Soft humming accompanies the young stallion that attends to the fires of the Shrine. It is a job he finds pride and comfort in, but one that is generally taken upon in solitude. Those that come to find solace or guidance in the fires are met with a warm smile that echoes that of the patron they look to, soft words or silence depending upon what they need in that moment. Maybe others find him too young for the task, for the heavy weight of advising and guiding, informing and sharing. Cera has never minded the quizzical looks or even the doubtful ones. It is his calling, and in his magic he finds further comfort. Two paths he'd claimed, one he'd never anticipated, so long desiring to become a Crafter or follow in his father's steps to be a warrior. Yet somehow, he had become everything. Ilaria the healer, he had woven into his life the duties of a fighter, informer, crafter...who said you had to stick to one expertise? So he hadn't.

Even if it was a lonely job at times, the crackling of the flames was the sound that always accompanied him. The humming was merely an addition, a way to pass the time. Lithe form flickered above the sands, a passing shadow upon the particles the only sign of his passing as he drifted among the sparks and cinders above. Heat touched pale sides and licked at snowy flanks. But it didn't last for long, hovering above the pit and beating expansive wings to fuel the fires below, heaving softly feathered appendages to encourage the flames to grow and consume the fuel he'd given it. Certainly a job that always built up sweat. Ilaria preferred to keep to the sands during this particular step, already meant for cooler climates than the Throat her bonded dwelled within.

It was she who spotted the approaching warrior first, her prince's gaze consumed with the glow of the light below. Hector is approaching, she interrupted, the soft humming dwindling as Cera's crown lifted to spy the aforementioned Spear. Checking the fires below one last time, the youth let the warm currents above the Shrine take the weight of flight off his shoulders after expending so much energy keeping the glow going. Drifting down to the sands he landed with a patter of snowy hooves, jogging off the momentum as he came to face the approaching stag.

Smiling, he stretched the ache from his shoulders as wings expanded and withdrew repeatedly. Ilaria came to Cera's side, curling round his ankle pleasantly, eyeing Hector with curious eyes. "Good afternoon, Hector," he called out pleasantly. Whether Hector recognized him or not, Cera's memory was especially vivid and exact, and he had seen the warrior around frequently as Midas' son. Though he was a generally easily overlooked figure at his father's flank, he knew Hector's face well and was pleased to see him again after such a long time since their last crossing of paths. "What brings you to the Shrine? If I may ask," he amended. After all there were plenty of his kin who would travel to his carefully tended fires and would not wish to share their troubles with him, Diviner or otherwise. Cera respected such wishes, and always ensured they would never be pressed to share their convoluted thoughts with him if they did not so desire. Whether or not he was meant to advise others, he could not press upon his herdmates advice they did not wish to hear.

Were the youth aware that his Lord regarded him so highly as to have sent two to his side, Cera would have been beyond words. Instead he is a mute presence as he lands before the royal stallion, naive as to the reason behind his approach. In time maybe Hector would have found his way to the Fires for his own desire for solace and understanding, but a divine hand had intervened before that time had come round, guiding him gently onto Cera's path. Regardless of whether Cera knew what had sent the valiant warrior to his Fires, he still sent a prayer that he would guide the fellow upon the path that would ease whatever worries plagued his mind.

In the years he had been at Midas' side, Cera had gotten to know a younger Hector, one with a fierce understanding of his path and what it entailed. While he had not delved into a deep or meaningful relationship with the hybrid in that time, far too young and not nearly ready to befriend a fully grown warrior, Cera had enough experience reading others and detecting the worries upon their mind and burdens slackening their shoulders to know something was seeping away at the vitality in his brother. The fretting taking place in his thoughts was nearly screaming at the youth, and his features softened in a look of patience and understanding. Many had sought out the Fires if only for something even playing the charade of life, desiring someone or something of which to act as ears for the troubles they needed to escape from. Cera was proud to have replaced such a sad excuse for an attentive mind and soft voice, and found no shame in the seemingly peaceful position. He was the son of a General after all, he could stand with a man such as Hector as easily as he could the likes of Africa.

From the expression that echoed the arid expanse of their desert home came a shuddering, a crack that became a tiny ravine of a smile. Cera returned it with the soft light of their Father nearly seeping from it, a silent beckoning for Hector to lay his worries upon shoulders seemingly frail but more than capable of taking upon them such troubles. Ilaria cooed softly at the soldier as she felt her eyes upon her russet frame, tail waving in a companionable manner to the troubled stallion. A soft, nearly strained mumble reached Cera's aurals. It was saddening to hear; had Hector never laid his troubles upon someone else, if only for a moment? Cera had never had many in his life, had tread a solitary track most his childhood, but even he had shared his sorrows and desires with his father when he could not continue to house such thick clouds in his mind. A soft clearing of Hector's throat and his words had more surety.

