Anger threatens to kill his smile at the idea that someone, somewhere, had ever dared to call Rasta worthless. His voice is imbued with passion and ferocity when he speaks, Ilaria the only reminder that she may take his anger wrong as the words flow freely. "You are worth it and more, Rasta. Those who told you that you are not, or ever made you feel otherwise, are the worthless ones. Maybe you will never believe me, maybe it is too buried into your subconscious to ever find truth in my words, but Sohalia, and Africa, and myself...we would worry and panic a thousand times over for you. You are worth more than you believe. Would you not do the same for me?" He feared, and suspected, that she would never be able to grasp onto those words and believe them. But he had to try. He had to. He could not let her fall from grace with burning wings that evil souls had sparked alight, not when he could try to impede her fall with the buoy of his love and sincerity.

A soft sigh of regret escapes him, for if he had only met her earlier, if she had only been born in Helovia instead...maybe she would not be so defeated, so broken by the evils of the world. Maybe she would have more hope for the light. It had taken him a long time to find that light, and he prayed to the lord of the sun that he could lead her faithfully into its embrace. "It is not weakness to feel, sister. I have seen my father fight out of fear and love for me when I lay dying. I have felt the effects of magic driven by a herdmate who loved me and was afraid of it being too late. It is our love and loyalty to our homes that allow us to win our invasions. It is grief that drives us to grow stronger, to avenge. Emotions are not weakness, Rasta. They are a fact of life that nobody is exempt from. They are wonderful and painful all at once, but they are only a weakness if you convince yourself that they are." He recalls the latter portion of her objection, and shakes his head and baffled amusement against her shoulder.

"You are allowed to be weak, Rasta. Maybe not in the past. But that is what friends and family are for. Now, with me and Sohalia and Africa and everyone else...you can lean on us now. You don't have to be strong. I leaned on you when I was weak, and you on I in the caves. It is okay to be weak, Rasta, when you have others who will take the weight from your shoulders." His words drop to a murmur, whispering the words like secrets into her ears to give her strength and lend her hope.

"As for Alleo...do not fear ruination on your part. A relationship based on fear of it falling apart...it is not a relationship. Let yourself love him, and embrace everything that comes along with it. You will find yourself ten times happier." Cera had never truly been in love, not romantically, but he had watched many relationships thrive and die in different ways. It was all he could give her. He was no expert on love. He only hoped he hadn't said the wrong thing. Rasta certainly didn't need that right then.

Soft lips wipe away errant tears, tasting in them the desire for freedom, for the comfort she feels is not within her reach though he offers it to her so eagerly. "Rasta, you are not something I must deal with. You are my sister and my friend, a companion of worth to be treasured. I wish to know your habits, your likes and dislikes, your dreams and desires. I do not wish to know what you find broken or lacking in yourself, because maybe if you tell me all the things unique and beautiful about yourself, you'll start to see them more than the darkness you think exists within you." Tenderly he draws the tears from her cheeks, lets them lay upon his lips and stain them with the memory of this encounter, a promise as they dry forming; he will spend all his days with her in simplicity, in happiness, for it is all that she deserves and more. He will relay to her all the stars in the sky, and muse over why clay is only in certain places, and whisper to her how cute that little mare over there is and should he talk to her? He'll braid her tresses and kiss her cheeks to surprise her, he'll make up nicknames and stretch his voice into noises he's never made to make her smile. She was worth it. If he could pull every star from the sky and weave it into her mane, he would do so immediately.

"My favorite color is pink. Midas raised me beneath a magnolia tree, and it would always have the brightest pink and white buds. My fondest memories were made beneath that tree." He finds it only fitting to tell her his own answers as well, to drive into her mind that he really wants to share these simple pieces of knowledge with her. "I personally prefer clover. And I've never been in love. Though...it's the one thing I have always wanted." He is careful to keep the wanting out of his voice, for he is raising her up slowly, and he will not let her down because of his own desires unfulfilled. "What is your favorite season? Do you like to swim or wade? Would you like Ilaria to braid your hair? I'm tempted to have her braid mine, do you think I'd look good with it?" He hummed softly in his throat, trying to come up with more questions, though he was finding a multitude of them blocking the singulars from becoming apparent. "Do you like the night or the day? What is something you really want to do someday?"

No matter how much time he has to spend with her on that lakeside, he will never regret letting it tick away with questions others may deign meaningless. People so often forgot how the tiniest of things could be most treasured by someone consumed by pain.