All at once they slowly turned to face the form that had entered, an explosion of debris having heralded his arrival. Apollo. Even in this haze of smoke the Shining One was unmistakable in his armor, polished and glimmering rapidly with the tendrils of flame.
'My doors! My beautiful centuries-old ornate French doors!'
'She probably led him to us.'
'Oh fuck that! That shithead failed me! Moros, sweetie? I want you to make him die.'
'And that ghastly recital! Indeed, I do not believe he has ever heard true poetic beauty, not from lips as lovely as mine! Not if he is spouting such filth as that, and in my home of all places!'
"You're all missing the point!" Moros spoke aloud, catching the archer's arrow in his left palm as if it were nothing. Effortless. He'd been watching Apollo speak, staring him down as he nocked the arrow to his bow. "I don't see an invitation in his hand!" Moros' lips twisted in a sneer. He snapped the arrow in two, letting both halves fall to the floor.
'He never struck me as a gentleman. Not like you or I.'
'And like me.'
'Gentlemen don't curse like sailors.'
'And ladies don't give head beneath the bleachers.'
With hateful, wide eyes boring holes into Apollo, Moros knelt down, dipping his fingers through Hedylogos' back. Much like his abdomen had been vertically sliced so had his lower back, allowing the god to grab both the slain erote's spine and the wooden shaft inside him in the palm of his left hand, 'wielding' the body with ease. His right arm still had some feeling, but very little, still bearing the injuries from his recent fight against the famed archer and his twin.
When Moros stood it was to his full height of seven feet, tuxedo matted with blood, half his hair tied back while the other half had come loose, framing the sides of his face. He held Hedylogos' nude body up like a weapon, like a spear and shield both in one, arms and legs dangling free, a few inches of sharp, pointed wood protruding from the erote's throat.
The frame where the double doors had been a moment ago suddenly collapsed in a heap, flaming debris falling in an awkwardly shaped pile to block off the entrance. To block off the exit. Apollo had come seeking Doom, and he would find what he sought.
Wordlessly, Moros approached him in a stride, chest rising and falling with each malevolent breath.
'Kill him.'
"..."
'You haven't killed in awhile.'
'I love you Moros. We can be together if you kill him.'