Cera turned and nudged Ilaria up onto his shoulder before shuddering into motion, turning with a tilt of cranium in silent request for Hector to move closer. Turning to stare into the fires he tended, Cera figured Hector would find more comfort when not being directly stared upon while admitting his troubles. Cera gave a soft hum of thoughtfulness, deciding what words would best help the cinnamon stag share his most intimate desires and demons. It was a tricky game Cera had to conduct, one with ever-changing rules, trying to find the soft niche of every new truth-seeker trailing to his Shrine. It was often amusing, in a bittersweet way, how they all sought the same thing yet were so unwilling to unlock the bolt wound through the bars of their guarded hearts and minds. Certainly it made Cera's job harder.

"What is most important to you?" Staring into the eagerly flickering tendrils of flame, he tried to grasp at words he could not easily find at such a broad revelation. "I am always here to help guide you, Hector," he began softly, vivid emerald irises flicking to place themselves upon Hector's features. "What is it that keeps you from knowing what is most important to you? Are you conflicted over something? We all have different cores, different things that keep us strong and unique. Would you like to know mine?" Cera often found sharing himself helped others open up, even gave them some clarity, as had happened with Aurelia and Sikeax.

"What is most important to me...it is my own happiness, the well-being of my herd that has raised me from abandonment. It is giving back to those who have given so much to me." Gazing back over the fires as he spoke, orange dancing in the reflection of his eyes, he smiled wistfully before turning back to Hector. "We are always changing, Hector. It takes a brave soul to step off the path of habit, of rigidity, to pursue the quiet wanting that does not like to tell us truthfully what it desires. I cannot delve into your mind, I can only draw conclusions from what you give me. Is it that your path is changing, but you do not know what to?" Curiously regarding the other man he feared his own talkative nature would scare off the quiet brute, but he could not help him until he had a stronger understanding of exactly what his confliction was. A desire was only a desire until Cera understood the past, the obstacle, and the convoluted mind that was attempting to overcome it. So far, all he had in Hector's case was the desire, but his conviction to help the warrior was as fierce and hot as the flames they stood observing.

Together they approach the warm glow of the fires Cera had tended to so vigilantly, basking in the shared temperature along the sands, side by side companionably. There was no rush to speak, for there never was. Cera was as apt in the conversations of the body and eyes as those of the tongue and lips, Rasta had been a diligent teacher in her mute cursedness. The only odd sound that followed the cadence of Cera’s voice was the shuffling of feathers against one another as Hector allowed the tension to seep from his battle-born frame. Soft rumble of request, one that Cera abided with all the patience and humble tendencies he could summon in his thin frame.

At times, Cera feared he spoke too freely, too frequently. Yet it was his lack of words that had made Dalibor so sore with him, so his conflict was more than readily apparent. Instead, he comforted himself as much as he could with the realization that he would not be Diviner without the belief of his Lord that he could fulfill the job to its utmost reaches. And so when at last Hector began to speak, a murmur of sound rumbling in closed lips before the particles ever formed into words. As eyes met, their smiles were shared, and Cera found himself fondly regarding the larger stallion. "I do not doubt your loyalty, nor the valor inscribed in our Lord’s image upon your heart Hector," he assured with a firm tone of lyric and all the ancient belief passed down from his father and his Heavenly father as well into his own body.

And at last, the root of the problem; a divergence of paths, of long-walked tradition combating a new desire for change that Hector was too deeply rooted to pursue. Drooping of muscled shoulders only enhance Cera’s desire to help, to heal the fractures skimming like eagle wings upon water on Hector’s soul. With a fluid, singular movement, the patched cherub turned to face Hector fully. This? This was a matter he had felt in his own heart, though at a far younger age. Experience was the best teacher, he believed, and with the hope that he could transport that into some sort of help for the older stallion was immediately apparent. A certain level of playfulness cratered along his emerald irises.

"I never believed, in any of my days, that I would be the ambassador of the Lord of the Sun. As long as I can recall, my love lay in crafting. I would design, scheme, until my mind was tired and the sands of my sleeping place destroyed with runes of prints." Fondly he recalled how he would trace the print of the wall, over and over, memorized as it was. He could still create it with his hoof in mere seconds, if called upon to do so, even with the wall complete. In his heart he found solace in those actions, in the fact that despite it all he had been able to craft, for in the magical rank he found himself occupying there was an entirety of them to be chosen.

"And as I grew older, that desire changed. I witnessed war, I trained among your ranks in fact. I sought to find my father’s hoofsteps, and to follow them exactly. To become the warrior I suddenly sought to be. Even now, were we to be invaded, you would find me at the frontlines bleeding beside you rather than cowering by these flames. For no matter what path I choose, what rank I hold or title other proclaim when I pass them by, I will always bleed and be willing to die for the safety of my people." Certain vehemence coated the proclamation, nearly an oath.

"And I know, Hector, that you would do the same. But does my body appear fit for war, for battle? No. How we are born physically does not determine our worth, nor our path. Our callings change, as mine have shifted already so much in my young age. In this time of peace, perhaps you should seek what your heart is aching for. Not what older times and worn paths have convinced your mind is right." Perhaps that would be all Hector needed to hear, but Cera was fully prepared to stand there until his hooves melted into the earth and his voice was ruined with the comforting tone he employed.