Drawn by the divine presence of the Earth Lord, they gather like flies, and Cera is as bothered by their presence as those pesky little obsidian creatures. All of them, greedy, seeking to use the kindly Father Earth for their own gain. It makes him feel queasy. He is not here for any reason other than wandering, feeling wrong and misplaced in the Dragon's Throat after he had murdered his father's doppelganger. In fact, he hopes to find Hototo, for he has not seen his brother in a long time. Far too long. He wonders if, maybe, Hototo would not love him the same anymore. It is maybe a silly thought, but Cera has never admitted to being confident in everything. Most of his weaknesses were targeted at himself, of course. Did Hototo miss him, or even remember him? Did he remember their first flight lessons, the way Cera had wept on him after first running into the dark, alternate version of their shared adoptive father? Even the mere thought, in passing, that Hototo would not want Cera at his side, was enough to cripple the youth's confidence and heart. So when he spied the God of the Earth, the relief and love that washed over him was magnanimous.

Walking on tired limbs he approached Father Earth, and crumpled slowly to his knees somewhat beside him, somewhat before him. Gazing up towards the wise, kindly face, he gave a sigh and turned to nudge a sleeping Ilaria up to his shoulder so she could chirrup happily at her creator. "Hello, Grandpa," Cera said softly, a smile on his face as he reminisced. It was a habit, from childhood, to call him Grandpa. Honestly the youth didn't even know if he was okay with it, and was always unsure if he should say it at all. "I only wished to see you, I was so afraid once you had gone..." voice trailed to a whisper, and Ilaria slid from his shoulder to huddle under his wing, pressing behind his shoulder against his heart to comfort him.

Meanwhile, the earth sings. It's Hototo, and when emeralds turn to look for him among the crowd, he is as eye-catching as always. Instead of being proud of him, Cera feels instead the familiar sting of imperfection, of uselessness. He will never be the son that makes their father proud. He will never be the soldier, the guardian of his family that wears the noble medals. He will never catch the eyes of others, enchant them with his half-godly blood, nor impress them with his magic. It is a painful reminder, and so instead Cera clenches his eyes shut and tucks his head beneath his wing, nose to nose with his companion, and tries to just soak in the presence of the one he worshiped and loved so faithfully.

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Cera isn't here for any reason other than to see the Earth God, and doesn't need to be counted in the roll!