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}

[This takes place after Kri's departure, but before the meeting <3]

It is not long before his lips are pursed and clenching, eyes burn with need to release more salted liquid. He does not let them fall. Weak, too weak, hadn't he always been? Too weak to be son of the Gallant, to fight back against the devilish crimson monster who had placed his first unnatural scar upon his skin, to keep his friends by his side, to keep his sister safe and loved, to compete with a brother he loved and envied equally. Fake Midas had told him so often enough, but in the end, had it not been Cera who had ended his wretched life? Briefly he wonders if he did the poor creature a service, ending his life like that. Life brought about nothing but pain, did it not? And this world refused to receive him, the vile intruder he was. But he had not asked to be brought to Helovia, and such Cera felt the ever-growing guilt and suffering claw along the insides of his cavernous soul like a poisonous basilisk seeking daylight. He doesn't know how long he stands there, and doesn’t care enough to look heavenbound to find out. He merely stands there as his tears calm, drenched in blood, and wonders why.

It's not long before someone comes calling, though it was appropriately the other way around. Who wouldn't come, when such a hysterical screech came from his lungs? There is a shadow that circles the ground, and Cera drags his heavy eyes to the sky to see nothing but a black figure in the offset of the sun's rays. But that movement is familiar to him, remembering Roskuld and how Gaucho had found them both that day. He descends gracefully, despite his large build, and Cera turned his crimson-streaked face to the man he loved like an uncle, a brother. He didn't show it often enough, but his appreciation for Gaucho was deep and strong. Mara writhed in his antlers, dark small eyes peering near-sightlessly in his direction, forked tongue flickering from her mouth to scent the air around him. Ilaria gave a soft sound of agitation and hurt, her own grassy gaze caught on Gaucho like a homing beacon, knowing he couldn't understand her but pleading internally that he would help her bonded somehow.

Gaucho steps forward.

"…Game?" he queries uncertainly, and the hesitant, awkward smile gives Cera that little bit of courage he needs to return it, weak and wobbly. There are no more tears, now. Merely the sunken gaze of a broken youth forced into war too soon. Now, he looks back on his past self and scoffs at him, for why had he ever begged Midas to let him on the frontlines? Then again, it would not have been an enemy wearing his father's face whom he would have had to battle. For endless moments he stares, breath caught in his lungs, stagnant and breeding. He can't feel the ache of them. Instead he searches the rough, yet surprisingly elegant, features of the stag opposite him. Was Gaucho so used to blood and death, that he did not consider someone Cera's age too young for murder?

"No, not a game." Was that his voice? It was dry, cracked, old. How long had he been stuck in the void of wandering, of war? How long since he had last plucked the vocal chords in his tender throat, let them reverberate and sing out in praise of words that took him so much longer to learn? It felt sick and wrong coming from his lips, like death and illness itself was trailing like overly sweet sap down his throat into his gullet to poison him oh so slowly. He shifted and winced, teeth grinding down, jaw bulging as he catches the sound of pain inside his teeth as if gripping down on a physical foe. There will be no more cowardice now. This was his sick, twisted entrance into adulthood; after all, what would be more fitting than slaying the figure of his sickened father?

"I...I killed someone, Gaucho." It is a hurt whisper, a rough wind through brittle grass, echoing and rattling against each other violently as they break and splinter under the weight of the breeze. Gaucho is tall, and the adolescent lifts his head, trying to feel stronger, more alive, to meet the docile ceruleans peering in confusion down at his slight frame. If he were surer about Gaucho's reaction, he would press himself to the stag's chest, just to feel his warmth and know he would not be judged or fussed over. Sometimes, simplicity was all Cera wanted. In fact, most of the time that was the truth in his life. He understood Gaucho's struggle with words intimately, remembering his own tears over his frustratingly slow progress with language after so many seasons with no patron to guide him. Had Midas not found him, would Cera have ended up like the muscled warrior who so quietly watched him? Maybe if he pretended, he could fool himself that Gaucho was watching him with concern, or maybe even familial love.

