This world has not taken enough from Cera, it seems. He is one of the last to be drawn to the crowd, the commotion and the crying. A dread settles in the caverns of his heart, a knowledge that he cannot escape. Something preternatural, inexplicable. But his hooves carry him listlessly forward, even as he knows that what he will find will surely only inflict more agony upon him. He has tackled every hurdle, crawled and clawed his way through the mire of suffering that had underscored his years. Cera would rather face whatever tragedy has befallen his herd than live in ignorance, even if it means he adds another scar to his battered soul. 

The screaming, the yelling, the hoarse begging for fate to take back its decision...Cera knows this. He knows this acrid taste on the back of his tongue, like iron and grief. Merely glancing around those nearby, those crumpled and crying, those most distraught...his heart already knows who it is lying still on the sands. Verdant eyes shut tight against the overwhelming wave of grief, of loss, that he can already feel drowning him. But his hooves soldier on regardless, because he has to see. One last time. A final goodbye. 

Whatever hateful words are spit amongst the group, Cera cannot hear them. They are simply a buzz in the background of his thoughts, white noise beneath the wailing agony of realization as he parts through the crowd and his eyes alight upon the fallen monument of a man. He does not speak, does not let loose the scream that seems to tear apart his throat. It is not for sake of pride or appearances, or any such nonsense. He simply...can't. He has lost almost everything the world has ever given him. For so long the Prince had thought he had nothing left to give except his own life, his immortal soul. But he had been wrong. 

What sins did I commit to have to bear the death of two fathers? 

For while Gaucho and he shared no blood, there had been an undeniable bond there. Even if they had not stopped to talk in far too long, even if their duties kept them separate. Cera hated himself for it, for not speaking. For not acting. Before this happened. That he cannot even recall the last words he had said to the man who had practically raised him after Midas abandoned them all. And he wants to cry but he bitterly holds them within, for surely he does not have the right to when Gaucho's real children are grieving right beside him. 

His Lord's appearance is the only thing that is capable of breaking through the dim void of silence he has fallen into, and Cera turns lost, vacant eyes to the deity he has always trusted. The Lord need not ask him to trust now, not even with Gaucho gone and Cera's pillars of strength nearly depleted. Even when the rest of the world shook to dust beneath him, his faith would sustain him like bedrock. As Sikeax took upon herself the crown, well deserved, Cera's voice rang out in somber, monotone syllables. 

"Long live the Dragon's Throat. Tempered by Wildfire. May we never shatter." 

Gaucho had taken their granules of sand, and with the force and might of his fires, made them glass. Made them whole. A cohesive unit. A family. Cera would die before allowing Gaucho's efforts to dissolve into nothingness with his passing. He turns, unable to handle this crowd of squabbling, grieving souls. Wanders away like a ghost, aimless and silent, too defeated by all those he has lost to break down crying like the rest of them. Simply another tally on the mortal board, another hatchmark that will fade with time until the associated name and face are forgotten as well. Ilaria, forgotten as Cera trails away, scurries to grab a bundle of Gaucho's feathers, knowing her Prince would not bring himself to desecrate the body himself. But aware that he would want one last memento of this great, inspiring man.