in death, and at the end of the world

WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, STRONG GORE, LOTS OF BLOOD AND SPOILERS FOR THE SONG OF ACHILLES. 

Agatha knew a God was with her before she turned around.

And it was not in a good way.

Even before she had turned, he spoke. And loud as it was, she knew she was the only one who heard it.

"You are not fated to take the citadel, child."

Agatha wrenched her spear from a Trojan chest with a crunch of ribs and turned.

There he was, a few feet away, inhumanly beautiful in the way only Tedros was, by virtue of his divine blood.

But he was softened by his mortality, made kinder, and Apollo-- for it was Apollo, Apollo as he was depicted on the carvings and the temples-- was not. He was harsh in his beauty, almost aggressive, and Agatha fought the impulse to avert her eyes. She did not think it would please him.

Around them, the battle still raged, but it did not touch them. Agatha thought that, once this encounter was over, no one would notice her sudden lapse in the fighting.

He spoke again.

"Step away from the walls."

Despite her better judgement, Agatha turned her face away, teeth clenched. To be warned off an action by Phoebus himself... and to disobey a god...

But she must.

"I cannot."

"Even aristos achaion will not succeed in singlehandedly conquering Ilium."

"I know this." said Agatha hoarsely.

"Tedros will die before Troy is taken. You have been told this. Both of you."

Agatha swallowed.

"I know." she repeated. She could read perfectly well into that prophecy, even if the others could not. If Tedros would die before Troy was taken... well, there was no scenario in which he would give up on taking the citadel.

So he was going to die trying.

And Agatha could not let him do that.

He would be furious, if she did it for him. She was ignoring him. She was already further into the fighting than he had told her to go-- leave the fighting on the plains to others-- and she would go further still.

But was she not preserving him? His reputation, as well as his life?

He would understand.

Eventually.

"I am sorry, lord." she said. It came out as a croak. "I cannot."

Apollo gazed at her. No doubt he knew what she was trying to do. He was the god of prophecy, after all.

Hands shaking, Agatha turned away and made for her chariot, reaching for a spear--

The strike was impossibly powerful. Impossibly effective, impossible to anticipate, to block--

Impossible for any mortal, that was.

Apollo approached her from behind and struck her around the head, hurling her against the chariot. Agatha's head slammed against the metal spokes of the wheel, and she hit the ground hard, reeling and sickened--

It was only when she put her hand to her temple that she realised he had flung her helmet from her head-- severed the leather of the strap and exposed her face.