[private] my heart has started to separate, atrox

[atrox]

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

Atrox has been known for many things throughout his long life, but being a spectacular father was never one of them. He, instead, fathered dozens of children by dozens of mothers. He had generations of his offspring that he never knew about, let along interacted with. It was only, at first, his children with Twinge that he even paid attention and, even then, it was only Magnus who drew his attention fully. Magnus who had been wild and stubborn, talented but driven by entirely different motives than him. Who had risen in the Chamber ranks to spurn the kingdom in favor of the Gates where he had led their army instead.

Magnus who railed against his own nature to become everything Atrox was not.

Magnus who Atrox had followed and looked after.

Who he had then sacrificed.

Anastasia had come later and Atrox had taken her under his wing, but she was a feral thing and it had been more amusement and perhaps curiosity that kept him around. It was only when he had met Ryatah that he had found himself caring for his children again. In a way totally different from the way he had looked after his children with Twinge. It was a strange, even uncomfortable, experience, and perhaps because of it, he is not surprised to feel that alien affection for the rest of Ryatah’s brood.

Regardless of who fathered them.

So he comes to rest in the silence of her company, the mirrored grief both deeply painful and also comforting. Like finding like. It’s only when she mentions Magnus that he stills, breath stopping in his throat. It’s been so long since someone uttered that word to him and he closes his eyes, just for a second, to stop his instinctual desire to lash out in pain. He swallows and then forces himself to look at her, masking the agony that rises up his throat with a sardonic curve of his black lip.

“Good,” he says, instead of telling her how the name cuts him. Instead of lashing out at her for daring to mention it. Instead of asking all the questions he wants to know. “I wouldn’t bother telling him about me,” and this is a little more pained, even with the forced levity. “He didn’t particularly like hearing about me before and, now, well…” his voice trails off and he shrugs. “I just wouldn’t bother.”

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING