There is no reason to suspect that anything will hold them up, that their task is not soon to be completed. Nothing Cera had said would have prompted any further conversation that could not be properly held while they tugged along their bounty on the cart. Perhaps it would be strained, whatever questions the man may have had born of genuine curiosity or social pressure to inquire further. Not that he seemed the type to subscribe to such rudimentary, unnecessary notions.
When the motion halts, progress stunted, Cera turns a curious eye back up at the man pulling their cargo. There is a tension to his mountainous shoulders, trembling like Atlas himself holding up the world. Perhaps he is. A mighty warrior brought low by the wrath of the Gods, toiling beneath the weight of the entire world, unable to procure even the briefest of respites. He seemed the type, the stoic soldier, the sword and shield. These were things Cera could see and categorize upon their meeting, an old habit from Helovian days when the Threshold was teeming with new life, and you had only a brief interaction on which to try and judge them worthy of the home you offered.
The words that are harkened back to his ears freeze his own hands, until a faint tremble starts up in them. Jigano had said...he had known there were others...his mind spins wildly, remembering the list of names the man had given him, but the revelation comes all too soon for him to try and determine it on his own. Match the changed features to names, titles, those he'd never met but had known.
Deimos.
"Reaper," he echoes dumbly, almost without his consent. It's no insult. Merely a title, hollow and useless in this land as his own. Verdant eyes, wide with surprise, lift to the shock-cold of blue he catches only a glimpse of. His own hand rises to grasp at Deimos', unafraid, if perhaps a bit awed. "I...Cera, the Golden Prince. Son of Midas." He had not had to introduce himself by way of his parentage in so, so long. His title had begun to speak for itself, much like the Reaper. He had escaped that shadow many, many years ago. Yet he was not so bold as to presume the Reaper would have heard the echoes of his presence all the way in the secluded northern reaches of the land. Midas, however, would always be a golden light that blinded and reminded all of his life. He had not been a good father, and he knew that now. Gaucho had always been the father of his heart, his soul, but...his progeny far outweighed Cera's importance. It would feel like a lie to use the man's name in such a way, not when there were so many blooded relatives that had made names for themselves beneath his strong branching bloodline.
The man's hands are firm, large, calloused. Comforting, in a way. Cera had feared Deimos for years as a child, especially after d'Artagnan had nearly ended his life before it even had a chance to begin. In some ways, he had nearly been molded in parallel racism, terrified of all horned beings before the intervention of the Earth God placed forgiveness in his heart. For a moment he's at a loss for words, and simply allows silence to overcome them as they continue pushing onward. What could he say? They had never met face to face, not that Cera could recall. Fought alongside each other in the masses, perhaps. Been in the same vicinity when certain inescapable events occurred. But never intimately, not enough for this to be a reunion of any sorts. But Cera had known of his death, in Helovia. He couldn't say he was surprised at the revival of the man before him - legendary, ubiquitous, omnipresent. If anyone deserved a second chance, it was the man before him, if only by strength of valor and achievement alone.
"I'm glad you got a second chance here, Lord" he comments softly instead, just loud enough for his words to catch at the man's ears and draw his attention once more. It's the only thing he can say without outright proclaiming that he's glad he's no longer dead. The habitual title falls from his lips before he has time to think, and the Prince winces at the slip-up. Doubtlessly the reminder of all he had lost would not be a sweet one, but he had been raised to be respectful of positions from Midas' side, and it was habit more than heartlessness.
As they walk he considers their strange union. He had thought he would hate the man upon meeting him, that seeing him would remind him of d'Artagnan and the regime he used to head. But years of forgiveness, faith, open-heartedness...it was not so easily overshadowed. The scar on his chest was nearly as old as he was, and time healed all wounds. Perhaps it would come up later in time, if they continued their conversation or remained in each other's presence in the future, but Cera could not bear to place the burden of blame upon the Reaper.
A wry smile tugs at his lips, appreciation for the distraction apparent on his expressive face. "Ah, no. I've not been here long enough for that, I believe. I don't even know how I would go about achieving it. My soul will decide on another shape when it's ready, I suppose." Part of him is loathe to admit it, wanting to impress the Reaper, to be more than a bumbling child in his sharp, all-knowing eyes. But he'd never fancied himself a liar, either.
