Perhaps he was the true ghost of the Basin, living, but barely, existing in a haunting, intangible sphere around the stones and charms, biding his time until he left the earth too. He was so removed, so misshapen, so wrapped and shackled in discord, in agony, in grief, that his days were tied to duty and then nothingness, staring into the void, hoping to see the vision of his father around the edge of his eyes. But there’d be nothing, and he’d have to be content with dreams or nightmares, screaming for him to come back, come back in his sleep, before Enyo woke him up or Orsino invaded his thoughts. He chiseled his way down into exhaustion most evenings, patrolling until there were no lines he’d yet to cross, coasting on the lake’s surface until the sun fell behind the mountains, wishing, hoping, and praying for a way to turn back the hands of time – ignoring the Sun God’s request over and over, because he simply couldn’t fathom how to press forward. He stuck to rituals and habits, swallowing his grief into silence, weaving all the airs of his mischief down into the nefarious bits of his soul, so when someone glanced at him all they’d see was this useless husk, a broken shell, a battered vessel – streamlined into muscle and skirmishes because that’s all he was good for now. The prince yearned for more, but had yet to find the way to sail past his anguish the ways others had – couldn’t adjust into colder sentiments like Rikyn, couldn’t press on or disappear like Hotaru and Thranduil, couldn’t sink down into the elements – some days only wishing he could bury himself into the soil, into the sand, into the snow, until someone found him and told him what to do or where to go. Other moments he merely settled into his grief and wept, curled and coiled in the back of his cave where no one could see his follies, his weaknesses, his crumbling, twisted soul, splintered, fractured, and torn apart. Damned and damned and damned again, then forced to pretend that naught was the matter and everything was fine, and the pretenses were ripping, flickering apart, warped at the seams.
 
He wandered then too, much like he always did, down along the throngs of the lake’s banks, then pressing on, on, and on, Enyo lowering her head and Orsino tall and proud; until he reached the trail towards the Reaper’s tomb. The General ceased all motion and movement, however, when he noticed another standing there, and two more figures close by, drifting and placed in shadow – and a part of him seized, clenched his jaw, forced the selfishness rattling his bones to be buried amidst the other rubble and devastation. This was what he’d wanted: for his father to be remembered, not scalded away, not sent into oblivion, not tattered by scavengers. He moved closer then, silent, a chiseled guardian, and paused only momentarily when he saw shown beneath the flickering raindrop and glowing charms: Rexanna. A portion of the youth wanted to be ridiculously bitter and hostile, angry at her for being another one to leave, another being who fled the world for their own asinine desires, leaving the Reaper to continue his efforts till he faded away. But it wasn’t her fault the mighty King had perished, had fallen, and there was no one to truly blame – time had taken his father away and left him with nothing in return. It was cruel and wretched, and worse still to catch the bits and pieces of her speech, the apologies driven towards the rocks, and he had to look away, down past the pathway, into the desolate, forlorn alleys, wondering when the world would swallow him whole. The General tried to swallow down his resentment, his hostility, his rage (even when it was all he had left, beyond the scope of his misery, wrath coiled in his marrow), and maneuvered a ways up the trail, so she could hear him when he spoke. “He was disappointed when you left,” he stated, clear and fluid, face unreadable, aiming daggers at multiple hearts; harpooning it directly into his too, exasperated with himself because at least she’d bothered to come when the rest of those who’d run away did naught (and wasn’t that always the way – they followed the same damned pattern, day after day, night after night, wasting, decaying, still ignorant and useless). Was it worth it?, he wanted to ask her, but couldn’t, couldn’t spill the harsh veracity from his mouth, his tongue, tempted to just crumple right then and there. “But thank you for coming now,” was all he managed to muster thereafter, the steel gaze flickering apart.

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in