It is only fair that he finds himself here, ankle deep in the still water that composes so much of the outside of the Dragon's Throat. Pale lips dance across the shuddering surface of the despairingly bright and beautifully blue water. The whisper of his sigh only further distorts his flickering reflection. The Throat was changing once more, as it had in the wake of Kri and Midas. Yet here he was, eternal and unchanging, recording the winding tales of all that transpired within the herd. A quiet guardian of the sands. He would support Sikeax in her ascension, his best friend and now co-parent of his beautiful angel. But it did nothing to stop him from feeling so damn tired. Worn by the events of his life and his herd, jaded by the constant squabbling and hatred in the family he loved. Broken by his sister's absence, his own achingly lonely heart, and the loss of the one man who had continually believed in Cera. Even when the Prince had never deserved it. 

But just as he had been around for Horus Tarkus' arrival, it seemed he was placed on the ocean sands once more for a purpose. And normally he would appreciate that, the cosmic energies that had him always appearing in the right place at the right time. But as his name called across the sunlit sand, his sister's voice cheery and unmistakable, his battered heart sank so quickly that he wondered why he did not simply keel over and faint right there. It would have been simpler, easier, to avoid being the one to tell her the news. And he finally knew now how Ranjiri had felt when she had been burdened by the knowledge of Midas' death. Why it had taken her so long to tell him, because he would do anything to keep her from the agony of the news he had to tell her. 

Ilaria curled tightly around his withers, trying to physically comfort him. She needs to know. She needs time to grieve, too. Cera clenched his eyes shut, swallow the lump of his heart rising into his throat. He didn't want to imagine her tears, the light dimming in her golden eyes. But he couldn't keep the knowledge from her, not when it had hurt him when she had done it to him with Midas. And so he reluctantly began to drag himself from the water to her voice, never feeling the weight of his sorrow quite so intimately until now. 

And she was radiant. It was unfair to see her glowing with life and vitality, happiness. It hurt that she was happier in the Falls than with him in the Throat, that he had not been enough for her just as he had not been enough for Midas. A cruel connective circle the Prince could never seem to escape. And he had to be the one to shatter that look from her face. 

But he was not the first to arrive to her summons, and he spared a sorrowful glance towards Amani before taking a shaky breath and facing his sister. "Ranjiri," he whispered, slowly coming to offer his pale muzzle to her. His eyes were undoubtedly shattered stained glass in hues of green, and she knew him too well. She would immediately know that something was wrong. 

"Ranjiri, I...Gaucho cannot come to you, sister," he whispered, and oh how he wished he did not have to tell her this. Make the world that much more unfair to her. "He was overtaken by a sickness we could not battle...I'm so sorry, honey, but...Gaucho's dead." And he had no tears to shed. Even though he wanted to so, so badly. But he had given up so much already. There was no tissue left in his soul that was not scarred, and he could not feel the knife's edge of agony that Ranjiri surely would. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, wings coming up slowly to offer her the shelter they provided, a place to hide and weather the storm just as he had offered when Midas had died. It may kill them both inside to lose the Wildfire, but Cera would be strong if only in order to comfort Ranjiri. He had weathered so much more than this. He could handle her grief, could shoulder the weight of her loss. A reborn Atlas for the suffering of the family Gaucho had left behind. 

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.