#cathrine

"Do you understand?"

Dagr x Catherine Fusion! (More Under The cut)

It lives in me, it eats at me.

re-reading wuthering heights again. i’ve lost count of how many times. but this time i’m too conscious, too awake, and it feels like i’m bleeding through the page. the famous quotes get all the shine, but it’s the underrated ones that haunt me. the ones that crawl under my skin and whisper.

“the stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing his lady vexed.”

that’s edgar. not heathcliff. edgar, the soft one. and still brontë makes his heart ache like a stab wound. love here isn’t gentle. It’s a quiet mutilation. i read this and i swear i feel the knife, too.

“go and carry my message. i am in hell till you do.”

this is heathcliff. and it’s not yearning, it’s damnation dressed as speech. no patience, no grace, just torment made flesh. he doesn’t love, he devours. he is not a man, he is a haunting that speaks.

linton: “i am gratified when anything occurs to please her.”

heathcliff: “and i also, especially if it be anything in which i have a part.”

this is where i almost drop the book. linton wants her happiness; heathcliff wants her happiness poisoned with his presence. he must be stitched into her joy like a parasite. it’s obsession with teeth, obsession that ruins even the bright things.

“i am afraid the joy is too great to be real.”

catherine, already doubting joy as if it’s an illusion. she tastes happiness like it’s a trap. she knows love here is only a prelude to collapse. i feel her dread as if it’s mine. joy already feels counterfeit when i read it.

catherine: “i shall not be able to believe that i have seen and touched and spoken to you once more. and yet, cruel heathcliff, you don’t deserve this welcome. to be absent and frightened for three years and never think of me.”

heathcliff: “a little more than you have thought of me.”

this isn’t romance. this is warfare. they don’t confess love. They measure wounds. it’s a duel of who ached harder, who burned longer, who stayed haunted. they’re not lovers, they’re each other’s executioners, and i can’t look away.

“i have such faith in linton’s love that i believe i might kill him, and he wouldn’t wish to retaliate.”

this line should be carved into the earth. how is it not famous? it’s horrifying and tender in the same breath. The fantasy of someone loving you so helplessly they’d die beneath your hand. devotion so absolute it rots into tragedy.