There's a crack in the sky. It thunders across the realm and trembles the foothills. The world seems to quake and stir as the sky blackens and rolls. Anger, distress, sorrow. Everything pulses through his veins and poisons his mind. Everything is flashing black then a blinding white. He doesn't know where he is going, only that he is diving hellbound through a dismal abyss.
Another crack.
Then there's lightning.
Then Tiphon.
The wild flash curtains the Dale but it falls into an eerie quiet. Moments pass and it's as though the turbulent storm has passed. The world simmers but it's a ticking clock.
A thunderous clap resonates. A small tornado of dirt and debris rises and swirls but settles and decimates. A small crater rests at the base of a mountain, away from the common meadow and hills. Inside the gaping hole lies Tiphon wrapped in his huge wings like a cocoon. "No," he whispers to himself as the pain wracks through him, "NO!" His voice is suddenly as loud as the thunder, rivaling the torrent of Mother Nature.
The image of Tiberios - his scent - plays against the back of his eyelids. The golden blaze and the sabino markings that were so much like Mariposa. Tiphon's body trembles with rage and agony when he finally finds the strength to stand. His balance sways but his wings unravel helpfully. "Tiberios," his son's name is spoken in such a soft manner as his head droops. "My son..." his heart is shattering, his mind breaking and splitting. Tiphon has never lost his own child. Time may sweep them away temporarily, but never murdered, never eaten.
With ragged breaths the angel falls silent as his bright porcelain body dims and sways.
The world roars into chaos. Outrage fills the sky, changing everything with an alarming speed. Weir finds himself in the middle of the Dale's meadows watching the clouds roll in. His mouth is full, sleek stalks of green pressing out of his lips as he chewed. Just as quickly the threat abates, a brilliance of light flashes blindingly over him, and all is still. Well, that was odd, he blinks and inhales, scenting the burnt sky.
A pounding clap of thunder rolls, spooking the unexpecting roan. He kicks, jumps, and starts forward a few feet, before he recognizes the threat and begins to pace.
Something is wrong, terribly wrong. The earth trembles, dust flings itself into the air along with all manner of loose particles, spinning its way into a vortex of wind. That too fades, sands falling limp to the ground, and Weir has already started toward the nearest crest.
Slowly, ever so slowly as he always is, and he misses the matter at hand. Come too late to hear the words fall like rocks from the magnificent angel's lips. Not too late though, to be of assistance. The radiance of white that is Tiphon rocks like a ship on choppy seas. And though Weir and he had never taken time to really know one another, there's nothing to hold him back from stretching his neck beneath the ex-king's. "Tiphon, what in the world?" His questions are concerned, brimming with disbelief, as he steels to maintain both of their balance.
WEIR
If you hurt me, that's okay baby, only words bleed
Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like a volcano, then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision.
She is far away when the lightning cracks across the sky, the thunderous noise startling her from her quiet reverie. Her russet gaze flies to the sky, clear only mere moments ago, now darkening with threatening clouds.
And then the emotions hit her, a tidal wave of grief and anger that nearly brings her to her knees. She recognizes the source immediately. She would know him anywhere. She does not hesitate, not this time. Turning in the direction those dark emotions are emanating from, she launches herself into the air.
The fear is brief, in moments consumed by urgency. Her body knows exactly what to do, even if her mind might have resisted. And then she sees him, standing in a crater of his own making, swaying as though buffeted by a strong wind.
Weir is there already, concern barely discernible beneath the intense agony emanating from Tiphon. She lands next to the angel, her russet gaze filled with sorrow, with her own grief for Tiphon’s pain. She does not know yet the cause behind his grief, but she recognizes all too well the anguish he is feeling. The loss. She has felt it too many times herself.
She presses close, her small red body providing what comfort and support to him that she may. Her dark muzzle finds his neck, brushing his porcelain white coat with a soft touch even as a silent tear falls from sorrowful eyes.
