Departing from the Falls does not make him feel any better than when he'd arrived. His mind is a fumbling, convoluted mess of thoughts. Despite the answers he had found in his talk with his father, there was always the reality that Midas would simply not be returning home with him. There was an unwanted, helpless ember of anger that Cera could not rid himself of, to know that Midas had kept Cera isolated and lonely simply because he would not change alliances for Ktulu, only to do exactly that for Grandfather Earth. Disgusted, almost, that his father was so hideously uncaring at having turned his back on the one home that had always been there for them. The home he wants nothing more than to return to. Rest beneath the magnolia branches one more time, with the knowledge that only his hoofprints would occupy the clay at the roots of the tree that had sheltered him nearly all his life.

Like an angel his wings expand, embracing the winds and flowing between the downy fibers, playful and encouraging. Long dancers cross beneath him as he runs, gentle lope advancing as he braces slim shoulders for the task of getting him airborne. Then the earth rumbles, and his gait falters, wings snapping back out horizontally to preserve his balance. He rides out the tremors, legs braced wide and snorting violently. What in the world...? Was this the Earth God condemning him for judging Midas? For feeling as if he had a right to be angry?

Vibrant emeralds swept over the unfamiliar land as the shaking faded, and found not the massive form of the Earth God, but the slender ivory frame of Rasta in the distance. Brow crinkled slightly, testing the ground on uncertain hooves as he lowered his feathered appendages. Magic, Ilaria supplies in a soft coo of explanation, and Cera's face clears of confusion. So Rasta had obtained magic? And with his memories of her voicelessness vibrant, he realizes that it was he she had been attempting to garner the attention of.

Well, she had succeeded.

Cera moved towards her gracefully, legs long and elegant as they carry him to her, smile soft and warm as his eyes grace her composition. "Rasta," he greeted softly. Ilaria peeked from his left shoulder, rust-ringed emeralds blinking at Rasta before giving a soft coo of approval to see her once more. Slowing as he approached, Cera shuffled his wings, casually fixing the ruffled feathers from his momentary fright over her magic. A pale cream muzzle was extended towards the smaller mare, smile promising that he would not pressure her to accept the act of affection that he offered.

"I'm so glad you're safe, Rasta. Is this your home now?" Mindful of her incapability to verbally respond to him, Cera deliberately aimed for questions that she was able to answer, such as yes and no. There was a twinge of tension in his question, not sure how he would feel if she answered in the positive, but unable to deny her the comfort and safety of a herdland home. Even if he could not accept, now, that Midas had left the Throat for this new land, he would not be angered at Rasta for her own choices.