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Pollux watches the procession, and follows behind his brother.
It is another day. Another ritual to witness. Another time out in public, where Pollux and Castor both sit and watch and pass whatever judgement the Divi may pass. Another day with Pollux watching as his brother is still and quiet and carved from stone. (He isn't soft anymore. He hasn't been for years. It still hurts, every day that Pollux sees it.)
He remembers the day Castor had spoken with him, softly. About the "deal" he had been given. About how the Lady of the Lantern (Juliette, cruel as she always is) had said Castor could take Pollux's place, could undergo the painful transformation rituals, so that Pollux would not have to suffer any further. (Pollux was already suffering, they both knew — the Sacred Heart newly implanted into his chest, each twitch or vibration sending pain skittering across his bones, and Pollux knew that Castor had not missed the way Pollux had gone quiet and withdrawn, since the rituals had started. Since the pain had started.)
"But I don't want you to hurt, either." Pollux had said, even as Castor had clutched his hand close in the darkness and tried to smile.
"It will be alright." Castor had promised, voice soft and gentle even as his face was still. "I'm your older brother. It's my job to protect you. I can take some of the pain, so you won't have to hurt anymore."
"The Lightbearer endured His pain." Pollux had replied, sulking, not wanting to admit that he was scared — it hurt so much, so badly, and Pollux had only been able to keep together the very edges of his mask of happiness that he'd made so that Castor would not worry. What would happen to Castor, if he went through rituals of his own? If he took on whatever suffering they both would be given?
"It will be alright." Castor repeated, squeezing Pollux's hand just a bit tighter in the dark. "You've suffered enough. You've atoned for any sins that you might have had — now it's my turn, okay?" His brother's tongue, normally clumsy and wooden, had seemed made of silver in that night. Against the dread in his stomach, Pollux had nodded, and had agreed with Castor that perhaps it wouldn't be. . . that bad.
He regrets not arguing more, that night. Regrets not doing more to stop it. Any plans of freedom that Pollux had carefully been nurturing were dashed, with Lady Juliette setting her sights on Castor — he was taken and molded into the most pious of creatures, a god in all truth, Pollux merely the light by his side that shone upon him to illuminate him in his entirety. (They were twins, after all. They could not exist without each other. Pollux, once, had been the favored one — now, it was Castor.)
Castor had been the one to hover by Pollux's side, after painful rituals, but it had been Pollux's turn to hover and not know what to do, as Castor unsteadily walked down hallways. (He'd stopped trembling two years into the rituals. The rituals had stopped half a year after that. But Lady Juliette's lessons did not stop — she made it clear that they both were holy, that they were to uphold the Lightbearer's will, but Pollux knew with every glance that she gave him, every smile too tight, that that was a threat, too. Obey, and you will not suffer. Obey, and Castor would not be punished for Pollux's mistakes, the way Castor had so eagerly tried to take the blame for any of Pollux's actions in their youth.)
Castor did not smile softly, anymore. He held no softness to his voice, no worth, only the cold sternness of stone. Truly, he was a god carved from marble, and Pollux was merely following behind him, trying to catch up.
It's still Castor, but also, it's not Castor, and that hurts. They are identical almost entirely, black hair braided back, wings cloaked in black feathers carefully emphasized with decorative fabric and bits of heavy jewelry draped upon them, green eyes and skin just a tinge sickly from lack of sunlight. (Castor's skin is just slightly darker. Pollux's face still bears the trace of stubborn freckles. But those differences are few.) Casotr is draped in the holy fabric colored black, like the Lightbearer's blood, and it is Pollux who dons the white of cleansing light. They are the Twin Divi, who speak for the Lightbearer in His absence, and Pollux aches at it.
(His wings have never truly tasted freedom. Castor had grown so quiet and so cold, so bound to the earth as he was — Pollux had grown quiet to match him. His brother had snapped at him, once, when Pollux had tentatively asked about freedom — Pollux had learned not to ask again. It was painful to consider such things, and Castor was in pain enough from holding both his and Pollux's sins, drenching himself in agony to atone for them. Pollux did not ask again. Freedom remained a far-off hope that would never truly be grasped within his hands.)
So they walk. The days pass, dreary and always the same, and Pollux cannot help but want to weep at the way his brother has become a stranger to him. All Castor is, now, is a hollowed-out shell, filled with the Lantern's scriptures and faith and rituals. Juliette's puppet, just as much as her Hounds are. (Pollux had hoped, briefly, that Marsh could save them — but Marsh had only shaken their head, sadly, and said that there was nothing they could do. They wanted Castor and Pollux both to live — and to live, they had to stay here, beneath the Lantern's gaze. Freedom was a death sentence, and Marsh loved them too dearly to see either of the twins killed. Marsh, too, hollowed out the same way as Castor.)
Pollux wonders, sometimes, if he is as hollowed out as his brother is, inside. He prays every night that a miracle will come, that they will be able to grasp for freedom, that he and Castor and Marsh can all leave this place. (He knows such a miracle will never come. Still — he prays for it. Perhaps, if he prays enough, it will hurt less. Perhaps.)