IF ONLY, IF ONLY

His gaze is a thousand hells agape, their maws outstretched on in their chilling fervor. O Heathcliff whose love betrayed, whose temper smoldered in silence like the harrowing tempest he was. Drawling contempt blistering in throes of lacklustre thrall? a thrum, a dirge that drew from the black. He is a spider to crawl, a devil to waltz through the terrace of common deceit; from his lips bleed his anger, his intrigue, sorrow and deepening ache. In him drained the deathly chill of a pyre long laid to smoke and cease ? his weariness like a spell to possess his ghoulish demeanor, all the while intimate in his gracious exhibition of imperial grandeur. He were a creature born of lust and ruination, and halved of their morality still; a patron of beauty in war, the art of bloodshed in its finest filigree. A mass of knotted muscle and slender bones that broke the night in its cold descent upon the valley, his is the presence of chivalry in death. There was not a cry in heaven that bound him to his promises, there was nothing - nothing, a nothing that drew from the pitfall of his deepest sins, a nothing that poured through his chilling demeanor, a nothing that found him unhinged from his previous hindrances and desires. He is independent of what had been previous tribulations, no further light shed on his ill intent. It was bemusement that stirred him now, tugging the corners of his lips in a vicious smile that seeped of its ruthless indignation. He came to pause before treading upon what appeared to him as a bag of bones, a tangle of scant flesh illuminated only by the galactic river they rested beneath. His brow furrowed, shriveled with the lacings of a snarl, his lips curled over rows of glistening fangs that bore no more mercy than a predator could spare. ?Pity.? pricked the corner of his scowl, before he moved altogether in abandoning her form and advancing upon the shores of the lake.