Wuthering Heights Name - FF
Names could be forgotten.
Even precious names. Names that carried meaning.
He knew because he had forgotten the name of his mother many years ago. He used to know it. He remembered it was a good name; it was a name that carried the spice and the heavy damp of the air where he grew up. But after his mother died, the name began to lose it's savor; he didn't say it enough, and the warm wetness of if evaporated until he couldn't even remember what it started with. Her memory vanished with her name, as well as her deep sent, the warmth of her embrace, the soft heat of her wet breath upon his face as she sung him lullabies in their native tongue.
Languages could be forgotten too. He knew that because he was forgetting his. It was easier to forget languages than names; and that is why he was worried. His language was slipping from him. Everyday, more and more words leaked from him like water being soaked into dry, thirsty sand. Now they were filling him with a language that sounded like gravel. It was course, and dry, and the words felt like they didn't fit on his tongue. These words had too much salt. Still, they kept throwing these gritty words on him, which caused his own, flowing, moist language to dry up.
He had accepted that he would forget his language. A language sweet and rolling like rivers over smooth rocks. He would accept this new, sandy language that got under his nails and clung to his skin, leaving him feeling dusty and dry.
But he didn't want to forget his name. The new name they gave him felt like rocks scraping against each other.
Heathcliff.
Rocks, and sand, and no warm damp, like his real name, like the thick, humid air of his home.
Every night, as he would fall asleep, he would whisper his name, wetting his chapped lips with the familiar, damp sound. His name was warm, but not dry like his new name. He would say his name over and over again, until he would sink into colorful, exotic dreams of his home across the sea.
There was, however, one name that was more tolerable than the others. It didn't sound dry and coarse, rather it sounded like the moors, dripping with green and grey and wild with wind. This name, her found preferable above all others.
Yes, her was an acceptable name.
That was a name he found pleasure saying. It wasn't wet, and it wasn't dry. It was, rich and tasted good when he said it. It was freedom and the shade of a tree. It left him chilled like a small breeze blowing through his tight clothes every time he said it.
And the keeper of the name, she was even more lovely.
She had the moors in her eyes, green, blue, grey, and changing stormy sky. She was wild, and he liked that. He felt that. When he said his new name, it never sounded harsh. In fact, it became pleasant to his ears when her raspy voice, like wind in grass, or the swish of horses manes, called out his name.
Heathcliff.
He never told her his real name. He was afraid it would lose it's wetness even by her. But as days passed running through the moors, and as nights closed in whispers and small kisses goodnight, he began to trust her; more than that, he began to merge with her. She was his Perhaps, someday he would tell her his true name.
He found himself whispering his name less and less and nights went on. A different name clung to his lips each night; he fell into dreams wild as the moors.
One day, he decided to tell her. He decided to tell her his real name. But as he opened his mouth to say it, his mouth suddenly turned dry.
"What is it, Heathcliff?" she asked, her brows knitting together.
He couldn't recall his name. He had forgotten.
"Heathcliff?" She said again.
He assured her that it was nothing, taking her hand, and running with her to the old stone Heights.
He never thought of his original name again. He didn't need it anymore. He had a new name, a name sweeter than a prayer, a name he knew he would never forget. And it wasn't Heathcliff.
It was Catherine.