The arrow struck home in the shaft with a typical satisfying thunk. Apollo had not expected, however, to catch the god holding the spear shaft afire; he’d only thought to make him drop his shield. Better, by far, than he could have hoped. The flames licked at Moros’s legs, lazy no more: they veritably ran up his clothing and engulfed him in its acid embrace.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The last of his arrows flew from his bow into the dark god’s powerful thighs with barely any time to aim. The shredded and punctured muscle would soon be hard-pressed to follow Moros’s command to keep himself upright, but Apollo thought they might just continue to hold out. That will, beyond the strength of any iron, was not to be underestimated. He could also not ignore the blood still leaking from his side, dribbling in a vermilion stream down his left leg. He could ignore it well enough while he was shooting, but could he do the same while twisting and turning, thrusting and dodging and parrying in close quarters fighting? Or the dozens of other scrapes and dings he’d suffered while avoiding the amusements of Moros’s funhouse. That uncertainty would surely have to be replaced by knowledge was, in this circumstance, not exactly a comfort to him.
So, without any further thought on the matter, he dropped the bow and ran.
But he didn’t run from Moros this time. He ran at him, full bore, with the final intent that their fight should end here and now, one victor at the end of all. The pair of xiphos on his hips slid easily from their scabbards as he closed the distance between them. Closer and closer until his vision was practically filled with the face of Moros, just framed by the fire licking up from his torso.
Now came the gamble.
He dove, driving himself forward and down, sailed at the opening between the massive legs. His aim held true, but Moros would not allow him to pass unhindered. The butt of the spear mashed into his hip, the blunt end not piercing skin yet nonetheless sending another arc of searing pain up to his head. He hadn’t time to grit his teeth against the pain, or to scream, only just to register that there was pain, before he thrust out both blades as passed through Moros’s legs. The stab melded into a slash as each blade shore away the hamstring tendons, at the same time as Apollo crashed into the floor, his descent hastened by Moros’s spear.
He scrambled the last inches behind Moros and rolled up onto his feet, at the same time Moros was losing his, collapsing onto his knees. The tendrils of flame that had caught him as he sailed through did not survive the roll, though he was singed, by this point, in a dozen different spots. He didn’t wait for another reaction from Doom. Holding his head away from the growing flames, he stepped up behind, and thrust blades and hands down into the fire, driving the blades home at the base of his neck.