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"You're outnumbered," Commodus said casually, as if the act of him being completely surrounded was a funny coincidence and not the result of Apollo badly miscalculating how well he could avoid him. "It would be in your interests to surrender."
Apollo scowled, and took a step backwards.
He had no idea how Commdus had even found them, but that didn't matter. What did matter was that he'd convinced Meg to flee, and that Commodus didn't seem to be all that interested in her - as long as she was okay and she could get to Camp, then she could get away from Nero. She could defeat him, even. He had no doubts that demigods of all sorts would be willing to tear the emperors apart limb by limb.
But for him, however-
He took another step, and helplessly shot a glance around him. They were in what must have once been a swimming pool - the windows let in an impressive amount of light, though partially obscured by a small but tall row of tiered seating. The walls were a soft blue and the floor a tiled white.white, the tiles polished with dust. There was no exit apart from the one being blocked by Commodus’ men.
“Should we kill him?” One of the Germani grunted, straightening out his spear in preparation for the fight. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would not be nice to be impaled by one.
Commodus narrowed his scarred eyes at him, and Apollo stared straight (ha) back. Out of the corner of his eye, he focused on the door leading to the exit. If the Germani nearest to him moved just a little bit to the right, then it was possible that he could attempt an escape, but he seriously doubted if he could move fast enough. Besides, Commodus could run a lot faster than his flabby, rather flimsy mortal form, but he was still partially blinded, so he supposed-
“I’ve decided to be generous,” Commodus announced, as if he hadn’t rehearsed what he was going to say already. “I want Apollo. Preferably alive.”
So he was wanted alive.
…yipee.
In a heartbeat, the Germani snapped into motion. One charged at him with a sword and he fumbled with his bow, taking unsteady aim yet still managing to nail him in the chest. He dissolved into dust, but before he could celebrate, he was immediately faced against the next Germani. The next shot went wide, hitting the soldier in the arm, and he backed up as far as he could.
His feet hit the edge of the swimming pool.
Panic flared through him, and he nocked the next arrow, brandishing it against his bow in one of the most pathetic attempts at a threat that he’d ever made. The Germani simply charged at him anyway, the arrow simply sliding off his armoured chest and before he could blink to breathe and realise what was going on-
His arms wrapped around him in a deadly embrace, throwing them both backwards into the open air. Apollo couldn’t even muster up the proper feeling of fear, instead being flooded by an empty, numbing sensation of dread-
The crack that arose was the only audible sound he could focus on after hitting the ground. It seemed to echo around him, ringing and twisting and spiralling, enveloping him in a heavy coat of nothingness. His bow had flown out of his hand, and he was vaguely certain that the arrows from his quiver had fallen around him. He supposed he should be more worried for the Arrow of Dodona, but his awareness was so fleeting and he couldn’t focus on his surroundings at all. He didn’t even know where the Germani that had knocked him over had gone.
He guessed that minutes had passed since he had fallen back into the swimming pool, and the God of Healing side of his brain was rattling off warnings about concussions and broken bones, but he couldn’t move or think enough to do anything with the knowledge.
Meg was going to be rightfully and thoroughly pissed at him. Apollo made a weak, strangled groan as he attempted to push himself up for her, but it went nowhere.
Shadows passed around him and he stared at them blankly. Germani, he supposed. He wasn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to feel apprehensive at the possibility of being killed or captured. What had Commodus wanted him for, again? Or did he not say?
Large, rough hands were yanking him upright and tearing the quiver off his back. He made an aching sound of protest, but the noises around him were blurred and distorted and he wasn’t sure whether or not the Germani were talking to him or to each other or to Commodus. The dried-out pool seemed to melt the words around him, as if haunted by the water that once held, years of neglect turning a once loved place into a ghostly memory.
Something grabbed him by the chin and forced it upwards. Apollo stared at the face in front of his own, a pretty stab of colours that he was fairly certain he should recognise. It said something. He continued to stare, and it laughed. The back of his head felt wet.
The face pushed right into his own, and he felt torn between the desire to both tea raway and lean closer. Smug victorious lips pressed onto his forehead, and he didn’t know whether to be mournful or relieved as they pulled away. Was it Commodus, kissing him? Why wasn’t he kissing his lips? Why couldn’t he just get it over with and gut him instead of whatever this was supposed to be?
A thumb dragged itself across his lip and Apollo tried to muster up the strength to struggle - flailing his arms, kicking his legs - but more hands than he could ever hope to fight locked him into a firm, bruising hold. He heard the laughter again, a delighted, deranged sound, and jerked one last time in a hopeless form of resistance.
He wished that he had stayed with Meg.