Hysteria has passed, but it has left a deep aching hole in cherub’s chest. Exhaustion is making thin limbs sway, emotional piling upon previous physical that had driven him in a headlong sprint across the sand. Running from ghosts that chased after him laughing and screeching that he couldn’t run away forever. Ilaria was worried by such thoughts, and was chittering restlessly as she scaled the two colors of his mane to rest once more behind drooped ears. His mind is a mess, scattered and drifting all over the place. Repeating thoughts in a loop that he can’t control. Miscommunication ruins lives, and it is seen so clearly in the situation that presented itself to them. He is all tired out, unable to even imagine one more word. Breaths come in harsh pants, drawing in humid desert air that does little to help him. Everything seems strange, hot. Too hot. But he somehow remains standing, tiny frame held up by stilt like legs that, should they move, felt as if they could collapse in moments.

Emeralds that once glittered have now turned into blades of crushed grass, soft and yielding. Nothing is keeping him from the metaphorical edge. Nothing but one person. Ilaria would follow him to the ends of the world, but Midas was the only person who could keep him from completely losing the rest of his sanity. Everything had turned into a puzzle that he didn’t understand. Couldn’t comprehend where he should even start putting it together. What the scene would be at all, once it was completed. Everything was tainted black and red in his mind, blood and shadows that kept him awake long into the late night hours of twilight. Feeling that if he even so much as blinked, he would be back on that sand waiting in agony for Onni to arrive. That there wouldn’t be a savior on the horizon that time. That he would bleed out on the sand, with no one to take his fear away. It seemed he was so scared, so suddenly, of everything.

Staring into his father’s familiar golden orbs, he wanted to cry again. Alas he could not, it felt as if he had cried every last tear in his body for the rest of his life. At that moment he wanted to crumple, let the wind break his resistance and fall to lay along the warmth of the desert floor. Let it consume him. Rid him of the darkness that lurked like a disease on the corners of his mind. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide. What was a child to do when faced with such a situation? Was he supposed to be afraid? Was this normal? And if so, what in the world was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to start? Was confessing to his father even the right thing? So many thoughts fluttered around his brain like sparrows with broken wings, helpless and nervous. Knowing that their desperation will get them nowhere.

Movement catches his eyes and he watches with dead eyes as the armor falls away. Revealing the father he’d met so long ago on a dark night, on a patrol. He hadn’t realized the difference the armor made, as he had grown so terribly used to it. Gaze roved over the newly revealed hide, taking in the familiar curves and patterns that had escaped eyes for quite a while. Cera looked to him for guidance, for some sort of reassurance that he wasn’t actually going insane. He felt like he was overstuffed suddenly, like there was no way he could ever fly if all of this was keeping him so firmly on the ground.

Painted stallion took a step forward and Cera trembled. Tiny limbs shaking. It was as if he were no longer ‘Cera’. He was just a frightened animal, not even a person anymore. For why else would he feel the desire to back away from the one person he loved more than life itself? Felt almost like a tiny fawn, hardly rid of its spots. Easily startled, flighty. But he forced himself to remain even as his crown reached skyward, neck arching back subtly. Hanging on his words, paying such close attention to every syllable that Cera himself could feel the desperation. Praying that Midas would say something, anything to make the horrible things go away. Reminder of the horrible demon had terror slipping into his eyes, but he knew that his father did not speak of him to scare him. Only to explain that he was not angered with the painted colt, that the passionate if deadly emotion was directed at the horrible thing that had left the scar upon his breast. Sniffle echoes from his nostrils, and though he had thought that no more tears could escape green eyes turn moist. Comforted by the words he spoke, telling Cera that no, Midas would not chase him away. He would not have to return to the dark landscape he had once inhabited, wondering if anybody loved him. For if he’d been abandoned then he was surely unlovable. Fears that had built in the very back of his mind, unnoticed even by him. Appearing all at once because of the horrific incident.

Again he shuffles closer and the trembling strengthens. Why he is wracked by them Cera is clueless. Deciding in the end that the only explanation is that he is about to run. But where, now that is the question. Would he run away from Midas, from the closeness he was slowly putting upon him? Or would he run forward, into his familiar warmth and scent, and allow himself to be held and comforted? It would seem such a simple decision, but to him it is not. He knows he should choose the second option, but something far deeper told him that nothing could help him. A frightened part of him that feared he could never recover, and therefore told himself that it was impossible. That Midas couldn’t help him, so why should he stick around? But the need to heal himself was far stronger, and he hoped that made him a better person for choosing the hard path instead of the easy one. Last words are spoken, bidding him to move forward. Cera hesitated only a fraction of a moment, and in that moment Midas continued to speak.

“Let me be strong for you, and trust in me when I say that my love for you has never shaken and it never will."

Those words broke the tiny film that kept the tears from touching his cheeks, and they flowed once again. He was positive that he would cry out every drop of water from his body, but he didn’t really care in that moment. Sobs were no longer great and gasping, but tiny and more like hiccups than anything. Running forward though he hardly even needed a step, crashing fragile little body into the larger, sturdier one of Midas. Hiding beneath his wing, turning so that face was against painted neck. Crying softly into the softness he found there, the familiarity. Wings drooped down so that tips touched the sand, and Ilaria huddled down on the curve of his back so as not to disrupt the bonding between them. In the quiet of his shaking sobs, hardly more than a babe’s, he whispered. ”W-What do I-I do?” Tiny and strained, but he was sure that Midas had heard it. Hiding away in the darkness of flesh and closed eyes, inhaling familiar things he’d nearly forgotten in their distance. This darkness didn’t scare him. A sort of numbed calm washed over him, as if he were floating. He was safe here. He didn’t have to run here.

The monster couldn’t get him beneath his father’s wing.