Wounds ache along a pale frame as the cats clear from the border, and the youth feels the deep scores of claws sinking into the meat of his bodice. Sikeax's scream of his name lingers in his head as she stumbles, Ilaria's worry like a pulsing beacon in his head, and he is just so dizzy. Waving away the others at the border, knowing Tandavi would likely attempt to heal him, he brushes his muzzle against Sikeax's shoulder before limping away. He needs time to think, to nurse wounds that Ilaria is weaving her magic into. There is not much she can do, her magic far lesser than what their Physicians held, but Cera refuses to be healed when his mind is in such a scramble. Ilaria's emotions are blaring in his head, and he wishes he had the energy to shut out her fear as he walks away. Murmuring that he just needs a minute alone.

What was initially a minute becomes longer as he heads to the Oasis, glad his wings are uninjured as they carry him away from the concerned faces and back to the water that saps the crimson from his skin while Ilaria persistently attempts to make them shallower. That's all she can truly accomplish, for scrapes are the majority of what she can heal, but much like her bonded she is stubborn and will not let him stray from all proffered healing. Instead, Cera allows her to worry, letting the minutes turn to hours as a storm rolls in on the cusp of autumn. Chasing away what little remains of the summer sun that had drawn the predatory cats in like a magnet.

Sighing, he realizes he must seek out Sikeax, and with a tired lurch of wings he rises from the water to fly back towards the borders in hopes that either she had remained or that he could figure out where she had strayed to apologize for worrying her. But how could he explain himself? He had seen the cat springing for her, had felt the horror that accompanied the movement like a hammer against his heart. Never before had he felt such fear for someone else that was not family. He knew she may be upset with him, for blatantly sacrificing his own body to the claws of the beast in order to save her, but Cera did not regret his choice. Even as the sting of claws, phantoms, continued to drag through his skin he couldn't find a single ounce of regret in his body.

It isn't the pale cream form of the lovely dame that he finds as his head lays low and tired while he drifts upon the currents, but a far more familiar painted figure straddling the border in solitude. Even more significant is the orange and red glow of his father's companion, and Cera briefly considers his current physical state and wonders if he should attempt to engage his father at that moment. After all, he thinks with bitter amusement, what better way to make his father doubt Cera's ability to remain safe in the desert alone than to appear bleeding and scored up with the marks of a feline?

But he is tired, and in his weary heart he cannot imagine Midas caring too much. He was a soldier once, after all. So the painted cherub drops on shuffling wings, landing as gingerly as he can manage to prevent irritation of the fresh wounds. Striding towards his father slowly, the green eyed Diviner offered an empty smile. They had ended their last encounter on a sour, heartbroken note. Cera had not forgotten.

"Hello, Father."