Relief and love twine around his heart, not restricting it but instead comforting it. Midas does not judge him for his inability to fight, instead he encourages his love for crafting. Aiding him, accepting him despite the fact he is too sweet of a soul to bring blood to another’s hide. And yet, he desires to fight as well. To be like his father. It is a disconcerting mix, but he cannot understand why he can’t be both. Surely he can craft and damage at the same time? Midas is the General, and yet Cera knows he helps with the building of their wall, using his magic to construct the object that the colt has memorized. It reminds him of Bazilisk, which makes him sore, but he doesn’t mind. He has realized that once he is old enough, he will fight to claim the place of Crafter. He will bring honor to the Throat, he will display the grandeur that flows within the veins of every desert dweller. Cera is surprised by this passion, by how much he wants to show others that the Throat will never fall. And he also realizes that he is willing to fight for that, and nearly doesn’t hear what Midas has to say.

Focus shifts back to him and smile blooms on a face that is quickly outgrowing its baby image. Face turned to meet his, and they moved as if hoping to touch every inch of each other. Cera didn’t want to grow up sometimes, fearing he would lose this closeness. Would Midas be against Cera wanting to cuddle once he was an adult? It was the fear of adolescence, of having to face the world on his own even with the knowledge that Midas would always be behind him to urge him onward. There is silence for a long moment. Cera presses closer, wishing that he was not so gangly for he is taking up so much unneeded space. Space that could be used to better press against his daddy. The cherub was a being of touch, of empathy. Simple brush of hide comforted him in ways no words could. The sun was high and hot, making him feel a little drowsy, but he is anticipating the rebuttal that is sure to come from his father.

Even if he prepared for it, he cannot fight back the injustice he feels. He can’t, he won’t let Midas charge into battle once more. The memory of every injury on his painted hide still stung his mind fiercely, reminding him of the first time when he was younger that Midas had gone off to war. Anger rises in his throat like bile, only to be quelled by Midas’ comforting words. Pride blooms in his chest cavity, and he is momentarily complacent, willing to listen. He is far from a disobedient son after all. Serious face replaces the tender gaze, which injures and angers him. It is meant to show how serious Midas is about the situation, but Cera for once does not allow him to plant the idea into his brain. For once in his entire life, he won’t obey. Long legs push him up, up, up. Sprouting up towards the sky, and he knows someday he will tower over Midas’ compact frame. He will never have his father’s bulk, veering towards a leaner variety, but he is using his growing body to show his anger and refusal. Startled, Ilaria scampered back up onto his shoulders and held on tight, feeling how Cera shook with anger and injustice. It was all sprouting from a tiny seed of fear, fear of Midas becoming harmed. Cera wanted to be there to watch his back, to keep him from being hurt. ”No, no I won’t!” Even childish voice is starting to very slowly deepen, but it shakes nevertheless. Hoof stomps the sand and he bows back from the shade of their Magnolia tree, sunlight bursting bright across his sandy colors and alabaster patches. Eyes dart from the sky to Midas, betraying his fear that is covered up by anger. ”I want to fight, daddy! You can’t make me leave!” Wings unfurl, though not fully, hoping to make himself appear even the slightest bit larger without assuming a threatening pose. Ilaria slowly, cautiously moved up his neck to his poll and nudged his ear with her small face. Eyes slitted and he hissed through their bond. Her own dark brown narrowed and she bit at his ear in retaliation, knowing that the did not mean to offend her but warning him not to go too far in this fight with Midas. It was her own way of saying she worried for him. Scurrying back down to his shoulders, feeling his need to escape to the skies. Cera had been diligently practicing, and prayed that he could escape from his father if this truly did explode. The idea of it was appalling, made him feel absolutely sick, but he wasn’t ready to bow down and gracefully accept the idea that his father would be vulnerable and fighting not only for his herd but for his life for the second time.