Cera shouldn't be bitter, considering Midas had given him so very much, but Cera hated how often Midas was taken from him in daily life. It was his own personal sickness, one he hated, but one he could not purge. Even so, he knew the simplicity he wanted in Gaucho did not echo true, and his heart yearned for his father. Was he strong enough to face him, though? After having just murdered someone who looked precisely the same? What emotions would be evoked upon their reunion? Evil thoughts whispered into his head, things like 'Did he even notice my absence?' and 'Did he spare a thought to miss me?'. Lovely things warred quietly with them, but the mere presence of these dark questions made him feel sick and wrong wrong wrong everywhere like some sort of glass masterpiece with black smoke trapped inside, marring what perfection he may have attained.

Wingbeats.

Cera turned his crown slowly, tiredly, and squinted into the sky weakly. Entire body throbbed and burned like the poison that had once attempted to end his life. The similarities were not comforting. It is not the form of the stag that he recognizes first, just as he had with Gaucho's, but the songbird of flame that streaks towards him. Only when recognition tugs at his mind does he remember the wingspan, the stature, and he realizes who it is racing to his side from a distance he can't comprehend. A distance that was both mental and emotional, physical and spiritual. But he cannot stomach the sight of Midas, not yet, even if his form is blurred and blackened by the sun. Instead his eyes turn to Fina, his darling princess, the precious ball of flame and feather he loved so dearly. "Fina, my beautiful Fina," he breathes out, managing to lift his best wing to stretch the tip out to her, as if wanting to kiss her with his plumes. He prays she can give him the strength to turn and look at the face of his beloved father, the same face that had gone still and blank by his hand.

Golden walkers strike the earth like a punishing blow, fierce and exuberant, and Cera lowers his wing with a wince, glad he had not been stupid enough to use the one that hung limp and useless on his left side. As much as he fears it, stomach dropping to the earth in a dizzying rush, he cannot ignore the beckoning of his name in the same soft tones that were always used on him. Haunted emerald irises turned, wide and hysterical like a caged animal, lurching away without meaning to at the swift approach. His lip twitches as if wanting to snarl, ears flattening faster than they ever had, disappearing into a mane made snowy by age and sun. His body quivers, leg nearly buckling, ready to go down fighting because by the Gods all he can see, all he can remember, is the face of the crazed imitation as he lunged towards him to rip him apart and shed his blood in a shower of hate and vengeance.

Seconds later, he goes slack, sorrow and self-hatred like living green flames in his dead orbs. What has he done? Midas...this Midas...is not to be feared. "Be easy son, let me aid ye." Cera choked, limping over to the shade offered by the wing his father extended, and pressed a trembling muzzle tentatively to a dark shoulder. Warmth. He was alive. He was real. The real Midas. "D-Dad..." he choked out, the closest to 'daddy' he'd said in years. Tears prick at his eyes, but there is nothing to come, he has sworn to himself that he shall not. He turns his gaze to Gaucho, not knowing where to look, and he can't help it when he cries out as if in pain when Fina turns and takes off. No, no, Gods he has only just gotten them back! He wants to panic, needs to, wants to run after Fina and hold her to his side forever because he needs her, didn't she know that? Didn't he show her how much he need her? How much he loved her? How much she meant to him? And with a sinking feeling, he realizes- the three flames of life around him...that's really all he has.

"I killed him, dad. I...I killed him." It's a broken whimper, a whisper, as if he's caught between shock and wanting to puke his guts up right there on the desert floor. He's a shell, muzzle still barely touching his father's skin, not leaning into the proffered shoulder. Cera doesn't trust himself to know the difference between the man whose blood still stains his skin, and the man who stands beside him, the only beacon of light that has remained faithfully ever since saving him from the darkness of his own childhood.

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}

Calm came over him slowly, like a wave of peace on a relaxing summer morning. In Gaucho's familiar presence, the anguish he felt melted away, lithe shoulders dropping as the tension was released like steam from a flask of anxiety and dementia. Golden eyes belonging to his father. Cera knew, now, what his father would look like should he ever fall in battle. It sickened him, the thought alone was almost enough to constrict his stomach as if in the clutches of a vengeful boa. The sky is reflected in Gaucho's eyes, which alight upon him and do not move. Unlike Midas, who casts his eyes heavenward and every other direction upon the compass of the earth in contemplation, Gaucho did not let his gaze stray. It was solid, comforting and enveloping. Emerald eyes gaze up at Gaucho, for as much as he has grown, the warrior is still far taller than Cera. From dark mocha lips comes a soft sound, his name, and in that deep voice there is something akin to compassion. It's like hearing the call of home, and a pale foreleg extends to step over the sand towards him, beckoned by the understanding decibels.

