[open] don't close the coffin yet; any

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

Atrox is not often introspective—at least in the presence of others. He has made a habit of wearing an armor of indifference, an air of apathy that has served him well. He learned a long time ago that his sarcasm and lack of caring could be as cruel as teeth to the throat and it was a weapon he had adopted for so long that he can hardly remember not wielding it. So he is surprised to find himself thinking now, especially in the presence of someone who has stood for so long on the other side of the battle lines.

She is prickly enough that he doesn’t relax, necessarily, but he does consider her words, making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat at the idea of not being remembered. Once upon a time, the very idea would have made his blood curdle. His hackles would have raised at the idea of all of his sacrifice and accomplishments being washed over. It had infuriated him to meet new members of the Chamber and for them to have no idea that it was his heart they stepped on, his pulse that kept time.

But now?

He hasn’t exactly softened, but he has let go of such notions.

It was impossible to cling to the need to be remembered when the world shifted and changed so much. First when the Valley and the Chamber had collided together and then when Beqanna had swallowed them both entirely. At first, it was enough to know that his tie to the New World, his son, had anchored himself and that he could watch as his direct legacy carved out a new land and a new sense of history.

But even that was torn from him.

Now? Now he was just a ghost.

Even with a land to his name and ties spreading throughout the kingdoms, he had no real sense of purpose and no real impact on the political world around him. He even had little ambition to speak of, except the pursuit of the vices that soothed his constant hunger. “I am a ghost,” he says with a wolfish smile, able to keep the turmoil from his slack face, his smooth drawl giving no hint of any pain he may feel.

“No sense in pretending I’m not.”

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING