A Shrine to an Unknown God

EGGSHELL

MARISOL'S SEATED when it happens. Her legs are bent in front of her, her feet pressed into the ground. She props herself up with her hands. I don't think she has the time to realize what's going to happen to her, because all she does as the god swings a sword towards her is stare him down. Her eyes unblinking and unwavering, her jaw set.

And then—just as the blade's about to come in contact with her neck—it stops.

It's as anticlimactic as that. No force field forms, no sparks rain out. The sword just stops right before it cuts into her flesh.

Apollo's face screws up. He reels the sword backwards, swings it again. This time, Marisol anticipates what he's trying to do. She flinches, squeezing her eyes shut. Still, it stops just shy of her neck.

He tries again. She reaches up her hand. Once again, it stops just before it comes in contact with her skin. No one moves for a beat. Then Marisol closes her fist around the blade.

Her blood comes out golden.

Sunlight, ichor.

Marisol.

I'm an idiot. I should have known.

Yelping, she reaches her free hand up to fully grab hold of the blade. At the same time, she kicks outward, jabbing her feet into Apollo's kneecaps. He flips over her, crashing onto his back. While he's down, she rips the sword out of his grasp and spins it around in her hands to hold it from the hilt instead of the blade. Golden ichor—her ichor, her blood, the blood of the gods—spills out all over it. She digs the point into his neck.

"I don't want to kill you," she says. "You don't have to die. Just leave us all alone, and we can—"

He disappears. Before Marisol has time to react, he materializes behind her. In his hands is a new sword—his own, golden as ichor. He swings it. I flinch, but as always it stops just short of Marisol's skin.

She spins to face him, eyes wild with divine fury. My sword rests awkwardly in her hands. She's inexperienced, and you can tell. Just look at the way she's standing, the way her hands grip it.

I don't think you could kill me, he taunts her, even if you wanted to.

"Maybe she can't," I agree. "But I can."

The prophecy— he starts.

"You tried to get me to kill her. You thought it could be done. I see no reason why, if we apply the same logic, I can't kill you"

Can I kill a god?

I don't think so.

Not on my own, anyways. But Marisol can't do it herself, either. If we—if we work together, maybe. If I temporarily immobilize him, like Dahlia already did, then, from there, Marisol can kill him.

I wrench my sword out of Marisol's hands, swinging it wildly in Apollo's direction. Not caring where I hit or how hard. All that matters is that I get him before he realizes what happened.

He manages to parry the blow. Quickly, before I have time to recover, he lunges at my hip-bone. I let him. Nothing down there is vital. Meanwhile, he's left his entire head and chest open for me.

I slam the flat end of my sword against Apollo's head. It cracks like an eggshell, spilling golden yolky blood all over the place.

At the same time, his blade cuts into my tunic, slicing across my hip.

The pain is—unimaginable, indescribable. Like each individual atom of my entire body has been torn apart and set ablaze.

I made a mistake.

Apollo is an expert swordsman. He'd never make such an amateur blunder. Not unless he wanted me to fall for it.

He wanted me to fall for it.

Of course he did. His sword is poisoned, I realize too late. I can feel it dripping into my bloodstream like the pinch of a scorpion. I can literally see the poison dripping off the blade.

The blood drains from my hip.

There's this terrible smug little expression on Apollo's face. Like he knows that he's beat me. Like he knows that I'm going to die. Like he knows that without my help, Marisol will never be able to kill him.

Like he knows he's won.

I slump forwards. My sword sways in my hands. Already I can feel the poison working through my bloodstream, slowly eating at my veins until it gets to its final target: my heart. I can barely move; my limbs are weighed down, sluggish and heavy.

I try to swing my sword again, take one last shot at him, but Apollo's disappeared again before I can even raise it. Still, the momentum carries me forwards. The sword swings all the way down before I can stop it, lodging in the soft sand.

I'm numb, I'm a thousand miles away, wrapped in cotton in my head.

A shooting pain in my gut. The tip of Apollo's sword sticks out of my abdomen. My blood pools around it, darkening the folds in my tunic. He rips it back out, deepening the wound. My vision spots. He jabs the sword back into my back, this time just beneath my shoulder blade, to the left of my spine.

The poison pierces my heart.

Crack. In the last three seconds of my life, that's all I'm aware of—that noise, like the flat end of a sword slamming into bone. I chalk up not feeling anything to the fact that I'm already dead or dying.

Then, darkness.