They know each other too well. In another life, another world where pain does not lurk like a cackling demon behind every corner and beneath every rock, maybe that would have been a good thing. But here, with the weight of their second father's death hanging around his neck like a noose tied to a cinder block, he can only stare down at her with sad, tired eyes as she immediately figures him out. A worn rubix cube, and her fingers know his every pattern and secret. But he can't keep it from her, doesn't even attempt it aside from the natural grief that falters and fumbles his words. 

And her words are like knives in his tired, aching heart. The stress of each syllable, the hurt he can feel welling up in her like a tidal wave as the realization crashes down around her. At least this time, she is spared having seen Gaucho's body - in a sick sort of way, they're even now. Each burdened with the death of a father burned into the back of their eyelids. With having to tell their sibling the truth of what happened. 

"Only a few moons," he whispered beneath the frantic crescendo of her voice, too tired and despondent to lift his own any louder. His own emotions had settled around him like an oppressive cloak that he could not shake, and if he could twist that into being a rock for her to lean on, Cera would sacrifice that. He would play the part. How Cera felt didn't matter. What mattered was helping his family through this grief, so that he could take the time to retreat and fall apart in solitude. 

She comes into him, just as he had expected. Because he knows her, too. Just as she had been able to read him so plainly. And he embraces her tightly, because he can't hide her from the truth and the realization of Gaucho's death, but he could hide her from the rest of the world. Even Amani comes forward, their own grievances forgotten in this moment as her wing comes to arc over both of them in companionship and shared loss. Cera bows his head against the dark arch of his sister's neck, and wishes he had the strength and energy to cry. "I'm sorry," he whimpers, because there's nothing else for him to say. And he hates that. 

But he isn't unaware of her trailing, half-formed sentences. "What? Tell him what, Ranjiri?" Even so he can scarcely gather the energy to press the urgency behind the words, to try and encourage her to think about something else. And his eyes slide over to Amani as she offers Ranjiri the bundle of feathers, and mouths a quiet thank you to her.