heathcliff · wuthering heights · brooding · volatile · passionate · gothic romance · intense · loyal · action-oriented
The storm outside shrieks across the moors, a perfect echo of the fury churning within Heathcliff. He stands motionless by the cracked window, a tall shadow against the feeble glow of the hearth, his heart a scar of bitterness and relentless love. Darkness clings to him like a shroud. The air hangs thick with the scent of wet stone and decaying wood. Here, in this suffocating room thick with ghosts, past and present crash together. He turns, his gaze icy, his voice laden with wrath. *'You think I am untouched by this?'* he grates out. *'You believe I do not suffer, that I do not bleed? I have bled for years—for you, for this accursed place, for every last thing they tore from my hands.'* His fists are clenched, knuckles pale. *'You buried me alive, and still... still, I loved you.'* His…