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}

How he manages to find his way to the east is beyond him. Ilaria truthfully guides him, for she will not be left behind a second time. Not after witnessing the memories tucked inside his head, the aftermath of his mistakes with the Moon Goddess. She tells him when to bank, where to go, following the throngs of others as they await the new lands. It is a pattern now, one they cannot deny, and Cera will roam on their outskirts for however long it takes to find his Lord. He does not interact with them, holding Meg's promise inside his heart to keep the darkness of his solitude at bay. He has come to despise his sister, making others effortlessly love her and devote themselves to her while he claws and scrapes and fights every minute of every day just to keep a stable friendship with a singular person. Let her hate me, he thinks bitterly as his wings guide him onward. We do nothing but drag her down. Midas had told him eons ago that Cera's worth had never been lesser than Hototo and Ranjiri. Cera should have known that just like everything else Midas had ever sworn to him, the Gallant would be wrong once more. 

He is terrified by this new disease. The ghoulish auras of those around him are frightening in a way he's never experienced, and his knees tremble even as he steels his face whenever he encounters others. They appear wreathed in flames of different colors, their features vague and gruesome in the haunting ghostly lights around them. He stays away, blames it on the infection, when in reality it is because he hates himself and them so much that he cannot stand to infect them with his personality. A far deadlier disease than what lays within his lungs, choking him with tar and weeping blackness that makes him feel a sense of comfort that his outsides finally appear as tainted as his insides. 

Ilaria guides him gently to land, and though she has no flighted ability of her own, they have been a singular soul for so long that it's as natural to her as it is to him. She directs him past the ghouls with their wraithlike lantern lights, keeps him far from the groups that hunch together in their sickness. Because one figure above them all stands out in the darkness that his vision has become, shining bright until there is no more hellish landscape around him. He'd know the form anywhere, for how it visits him in his dreams and how he pursues it in the waking hours. Away from all the others, for fear of infection and fear of their hatred and disappointment, he bows low to his Lord. Tears are thick and black as they cascade down his face -- relief.

His faith is concrete, completely unshakable. Where his Lord goes, where he commands, Cera follows. "My lord," he breathes, and his breath hitches on tar and emotion. "Please absolve me," he whispers, because he does not doubt that his Lord can hear him regardless of how loudly he speaks. "I trust in you and your light. Please lead me from this darkness," it is not a baseless plea. Cera is willing to fight and die for this celestial standing glorious before them, and if the history of the past two gods would repeat itself...perhaps that would be his fate after all.