A Shrine to an Unknown God

LITTLE HALF-GOD

THE GOD LETS GO of the child he'd been holding. She isn't a child at all, actually. She's a young woman. Maybe the same age as me. It's just that she's very small.

Gagging, clutching at her throat, she stumbles forwards into the waiting arms of the blue-haired girl.

Slow as molasses, the god turns around. My sword sticks out of his side. I recognize him by his face alone. I could recognize his face anywhere. It's the same as the one painted on all of his idols, beautiful and all-commanding and everywhere. With an island named after him, you can never really escape his idols.

Apollo. The sun-god.

A shock wave of wind ripples off of him, as burning as desert sand. It blasts me to the ground and slams Ezra into the wall of the building behind us. He crumples into a ball, leaving an Ezra-shaped outline on the wall.

"An... Antigone," Ezra mumbles, eyes unfocused. Blood drips from the side of his head. "Where are you?" Though he seems to be looking right at me. "Are you... okay?"

I climb back to my feet and survey the damage. The two girls were just out of range of the wind and are backed up against the wall, clutching each other and shaking, eyes wide and mouths agape. Ezra is the only one injured. Blunt force trauma to the head, it seems like. Maybe a spinal injury. Gods, I hope not. He needs to—

"Stay still!" I order.

"Not a problem." Then he passes out.

With Ezra taken care of (for now) and the girls momentarily out of danger, I focus my attention on what is now most important: talking my way out of the wrath of a god.

I lay myself on the ground in front of him, pressing my forehead into the ground just in front of his toes. "Have mercy," I plead. "O great one. Beautiful, talented, compassionate Apollo. If not on me, at least on—"

A burning hand closes around my throat. Powerful enough to lift me to my feet and then completely off the ground. I gasp and sputter for breath. Trying to grab hold of whatever it is that is choking me, I desperately claw at my neck. My hands close around nothing. My feet kick at the air.

The world freezes around us. Ezra's breathing, the two girls, the birds above us, the clouds in the sky, everything. It is just me and Apollo left.

Antigone Katsaros. His voice is two-fold: it is honey down your throat, sticky and warming; it is the feeling of home that builds in your chest when you hear the lyre play; it is the warm glow of sunlight on your skin after a long and harsh winter. As golden as it is, it is the voice of an ancient god, reptilian and raspy like the hiss of a snake, like he's speaking in tongues. Daughter of Dionysus. You've made me very, very angry.

I form a frantic apology, but it dies in the back of my throat, unable to get past the grip he has on me.

But I'll tell you what. I like you. You were always so... respectable, and pious. So I'm going to offer you a deal. A chance to... prove yourself to me. An opportunity to become the hero you've always been destined to become, with godly blood in your veins.

Whatever he's getting on about, I want him to spit it out. Fuck the theatrics. I'm running out of air. If he doesn't let me go soon, he's going to kill me.

The fates have let me in on a little itty-bitty secret. One of these three people... he takes his time pointing a long, elegant finger at Ezra crumpled on the floor, and the two girls clutching each other against the wall... is my child. And you know that I must either kill my child, or they will kill me.

He pauses, looking at me as if he expects me to g a s p in shock and anguish that he could potentially die. As he is still choking me, all I can do is stare blankly at him and make no sound or movement in response. Not that I would, even if I could. His risk of death at his child's hands has been common knowledge for as long as I can remember. Sure, Apollo is immortal. But immortality comes with an asterisk. If prophecy rules that an immortal will die...

I will allow you to live, Apollo says, if you kill each of them right now.

The same burning hands grip my wrists and force them together, out of my control. He's making me clap for him. Once he's satisfied with the amount of clapping that I've done, he lets my hands drop to my side. And, thankfully, he removes his grip from my throat.

I drop to my knees, gulping down sweet, sweet air. The ground is solid, warm cobblestone, and I can touch it, I can feel it, I can put my fingers in the space between the stones. I lay there, gagging, for a moment. Then, I climb to my feet.

"I won't do it." My voice is hoarse. "Why can't you just kill them yourself?"

And risk staining my hands with the blood of my own kin? Apollo tilts his head to the side. His voice is cloying. I think you misunderstood me. I could never do something like that on my own. Who better to do my dirty work than a little half-god like yourself?

There is a great dramatic pause.

You have two options, little half-god. Either you kill them, or I kill you.

There's no way I could kill an innocent.

I tilt my head back to expose my throat.

"So kill me."