It turns out that he didn't want my death as much as he wants my surrender. It took him a week to kill me once he got into the tower."

"So, you did die?" questioned Brianna. "Does that make you a ghost, or . . .?"

He chuckled again. "No, actually. Malik died first. He fell off the wall while dragging me across some ice. Since I landed atop him, he didn't actually have the opportunity to kill me."

His mirth faded into a shudder. "Instead, I laid there in the cold, bound hand and foot, bleeding from his torment of me and freezing to death as the salt water from the waves soaked into my wounds."

"Same!" laughed Brianna, staring the knight. "Survived all of those terrible things, only to die of something stupid; story of my life."

He quirked a grin at her, seeming unable to control a laugh he didn't want to show. Brianna grinned back.  "So how does the story end? It can't be an accident, that you've spent the last . . . how long have you been here?"

He considered it for a moment. "The siege ended in the Year of Our Lord, one thousand, fifty-eight."

"You've spent the last nine hundred, sixty years fighting Malik every night?"

"I suppose I have, though it was no accident. As I said, I laid atop Malik's body in an early spring storm. He'd taken my clothing so I had no protection. I was bound hand and foot, unable to escape and bleeding from his various torments of me. Underneath me, Malik's body lay, growing cold in death, and yet I felt him move beneath me, felt him gather himself up to rise. I did the one thing I could do in that situation."

Since he clearly wanted her to ask, Brianna obliged him. "What did you do?"

"I prayed and begged God to not let my death be in vain. I told Him that I had nothing left to give but that I, alone, had kept my oath; I begged God to protect the people I'd been sent to this island to protect."

"And?"

"And that was how I met our friend Habbalah; he came for me. Suddenly, I found myself clothed as you see me now; armored and dressed in fine, warm clothing. We were seated inside the keep in front of a blazing fire with Habbalah seated across from me as we enjoyed the warmth from the hearth. Though Malik's men came and went, none of them could see us."

"You were dead?"

"Not at all," he assured her, "merely protected by Habbalah. After a moment, he spoke up. 'Our Lord has heard your plea, just as He heard your promise to stay faithful. You have proven your worth. Do you truly wish to continue the mission you came to this island for?'

'Of course, I did and I said as much. That was when I received my mission from the Lord; to protect innocent people, I must hold this island from Malik; he cannot proceed until he may take this island unopposed, which is why he needs my surrender."

Brianna shook her head. "I'm confused; why does he need your surrender when he can obviously kill you whenever he chooses?"

"You wound me, My Lady," he teased, pretending to be hurt by her assessment of his ability against his enemy. Brianna repented, but he didn't allow her to say so. "This island is a spiritual vanguard for the mainland beyond. Malik cannot advance past the island until he may do so unopposed. As long as I stand ready to oppose him, he cannot advance."

Brianna still didn't understand; it must have shown on her face, because he endeavored to explain further. "He is bound by spiritual laws I do not fully understand yet, but he is also bound by the witching hour and cannot manifest after the third hour after midnight, for it is the end of the third watch."

"The witching hour?"

"Midnight; he can only manifest himself human from three hours before until three hours after that time. My task is to stand against him until he cannot stand any longer."

Brianna thought about it for a good, long while. Though the silence stretched between them, he did nothing to break it but merely left her alone with her thoughts. "What is my part in all of this?" she asked finally. "I mean, this can't be a hallucination; it's too real, and they're never so detailed. At the same time, I should be out of food by now, at the very least, but I have almost the same as what I arrived with. That can't be real, at all."

"You've been caught in time with me," he explained. "The world outside this island operates on a linear timeline; morning to evening, night to day." Brianna nodded to show she understood the concept.

"My timeline is a curled strand . . . um, may I have a piece of your hair?" He was clearly struggling to explain.

Brianna's hair had been the bane of her adolescence. A nondescript brown, it curled in random fashion. Some of it curled so tightly as to be frizzy no matter what she did with it, some in ringlets, some in mere waves.

