XVII.
[His brother wasn't dead. His brother couldn't be dead. But that damned skeleton woman was right -- he'd felt that tug in his heart, as though something had happened. It wasn't a lie. Twins could sense things other siblings couldn't, and this was Castor, the other half of him. What were they apart? How were they expected to function without one another whether they were so co-dependent?
Pollux couldn't breathe, couldn't see straight, couldn't bear to be in the hotel any longer with the knowledge that his brother had died and nothing could've been done to save him. Nothing. He was without him all over again, and this time, his father couldn't help him. There was no Underworld, no Olympus. Just a cold, empty grave for his brother to go into.
The distraught twin launched into a fury: pillows and bed parts flying, furniture crashing. Glass shattered as he unfurled like a ball of yarn, desperate and determined to obliterate the room piece by piece. He hurled a chair into the wall, slamming it over and over until all that remained was splinters.
His knees slammed into the floor before the first tears even finished rolling down his cheeks.]