When Gaucho moves, Cera does not finch, instead watching as the flight feathers extended, similar to a ripple of lean muscle, and pointed out a crimson stain upon his canvas. It's an odd shape, one the youth has never encountered before. Foreign, like Gaucho was often considered. To Cera he is family, though. Nobody could convince him that Gaucho was dangerous, because as quiet as the warrior was, there was a wisdom in those clear sapphires that he trusted. That same feather extended to brush like a loving kiss against the scar laced like cobwebs of silver and pink across his breast. Every word is hung on, drunken up, clung to as if spoken from the mouth of a God. Wisdom imparted, trembling heart stilled and caressed with rough, warm hands of a worker.

A thousand words could not have adequately described the gratitude in his breast over the fact that Gaucho was there, that he understood, and that he was wise enough to handle Cera's shuddering, fragile sanity with gentle hands. It was rooted firmly once more, and though the pain of it was still there, he could handle it from there. So in the quiet of the lapse in Gaucho's words, like the stillness between an inhale and exhale, he slips his words in like a ghosting promise, the kiss of fingertips against skin, a memory at the edge of your mind that escapes time and again with nothing but a whisper of nostalgia; "Thank you, Gaucho."

Sincerity is thick in his voice, and he doesn't genuinely want to be parted from Gaucho right then, but they have no choice in the matter when Fina and Midas burst onto the scene, rightfully worried. Fina, of course, captures his attention, but his gaze flickers continually to Gaucho. Did he feel the separation too? Or was he relieved that the seemingly constantly depressed youth was no longer his to deal with? He is drawn away as ivory wings touch down on his skin, and he flinches, gritting teeth at the renewal of pain that flashes teasingly across the span of his flesh. Turns, and sees the shocked, horrified look Midas directs towards his body, which is covered in gore and soaked in blood, most of which belongs to him. Had his knees not been locked, he probably wouldn't be standing for long.

"It will heal," he manages to choke out, for once in his life unsure of how to comfort his father. But when he breathes out a question, of a single syllable, and his cry draws Gaucho closer, his body stiffens and he takes a few stiff, painful steps from out of his father's hold. Turns to face him, face cold and lips trembling. "You. I killed you." And his form trembles with anger, injustice, with all the emotions and the fear, the turmoil inside ever since that sickened body breathed its last taste of sweet summer air.

"You didn't believe me, when I told you there were alternates of you running around, when I told you that they looked exactly the same, but had a heart of black coal. I hated him, more than I have hated anybody in this sick, diseased world we live in. I hated him!" It is a roar, a caged demon freed from his vocals, a verbal release that he has denied in his head forever. The Earth God had told him, and the wise old Turtle as well, never to hate. To forgive. He cannot, he had tried, tried so hard to forgive that awful imposter. But he cannot, even with the face of his father, the voice of a beloved family member. "You did not believe me. I found him, in the shadows of that damned placed that gave me this scar!" And his laugh is angry, bitter, as he gestures to his breast.

"Well guess what, this land killed him more than I ever could, and he was the first to lunge for me, calling for my death! I sat and stared into your face as he tore into me!" A bellow, this time, but something is broken behind his gentle eyes, something bitter is in his tone. He is huffing, narrow chest heaving, and he stumbles towards Gaucho automatically, needing to see and be near someone who wasn't the exact replica of the demon who had spilled his own blood across earth that had already had its fill of his life essence.

"A-And...and I couldn't let him kill me, I couldn't...I couldn't do that. So...so I fought back. And he almost won, but he was weak and...and he had your face, and your eyes, and I watched you die, but it wasn't you. I killed him...because...because if I hadn't he would have killed me." Surprisingly there are no tears. Not a single film of moisture clouds his vision. He is just standing there on bleeding legs, hurting, but his head does not hang as low as it could, and his words are strong if broken, instead of shaking and desperate. He couldn't be known as the weak soul that cried at every turn, no. He would show them all that he could survive, that he had survived, and multiple times at that. "I watched him bleed, I heard his breath stop, I watched his heart quit beating. And I cursed him, for what he did to me, and I hated him. I hated him. But I can't help but think...but think that he was you, and you were him. That I killed you, that you will want to kill me in return. I don't know what to do, anymore. I'm tired of fighting to live on my own." And if there is a silent accusation, a sadness, to his words well...it was likely Midas wouldn't recognize it. So he stood, angled towards Gaucho, wanting the firm and unyielding protection and warmth he offered, and stood in a hectic trail of his own blood. Despite all the pain, he knew he was alive. But was it worth the dead look in his eyes, the haunted and hunted visage, as if he were a cornered animal ready to lash out?