“Tiphon…”
The word is whispered softly into his skin, but she cannot complete the sentence. Cannot find words that would not sound trite in the face of his loss. His whispered words, they are enough to tell her a terrible story. One that leaves her feeling heartsick for the man she loves.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.
It breaks the roar of the storm when it all begins to die away. He hears his name spoken in the utmost concern, but Tiphon can't bring his eyes to open or even find Weir approaching him. "Tiberios," he whispers his son's name to deaf ears. There is no one he is speaking to, only himself as if it will ease the pain.
His body feels numb, like he isn't even here. The hope of this being a dream is shattered when Tiphon opens his eyes and sees himself standing in the crater. Dying embers trail around the circumference as the remaining smoke billows into the gray sky. Only now does he recognize Weir. He's real. This is all real. He can feel the Dalean supporting him and holding up his head while his body sways weakly. "I can't--" the words don't come to him. The strength in his voice is gone, choked by the emotions he had once sworn off. This isn't how he wanted it to be; he didn't expect to see his own son dead on the beach with his body peeled back and mangled. The image, so grotesque and sickening, is clawing deeply in Tiphon's mind. It brings wave after wave of painful agony. Before he can comprehend his actions he is ripping himself away from Weir. The sheer force unbalances him and he sways again like a drunkard.
His mind - his sanity - is leaking away. It's almost lost until he hears her voice and feels her loving touch against his neck. Beneath her lips Tiphon shudders like the contact is foreign and strange. He reels away with his eyes opening wide, truly seeing the two of them for the first time. "I can't do this," he says through clenched teeth before pivoting away from them and walking toward one of the many trees and rocky ledges peppered across the Dalean hills.
The world almost reaches out for him, groaning as Tiphon's body digs and tears across the rough bark and rock. The force of his lean, of his manic reaction, rips open flesh and muscle. There is blood on the tree (droplets streaming down the low-lying leaves and branches), even bits of skin just barely clinging onto the surfaces. The scene is nightmarish and gruesome. It's hard to comprehend what is happening. It's all moving too fast for them to intervene. Tiphon is scraping himself, back and forth, more and more. There is agony when he does it. Air hisses out of his clenched jaws as his eyes tightly shut. To feel his skin peel back and flay is beyond anything he has felt before. It burns; it feels like he's on fire as he continues to push himself into the rough grooves of the tree and rising ledge. For a moment Tiphon loses himself and doesn't realize what he is doing or even how long he has been doing it. When he turns to stare at them, the right side of his face and body is gone. Part of bleached-white bone seems bright against his dulled coat as it stains with scarlet. "If being immortal means losing my children, losing love, losing family," blood splatters and falls as he speaks, "then I just can't fucking do it." Tiphon is stumbling toward them with a trail of red behind him until he stops at the edge of his own crater. The embers are screaming for him as he stands above and feels the heat along his hooves. The meager flames are biting into his frogs, scorching him, hurting him, but he doesn't move until something urges him forward just a few more steps.
He nearly stumbles down into the shallow crater but catches himself before he can fall into the scorched dirt. When he tries to straighten himself - so broken and unlike his proud self - he can feel their breaths against him. They are so close to one another now - Tiphon, Weir, Elysteria - and at first the gore of his shredded face is a horror, but then skin and muscle regrows and renews. The angel is trembling and his body is tense as magic weaves throughout him and rejuvenates all that he ripped away. The blood stains remain but the wounds are gone as his labored breaths huff.
"I can't bear to lose anyone so close," he looks down weakly and utters his son's name one last time. "Tiberios," he whispers as his legs begin to buckle and he lies down, unable to hold the weight on his shoulders any longer.
The words are wind on his ears, Tiberios, but Weir doesn't know who that is. He can tell it is an important name, that this person is very dear to the arch angel, but just how dear he can only play guesses at.
