His scars ache. 

It is the only reason he leaves the desert landscape of his homeland, for few things would ever inspire Cera to part from the borders. The physical pain of his own body is one of them, for he feels useless to his family if he cannot even patrol without gritting his teeth against the convulsing of his muscles. The wind off the ocean around the borders only amplifies the hurt. If it weren't for the multiple places on his body that were effected by the cold, perhaps he could struggle through it. But he is small, birdlike. Ranjiri would tease him, but Cera is aware of the feminine body he lives within. He may be rather tall, but he appears ridiculously breakable. The Prince had never developed a real awareness of it, being so alone most of his childhood - there had simply been no others to compare himself to. Even now, he is unaware of his own appearance - only realizing the impact it has on him when the winter season comes crashing down upon the world. 

It rattles him, physically. His own shivers make him appear as if he's falling apart, a piece of faulty machinery. He seeks heat - craves it. The desert may be scorching, but as the sun falls beneath the horizon, it is as cold as the Basin - and with no mountains to shelter the racing of the wind across the dunes. So Cera follows the call of warmth, succumbing to his own weakness, pursuing the land that borders his home. His escape, his refuge. 

Ilaria is not alongside him, if only because he was loathe to disturb her rest. His trip passes by in solitude, and though he is a creature meant for the skies, he does not take to her heavenly domain this time. The wind only grows colder the higher he flies, and physical movement along the earth keeps him a little warmer. The cadence of hooves on rock is unfamiliar to him, and he taps nervously along, feeling like he is breaking the sanctity of silence that surrounds the Heart with his mere presence. He journeys onward, the tension of his skin slowly slipping away as the heat reaches out to him, cajoling and caressing, drawing him inward. With a sigh the Prince moves onward, relieved as the deep ache of scars on his young body ease to a bearable measure of pain. That he lives with it continually is only a testament to his strength, even as he sees this retreat to the Heart as a weakness.

A shadow of a figure is backlit by the eternal fires of the Heart, and Cera angles towards the hulking figure. Perhaps he is as lonely as Cera is in that moment? But as he comes closer, maw opening for a greeting, Cera's greatest dream unravels before his eyes. 

The stallion is pouring raw, impure metal into a mold that is clearly crafted by hoof rather than magic. It is the very beginnings of crafting, the ugly truth of labor and realistic opportunity for creation. There is no magic to refine or rely upon, the fumbling of their own bodily limitations resounding in the shape of the metal that comes out in the end. 

He's in love. 

A strangled little noise escapes him, to see this forger standing sweating and stubborn at the edge of the crater, as stubborn as Cera had been at the lip of the Diviner's fire. Crafting is his obsession, and he does nothing to deny it. To see such a handsome foreign figure struggling through the most beautiful, basic steps of forging is his undoing. He is well on his way into adulthood and yet he reverts to childhood in but an instant, heart pounding as if he was a normal stallion in the face of a romantic interest. But he is not necessarily normal, and he is quivering as he stumbles towards the unknown fellow, tongue like cotton. 

"It's beautiful," he gushes, big emerald eyes staring up at this giant standing before him, hardly able to hold himself still as his wings fan around him, primaries curling pleasantly. "May I?" But already he is calling upon his magic, seeking out the deposits in the earth that ring of metal and taste like possibility, urging it up and into the fire. He casts his eyes over into the coals where he twists it with a thought, plucking the impurities and letting it fall back to the earth to become something new. He's sweating, but there is no physical exertion in this effort - it is only because he is standing as close to the flames as this stranger is, reveling in a kinship he believes must exist between them. 

In but a few moments he is pulling the metal free and setting it gently on the stone next to the blue's creation - a perfect replica. Perhaps too perfect, he realizes with a sudden bout of panic. What if the stranger believed him to be mocking him for his rudimentary efforts? A shy, nervous smile curls on Cera's cherubic face, bambi eyes flickering up towards the handsome fellow, shifting about and wings curling in, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I meant no offense!" he clarifies a little breathlessly - he wants this stallion to like him so badly it almost hurts. A true craftsman! Someone who loved the art as deeply as Cera did!

"I've been crafting as long as I can remember, it's just so rare that I meet anyone who shares in my love of it," he excuses hastily, suddenly missing Ilaria's presence - she always made sure his tongue wasn't running away with him stupidly like it was now. "Oh! Oh gods I'm so sorry, um," Because what was Ilaria always remind him to do? Your name, Cera! "I'm Cera, head forger of the Dragon's Throat. S-Sorry if I'm disrupting you," he babbled uselessly, wishing he could pitch himself into the Heart and spare himself this agonizing encounter. Gods, he was like a colt all over again! He felt keenly the height and weight difference between them, felt frail and breakable before this behemoth. Oh gods he's going to kill me for being so annoying. Cera's eyes snapped down to where he'd replicated the blue's creation - smooth and gleaming with perfection - and hoped for the best. 

Cera is RIDICULOUS but have this cute fumbling baby