Cera
_{I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back}

The ground is damp and the sun is shining, and he has no reason to be moving right now. 

The angle is particularly difficult to achieve, being a pegasus, but it's worth it. The backside of his wings will be stained with mud and grass, as will his entire left side, but appearance has never been one of Cera's concerns. The sun is a weak warmth against his skin, new-growing stalks tickling against his outstretched wings and legs. Ilaria is shamelessly curled in the hollow of his neck, the slope above his right shoulder. She is sunbathing just as he is, a gluttonous pair of lazy bones on a random spring afternoon. 

A soft wind tugs at his sprawled mane, tickling against the curves of his ribs and ruffling Ilaria's fur. One sleepy green eye peeks open as Ilaria shifts and stretches across the length of his neck, a solid, squirming warmth. Her voice rolls over his mind like an errant wave, pleasant and warm with lingering sleep. 

We should be searching for materials, Cera. That's what we came here for. A whining huff leaves the Golden Prince, laziness seeping at his bones like clinging sap. The sun does not scorch here, in the meadow. It is a pleasant warmth like a blanket, and Cera does not feel the "spring fever" that everyone else seems to. Mating, birthing, cleaning, and generally stirring to life.

He continues on as he always does, a constant. Eternal. Nothing ever seems to influence Cera, the changing of time always presenting a new sorrow or trial, and yet he prevails nonetheless. Unchanged. Solitary. 

Sadness creeps into his heart at the reminder, the vast empty field that surrounds him only emphasizing his replaceable nature. A Prince of the sands, but one with an invisible crown. He would serve his herd until his dying day, in quiet faith and questionless loyalty. 

And he would die someday, easily forgotten, with only Ilaria at his side to meet the unknown with him. 

I'm sorry, Cera. Cera gives her a weak smile but does not move to search the earth for metal, as he had intended. The sun is a golden halo against his closed eyes, and his Lord's mark on the world is too much of a comfort for him in that moment. He feels less alone beneath his Lord's gentle rays, and he has no desire to get up and continue working. Tireless. Faithful. 

There will be no thanks at the end of the day.