It's that sadness though that he recognizes, that twangs at heartstrings, and plays a familiar rhythm of discord. That draws forth dark memories, sadness, despair. When he speaks, it drives the wedge into Weir's own heart, "I can't.." The red knows there is something terribly wrong here, so terribly wrong. The blackness delves deeper as the white unravels himself from the roan, and goes forth unstable. Weir fails to call him back, feeling taken aback at the situation he's found the winged protector in. When the bay mare makes her way to them, he releases a sigh of relief, a smudge of a smile. His eyes however are wide, concern flooding his features, and his ears splay flat across his head. A soft whuff leaves him, help him, he thinks but he has to say nothing.
Elysteria is there, cradling the man, but she reflects such deep sadness that even Weir's head hangs as he looks on. All he feels he can do is offer soft sounds of support as they both try to console the once king.
When Tiphon slips from even his lovers grasp, Weirs head rises, neck stretching. In horror he becomes a bystander to the stallions own destruction. He grinds against the jaged surface of a tree, ripping at his own being and sending steady streams of red down his stark coat. It's gore as he slaughters his side, continuing to rub past the flesh. "Tiphon!" Weir exclaims with excitement but he can not reach the man quickly enough before bone is peeking through his wounds. He scrambles against the uneven and disheveled land, the crater dipping precariously at places where the upturned earth is loose.
Already Tiphon is moving away, going further into the crater, and Weir is vying to keep up. Everything seems to happen so fast, like the world has been set on fast forward and no one is around to press play. It's a haunting sight, one that will likely leave nightmares in the eccentric males head. Skin and muscle are both torn from the face of the once exquisite male. Weir has no words to respond to such a horrendous figure, he can only listen to the angel's lament. And when the flesh begins to fold over muscle once more, all he can manage to offer in return is his condolences. They seem so pitiful and unsuitable now, "I'm so sorry Tiphon." His voice raw as it ripples up his burning throat, has he been crying too? "I'm so very, very sorry."
WEIR
If you hurt me, that's okay baby, only words bleed
Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like a volcano, then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision.
Her heart aches inside her chest, her soft, russet eyes squeezing shut to block the tears that try to fall. He withdraws from her, as though unable to bear her touch. It brings a stabbing pain to her heart, a new hurt to add to the ones she can feel in him so clearly. But she understands. She understands all too well. Sometimes she wishes that she did not, that her past hadn’t been so filled with pain. Pain that she recognizes all too easily as it emanates from him.
When she opens her eyes again, it is to see him against the tree, scraping himself raw with the rough bark. Weir is already chasing after him, calling his name in desperate concern. But she knows it is already too late. They are too slow.
And suddenly she feels angry. Angry at him, at the world, at herself. Angry for everything bad that had to happen, will still happen, angry that he is taking it out on himself and Weir. On her. She hears his words even though she has not moved a stepped. Even though she remains where he had left her.
“No.”
She wouldn’t let him fall into this spiral of self-pity. She knows it all too well. The only places it leads are dark and awful. Perhaps she has no power to stop it, but she can at least try.
But more than anything, she wants him to realize that he is not alone. That he does not grieve alone.
In the heat of her anger and denial, she does something rash. Something that will probably come back to bite her in the ass. With a blinding flash, her light bursts from her, fueled by her anger and his grief. The tree he had abraded himself with, had hurt himself with, suddenly disappears, consumed by the light that explodes from her. A few remaining twigs and leaves rain down, scattering across the scorched earth.
It leaves her weak, but somehow satisfied. And, she hopes, she has gotten his attention. She moves to his side, moves to where he has lain in the crater. Her dark muzzle brushes softly against his neck, a light, soothing touch. She hopes he will not withdraw from her this time. Hopes that he will listen to her this time.
“Being immortal means immeasurable agony. I know. But it can also mean immeasurable happiness, if you but look for it. Let the pain happen. It is a part of life. Tiberios will always be an ache in your heart. But that doesn’t have to be all that life is. Please…”
She is pleading now, and she does not even care. She would fall to her knees and beg if that is what it took. She doesn’t wish to lose him. Not to this.
“Please let me help. Let us help.”
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.
