Wild Hunt: Heathcliff's Story

The drizzling rain tears through my heart, shearing it painfully like cold shards of glass.

The rain holds memories of the past, each droplet a memory of that manor carved into my very being from the day I was taken from the streets.

So I stand in the rain, the thundering monsoon.

Every cold sensation a painful reminder that I must become retribution itself, a vengeance to tear those accursed bastards apart.

... Yet there was a shelter there, an umbrella, at the manor.

It gave me reprieve from the rain, for however brief a moment, as the droplets were about to tear through my skin.

Her name was Catherine.

I began to think that this life, this existence, may be worth enduring between those moments of reprieve. As long as I could wait out the rain and dry my drenched clothes.

Such were the delusions this umbrella gave me.

Hah. Ridiculous. She never should have even existed in my life to begin with.

The umbrella was destined for others; the shelter she gave me was inspired by nothing more than a short-lived pity, like tossing a coin for a beggar...

What shame, what humiliation is it that I deluded myself into believing that she truly cared for me, that she loved me?

I shall never long for such shelter, such umbrella again. Nevermore.

To those bastards at the manor who so ruthlessly pelted me with cruel, heavy rain: I bring you flesh-rending, bone-shattering tempest of ruin.

And that is now the sole reason my life continues.

... This forest is on a high, silent hill.

The damnably grand manor remains in my sight still, past the overgrown forest, even as the storm makes its landing upon the skies beneath which I stand.

A clear sight of my target is good fuel for my rage. Like a funnel for this boiling hatred within me.

I see the Butlers come out to dry the manor's dirty laundries. I see guests coming and going from the manor, arriving to enjoy the occasional banquet. And I recall the fleeting pockets of joy.

I recall my caretaker, that Chief Butler, who cared for me more than anyone else despite her brusque and surly attitude.

... No. Illusions, all.

Hellish pain fades away into the fog of memories past, twisting them into sentimental reminiscences. This is nothing but a feeble trick of the mind, beguiling me; an attempt to paint over the hurt with joy.

I'll obliviate them all. Once I excise them... my past, my memories... then my mind will no longer play such tricks on me.

Catherine, the pitying umbrella... is already dead.

There is nothing left for me in that manor, no repose, no momentary reprieve.

When was it? Was it the day I first wielded this blade, or was it the day I met and observed my countless selves across the endless worlds?

Or was it the day of my assault upon the Young Master's mansion, when I tore through countless Butlers and made a mountain of their corpses?

Though its origin is a mystery to me still, I came to learn how to command loyalty of the dead.

Yet I had no teacher. I suppose my transformation was inevitable, as it was for my countless other selves in the infinite worlds.

I am perpetually surrounded by the screeching, pouring hatred of the dead; yet I find quite amusing the unfair, illogical nature of the world, that they have no choice but to bid me their loyalty despite it all.

I led the procession of the Wild Hunt. I mauled the Young Master's useless arm off his torso.

... And I declared from the top of my lungs that I shall soon host a banquet of my own at that accursed manor.

I'll give them more than enough time to prepare.

The Young Master, whose arm I mauled, will temper and whet his saber keen with hatred as his flame.

The Chief Butler, who still seeks the long-dead Mistress, will be brutal with her serviette.

My old caretaker, her heart gashed by betrayal, will strike me with thunderous rebuke.

They will join my banquet with utter preparation. And only then shall I exact a revenge truly meaningful.

I shall await them with my procession. I wish to see them charge into us, their eyes bloodshot with all kinds of emotions, their veins pulsating with tension.

Yet, in the end, I will crush them all.

And atop the wuthering heights, in the crumbling ruins of the manor, I will be reunited with Catherine once again.

There, I will release my endlessly festering woe and rage at...

... the broken umbrella, bellowing, pouring my heart out before her.

There, I will declare my vengeance complete, my regret behind me.

That I have finally brought ruin to Wuthering Heights, the cradle of all miseries.

That you, me... both of us...

... we could've been happy had this accursed manor never existed.