The only way to control it was to either keep it very long- or shave it off entirely. Since keeping it waist-length was too much of a chore on her 'bad' days, Brianna had chosen to cut it short some time ago, leaving it to fall just past her shoulders. If it had been straight, it would touch the middle of her back.

His embarrassment over the request was endearing. Brianna combed her fingers through her hair for a loose strand and handed a few over. He smoothed one strand and allowed it to take a natural shape on the palm of his hand. "The loop brings me back to the same day, over and over," he explained, playing with the tight curl as one would a spring. "And since you chose to sleep within the borders of the keep, you've entered the loop as well."

"So, like the movie? I replay the day over and over until I get it right?" Brianna didn't bother to hide her disbelief. "If that were true, it would be 1056, all over again and I would never have entered the loop at all, in 2018."

"My Lady, the Malachim Habbalah aren't bound by time, nor is their Lord. Do you know what omniscience means?" Brianna nodded even though she really didn't.

To her private relief, he chose to explain anyway. "God is not bound by time or distance; He is not only everywhere, He is 'every-when' and so His servants, the angels, may travel through time and distance at His will."

"I get that," she agreed a little impatiently, "but what does that have to do with . . . what did you call him? The 'Malachim Habbalah'?"

He shook his head, smiling a little. "That's what they call themselves in their own tongue; Malachim is the plural of Malache; and means 'angels' or 'angel'. Habbalah means 'destroyer'. The Malachim Habbalah are the angels of destruction- and death. I call our friend 'Habbalah' because that is his title, though he does have a name."

"So why don't you call him by his name?"

"Because there are thousands of the Habbalim, and I've met a great many of them. Trying to remember who is whom is a rather daunting task and because it would be rude. I would never call a superior by just his first name, nor a nobleman without his title, so why would I do so with the angels? After all, they respect my title of knighthood, for I am 'Sir Riordan,' or 'Sir D'Lyon,' and not merely 'Riordan' as I was when I was a child."

It made sense to Brianna; in a hospital, she would never have dared call a doctor by his first name alone; it was always 'doctor so-and-so' or simply 'doctor'. She nodded, accepting the explanation.

"Therefore, your Habbalah brought you to my time whilst you slept that first night." He chuckled. "I thought you a hallucination as well, that first night."

"Then why is the keep as it was when I arrived? It's been gone for nine centuries!"

"I have watched it decay for nine centuries," he agreed amiably, "because though my timeline is circular, the island's is linear." Brianna's head began to ache from the logical impossibilities. "The island ages, I do not," he finally said, indicating the strand of hair again. "Do you see how each loop is a bit farther apart from the last?"

"So, if I'm in your loop, I'm not aging either?" she questioned hesitantly. He shook his head. "And until I leave your loop, my cancer won't progress?"

"I don't know about that," he confessed. "It depends on God, I suppose. Habbalah could not have brought you here without permission and I don't know what God has planned for you, beyond that I should meet you."

"And why is this?" she pleaded. "Why am I here, instead of dying on a deserted island the way I intended?"

"Because God wants you to learn about Him and has given Habbalah permission for you to be taught by me. I expect that it was because Habbalah begged His favor."

Brianna closed her eyes and shook her head a little. She immediately regretted it. The echo of her voice inside her skull made it hurt more, so she said nothing.

"From what I understand, you have never been taught the things of God," he offered, lowering his tone as if he understood her pain. "If you die before you learn, then you will not belong to Him, but to His adversary, whom you have spent a lifetime trying to defeat without knowing anything about the fight. God is giving you a second chance before you die, to make an informed decision . . .

'My Lady?" His tone had changed from instruction to concern as Brianna allowed her head to droop.

"Bad day," she breathed. "My voice hurts me far more than yours does. Please, continue?"

"Perhaps you could lay back in the grass, here in the sun?" he suggested in concern.

It sounded good, so she complied. It was better to lay down, she decided. There was a rustle beside her and she realized he was seating himself beside her. She felt his hand smooth her hair away from her face, then rest lightly on her temple. That felt good, too.

It had been a very long time since Brianna had felt the touch of honest concern, rather than professional courtesy. He said nothing out loud, but she could hear him breathe, as if he were speaking under his breath.