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}

Midas recoils as if stung, and Cera wishes he were not so loose with his words. After years of tears and quiet pain, the anger has consumed him, but it is not aimed at his father. Of course with how his words had poisoned his tone, it certainly must have seemed like it. He is nearly panting by the end of his outburst, and he just wants to curl up beneath the magnolia and sleep until he could remember nothing of the past. There has been too much pain in his life, too much sorrow and longing. How many more scars must he weather upon his heart, mind, and body before the Gods are satisfied? But he can't question them now, when they have returned his father to him, when they have shown that he is not alone, contrary to his fears, by sending him Gaucho and Hototo. From his father's darkly maw come two words, and his anger dwindles, though it does not die. It is the same face he wishes to despise, for which he clings to his anger even still. But it is not the face of the demon, this time. It is the visage of the one it had imitated.

Onni arrives before Midas can speak again, flustered and harried. His name is called in soft tones, and he feels a child again, for is that not what he is? It seemed he had lived a thousand lives, walked a thousand paths in shoes he'd long since worn out. His soul was older than the vessel that contained it. Turning his head he seeks out her kind, beautiful face. Somehow, though she does not appear to understand his trials, her look is sympathetic. A beacon of light in an otherwise dark world. She had been there for him when his father could not, had held his life in her hands and breathed it back into him when he was but a babe lost on the path of life. That trail seemed so much narrower now, with age. "Onni," he breathes, and as she reaches for him he does the same, and feels old as his height encompasses her smaller form. Though still within the shelter of his father's wing, he extends himself, muzzle vying for the touch of her own.

"I do not want to burden you with my constant sorrows, Onni. Your presence...it's enough," he whispers, words he intended only for her, though uncaring if either male near to him happened to catch them. She has been his sister and mother, best friend and tutor. Onni had been at his side since he was a gangly colt, and in their time apart he had forgotten how it felt to know she was always there, a call away. But he could not bear the thought of placing his troubles upon her gentle soul. Her guiding light of a personality was more than enough to bask in, as if even her presence was healing.

Her words are sure, as if she is reciting them, and tensed muscles relax jerkily. Leg is lame and held off the earth because of it, but he lets the wise saying wash over him, tries to believe in it when all he wants to do is ask Gaucho; how do you deal with it? How do you stop seeing those dead eyes? How do you stop feeling the slick of their blood and the crunch of their bone? Do you ever forget?

"Then help me," he begs her, no more than a strained whisper, this time surely only for her ears. He does not know who to go to anymore. Gaucho and Onni are the only two to propose a solution, but he knows his father is still recovering from shock, and does not blame him. Gaucho could teach him how to forget. Onni could teach him how to forgive.

Midas speaks softly and Cera turns away from the painted beauty to look at him, eyes full of sorrow and nostalgic adoration as he remembers that day. "I remember...I could hardly speak, I'd never learned. I remember thinking that maybe the Gods had put our paths at a crossroads..." Quietly he listens, entranced, as his father recalls every nuance of their relationship. Only the tender thoughts are revealed, not daring to delve into matters like his attack. But when Midas ventured to say that Cera's wish for death may have slain the brute at his side, he stared at the sand below and murmured quietly in return.

"So you are saying I should not have tried? I should not have wished it? Attempted it? That I should have let him slay me there, and not fought back?" But it is idle macabre thoughts, at best, with no real bite behind them except the vacancy of bitterness echoing in his tone. As the alternate world is described to him his face is calm, if a bit creeped out. It at least gives him a respite from his thoughts, standing placid and quiet between Onni and Midas, eyes moving to set upon Gaucho, hoping the gaze alone would keep him there. He didn't want him to depart, and just looking at his worried, if mildly confused, expression was enough to bolster the strength Onni had sparked inside him.

"He showed me none of that mercy. But I'm glad he did for you."

He could get through this. He just had to work hard towards it, and put it behind him, or he'd never be able to move on to a better life. Maybe now, he could seek out Gaucho for training, so that he could protect his beloved family from twisted creatures like anti-Midas. Maybe now it was time to learn how to defend and protect everything dear to him.