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
