Together they approach the warm glow of the fires Cera had tended to so vigilantly, basking in the shared temperature along the sands, side by side companionably. There was no rush to speak, for there never was. Cera was as apt in the conversations of the body and eyes as those of the tongue and lips, Rasta had been a diligent teacher in her mute cursedness. The only odd sound that followed the cadence of Cera’s voice was the shuffling of feathers against one another as Hector allowed the tension to seep from his battle-born frame. Soft rumble of request, one that Cera abided with all the patience and humble tendencies he could summon in his thin frame.

At times, Cera feared he spoke too freely, too frequently. Yet it was his lack of words that had made Dalibor so sore with him, so his conflict was more than readily apparent. Instead, he comforted himself as much as he could with the realization that he would not be Diviner without the belief of his Lord that he could fulfill the job to its utmost reaches. And so when at last Hector began to speak, a murmur of sound rumbling in closed lips before the particles ever formed into words. As eyes met, their smiles were shared, and Cera found himself fondly regarding the larger stallion. "I do not doubt your loyalty, nor the valor inscribed in our Lord’s image upon your heart Hector," he assured with a firm tone of lyric and all the ancient belief passed down from his father and his Heavenly father as well into his own body.

And at last, the root of the problem; a divergence of paths, of long-walked tradition combating a new desire for change that Hector was too deeply rooted to pursue. Drooping of muscled shoulders only enhance Cera’s desire to help, to heal the fractures skimming like eagle wings upon water on Hector’s soul. With a fluid, singular movement, the patched cherub turned to face Hector fully. This? This was a matter he had felt in his own heart, though at a far younger age. Experience was the best teacher, he believed, and with the hope that he could transport that into some sort of help for the older stallion was immediately apparent. A certain level of playfulness cratered along his emerald irises.

"I never believed, in any of my days, that I would be the ambassador of the Lord of the Sun. As long as I can recall, my love lay in crafting. I would design, scheme, until my mind was tired and the sands of my sleeping place destroyed with runes of prints." Fondly he recalled how he would trace the print of the wall, over and over, memorized as it was. He could still create it with his hoof in mere seconds, if called upon to do so, even with the wall complete. In his heart he found solace in those actions, in the fact that despite it all he had been able to craft, for in the magical rank he found himself occupying there was an entirety of them to be chosen.

"And as I grew older, that desire changed. I witnessed war, I trained among your ranks in fact. I sought to find my father’s hoofsteps, and to follow them exactly. To become the warrior I suddenly sought to be. Even now, were we to be invaded, you would find me at the frontlines bleeding beside you rather than cowering by these flames. For no matter what path I choose, what rank I hold or title other proclaim when I pass them by, I will always bleed and be willing to die for the safety of my people." Certain vehemence coated the proclamation, nearly an oath.

"And I know, Hector, that you would do the same. But does my body appear fit for war, for battle? No. How we are born physically does not determine our worth, nor our path. Our callings change, as mine have shifted already so much in my young age. In this time of peace, perhaps you should seek what your heart is aching for. Not what older times and worn paths have convinced your mind is right." Perhaps that would be all Hector needed to hear, but Cera was fully prepared to stand there until his hooves melted into the earth and his voice was ruined with the comforting tone he employed.