When the motion halts, progress stunted, Cera turns a curious eye back up at the man pulling their cargo. There is a tension to his mountainous shoulders, trembling like Atlas himself holding up the world. Perhaps he is. A mighty warrior brought low by the wrath of the Gods, toiling beneath the weight of the entire world, unable to procure even the briefest of respites. He seemed the type, the stoic soldier, the sword and shield. These were things Cera could see and categorize upon their meeting, an old habit from Helovian days when the Threshold was teeming with new life, and you had only a brief interaction on which to try and judge them worthy of the home you offered.
The words that are harkened back to his ears freeze his own hands, until a faint tremble starts up in them. Jigano had said...he had known there were others...his mind spins wildly, remembering the list of names the man had given him, but the revelation comes all too soon for him to try and determine it on his own. Match the changed features to names, titles, those he'd never met but had known.
Deimos.
"Reaper," he echoes dumbly, almost without his consent. It's no insult. Merely a title, hollow and useless in this land as his own. Verdant eyes, wide with surprise, lift to the shock-cold of blue he catches only a glimpse of. His own hand rises to grasp at Deimos', unafraid, if perhaps a bit awed. "I...Cera, the Golden Prince. Son of Midas." He had not had to introduce himself by way of his parentage in so, so long. His title had begun to speak for itself, much like the Reaper. He had escaped that shadow many, many years ago. Yet he was not so bold as to presume the Reaper would have heard the echoes of his presence all the way in the secluded northern reaches of the land. Midas, however, would always be a golden light that blinded and reminded all of his life. He had not been a good father, and he knew that now. Gaucho had always been the father of his heart, his soul, but...his progeny far outweighed Cera's importance. It would feel like a lie to use the man's name in such a way, not when there were so many blooded relatives that had made names for themselves beneath his strong branching bloodline.
The man's hands are firm, large, calloused. Comforting, in a way. Cera had feared Deimos for years as a child, especially after d'Artagnan had nearly ended his life before it even had a chance to begin. In some ways, he had nearly been molded in parallel racism, terrified of all horned beings before the intervention of the Earth God placed forgiveness in his heart. For a moment he's at a loss for words, and simply allows silence to overcome them as they continue pushing onward. What could he say? They had never met face to face, not that Cera could recall. Fought alongside each other in the masses, perhaps. Been in the same vicinity when certain inescapable events occurred. But never intimately, not enough for this to be a reunion of any sorts. But Cera had known of his death, in Helovia. He couldn't say he was surprised at the revival of the man before him - legendary, ubiquitous, omnipresent. If anyone deserved a second chance, it was the man before him, if only by strength of valor and achievement alone.
"I'm glad you got a second chance here, Lord" he comments softly instead, just loud enough for his words to catch at the man's ears and draw his attention once more. It's the only thing he can say without outright proclaiming that he's glad he's no longer dead. The habitual title falls from his lips before he has time to think, and the Prince winces at the slip-up. Doubtlessly the reminder of all he had lost would not be a sweet one, but he had been raised to be respectful of positions from Midas' side, and it was habit more than heartlessness.
As they walk he considers their strange union. He had thought he would hate the man upon meeting him, that seeing him would remind him of d'Artagnan and the regime he used to head. But years of forgiveness, faith, open-heartedness...it was not so easily overshadowed. The scar on his chest was nearly as old as he was, and time healed all wounds. Perhaps it would come up later in time, if they continued their conversation or remained in each other's presence in the future, but Cera could not bear to place the burden of blame upon the Reaper.
A wry smile tugs at his lips, appreciation for the distraction apparent on his expressive face. "Ah, no. I've not been here long enough for that, I believe. I don't even know how I would go about achieving it. My soul will decide on another shape when it's ready, I suppose." Part of him is loathe to admit it, wanting to impress the Reaper, to be more than a bumbling child in his sharp, all-knowing eyes. But he'd never fancied himself a liar, either.
Cera
The worst in me could bring out the best in you
