He had to give the bruiser credit, he had a will second to none.
He also knew—it was elementary, really—what Moros was trying to accomplish by all the bluster about his incompetence. But he’d honed his anger into too fine, too precise an instrument, to allow himself to slip, and cut himself with it. Indeed, he’d had a retort at the ready when the flaming beam plummeted into the small lake of wine. Fire, deceptively quick for all its apparent indolence, sped across the floor at him, and Apollo did the only thing he could: he turned and ran back the way he’d come. Grabbing the ropes in the dumbwaiter and using his legs for extra momentum, he thrust himself upwards, as the fire crept its lazy way into the shaft after him.
Puffing, coughing from the smoke, and covered in soot, the Shining Son hefted himself out of the dumbwaiter shaft back into the kitchens. The fire had found its way in here as well, covering part of one entrance, and a good portion of the ceiling nearby. He was running out of time (not to mention arrows); he’d need to finish Moros before the fire drove them both outside, where he’d be an easy target, and Moros had more options for escape.
He moved swiftly out of the kitchen and into the hallway, bending slightly to stay under the growing black smoke above him. Another arrow slid into position on his bowstring. He forced himself to think only about his next strategy for the huge god waiting for him up ahead somewhere. One way or another, only one of them would be walking away from this encounter.
Making his way towards the main basement staircase, his strategic thoughts were occupied by the body of poor Hedylogos. It was bad enough that Moros could dodge so many of his arrows, but the Erote-shield was putting a huge crimp in his ability to bring Doom down.
Then he got an idea.
He tore the arms from his shirt, out from under the spaulders, and wrapped each around the shaft of an arrow, just behind the broadhead point. He ran back to a corner where he’d seen the orange snake noisily crawling its way up the wall, and stuck the wrapped sleeve into the fire, setting it alight. Moments later, he’d rounded the last corner, where Moros had already moved up to from the cellar.
On instinct, he fired, aiming not for the looming god, or the poor corpse saddled to the spear, but for the wooden spike itself.