Long after the feelings of glory, of triumph, of being something other than the foolish, little prince had worn away, apprehension and unease stayed. Despite Orsino’s grumblings (because hadn’t the lad always wanted power - and here it was, settled upon his shoulders in the form of armor and Generals, ranks and titles?), the scion had felt the notch of disquiet brew steadily in his throat, out his lungs, and nothing could absorb the pervading sense of trepidation boiling over. It seethed and simmered along the muscles he’d carefully honed for vengeance, for revenge, for requital (when he could shatter bones and hearts, tear them all to pieces, make them remember his name when it was the last thing they heard, when his face was the last thing they saw), it brimmed quietly along the edges of his devil-may-care stance, and it knocked away the Cheshire grin he’d once had in place. Instead, his brows had furrowed into quiet study, and his mind had warped into a thousand different directions, but ultimately became trapped and segmented into one final place: he’d made a terrible mistake.
 
He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t know what to do or how to act. All he’d ever done was chase down those who’d wronged his friends, and even those moments hadn’t been wildly successful (he’d been driven down more ruins than roads, more dead ends than the promised benediction of a fallen head, or a sword embedded in an enemy’s chest). He’d been emboldened by the devastating depths of his herd, by their overwhelming, bare bones, by his father’s exhausted features, by the lengths in which they’d fall tumbled, and when the audacity no longer lingered, he knew he wasn’t adept for the part. His aspirations had been for triumph – but never for the herd, and he’d wanted to alter it, wanted to change it, wanted to show the world the Basin could be something again…and he had no idea how. Should he call the soldiers to a meeting? Should he glance upon their faces and say to patrol borders? Should he ask what they’d seen, what their experience was, if they’d toppled monsters too or were merely there to slash away at enemies?
 
His father’s presence shocked him, words igniting him into a flurry of abrupt movement until he merely stared at the Reaper and all his deadly intrigue, remembered he’d been there once too, but not this young, and never this foolish. “I wanted to help,” was all the lad said at first, sheepish and stupid, lowering his eyes to stare at the ground, at the water swelling on another cold, unwinding wave. “But I don’t know what to do.” The boy nearly laughed then, on a ripple of sheer stupidity, and somehow wished his mother was there, smiling graciously and murmuring about how great he’d be, even when the whole world had shown him that he could be the most inept at the simplest of things. “I don’t want to fail you, or the herd, or anyone else.”

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want