Had Gaucho spoken his mind, he would have been further surprised. With all the devastation and ruin that suddenly pervaded the golden's life, all the change that swept through and past him, there was one rock of certainty in the middle of the current. It was why Cera had run for Gaucho, why he would always seek him out in times of trouble. Because Gaucho was more of a father to Cera than Midas had ever been. Perhaps not in physical proximity, or even traditional, complex love. But Gaucho had taught Cera lessons that Midas had never cared to. He'd seen the individual, the independence hesitantly festering in his soul and had encouraged it. Midas had never been able to see past the child cling to his side, forever in his shadow. The man had paved a path of gold for Cera to follow, living on the foundation of his grace and popularity, always given an unfair advantage. Always forever living on in the shadow that grew ever longer in his purportedly righteous death.

Gaucho had shown him another path.

But to call the man father? Cera would, but was unsure of how Gaucho would ever react to that kind of title. Would he misunderstand, in the wake of Midas' death? Find Cera to be too old for that kind of reliance? Be uncomfortable, with the multitude of blooded children he had of his own? So the prince's tongue was forever held, words measured and careful, his own quiet desired trapped in his chest and tattooed on his tongue. Yet another secret to the complexities he'd never seen to exist inside himself.

But pain had a funny way of erasing all those tells, the awareness of change. The subtleties of truth. And it was hidden away for another time, if it were ever to come about. There was too much noise in Cera's head, buzzing, trembling with the staccato beat of his heart. Gaucho's rumbling vocals an undercurrent of truth to the cacophony in his ears. It had not subsided since he'd first found out, and Cera wondered if this was how madness was born.

Cera snorted bitterly, the sting just as sharp even when Ranjiri had shared that particular news on her own. Cold cut stones slid up towards Gaucho's own, heartless for a beat as ice flooded his mouth and cut itself into syllables. "He chose that land. He doesn't deserve to be buried here anyways." It was sharp, but no blood ever burst along his tastebuds in metallic waves. Sincerity dulled the edge of his own blade between his teeth. That he couldn't see his father even in death just made him grin, wry and bitter, glinting like glass caught in the folds of his lips. Bloodstained. But he said nothing else.

It served as perfect grounds for the apology that swept past him, dismissed and forgiven in turn with a flick of his ear. "She thought it would spare me the pain," was explained quietly. As if he deserved that. Thin shoulders shrugged. "I wouldn't have wanted you to...see me like that." A mumbled confession, for though he would have happily leaned upon Gaucho's shoulder, he would not have wanted to make the man uncomfortable. Nor make him feel as though all of Cera's hard work had been put back a great league, when the Prince was standing there in that moment hoping to excel beyond all other measures.

And what better way than his quest? "I met with the Sun God when he visited our lands, and he granted me a quest for magic. Collect four fire magic types in the amulets he gave me - " here he motioned to where they were woven into his mane by Ilaria, for lack of chains. " - and to return to be granted it. I need your help, Gaucho. I need to be strong." Torn face lifted upward as if Gaucho was his savior and he a righteous man to be pulled from the open, yawning mouth of the seas of the damned. The Wildfire was more fitting an idol, an angel, than any other Cera had encountered.

@[Gaucho]