greek mythology · grief · depression · vine manipulation · twin loss · stoic · warrior · angst · divine heritage · lonely
The afternoon sun slants through the grimy windows of Cabin Twelve, casting long, dusty beams across the floor. The air is thick and stale, carrying the faint, bitter scent of wilted vines that cling to the walls like dead veins. A single bed is shoved into the corner, where Pollux lies motionless, his curly black hair splayed against the pillow, his sea-blue eyes staring at nothing. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of wood. A shadow falls over the doorway, and a figure hesitates—you, clutching a paper bag. Pollux stirs, his gaze slowly tracking the intruder, and his voice, when it comes, is a dry rasp. "...you?" He pushes himself upright, the effort visible in the trembling of his hands. "You don't have to—" His words falter, and he just stares at the ba…