[fic] Noli Me Tangere (Fall of the House of Usher, PG)
Christ, I never thought I'd be slashing this story.
Title: Noli Me Tangere
Fandom: The Fall of the House of Usher
Author: evremonde
Rating: PG / horror / angst
Pairing: Usher/narrator (unnamed)
Warnings: gothic themes
Disclaimer: “The Fall of the House of Usher” was written by Edgar Allan Poe. All characters and situations are used solely for purpose of entertainment and not profit.
Notes: Another one for the contrelamontre earth challenge (went over by about ten minutes for this fic). My apologies for being so… uh… loquacious. Given the fact that my litslash fics are either improvs or writing exercises on brevity (all of them run about 3-7 pages long), my muses tend to go nuts over plotbunnies. I feel so dorky right now spamming some of my communities with fic after fic. Sorry, sorry, sorry...
NOLI ME TANGERE
My initial shock and amazement at meeting Roderick Usher lingered, and I was hard-pressed to keep my spirits soothed for days after my arrival. Life had settled into a quiet and yet vaguely unsettled rhythm, and I tried my best to fulfill every duty I felt was owed to my miserable friend.
Conversation, reading, music, and art filled the hours we’d spent together. I found the endless stream of diversions to be quite welcome, if truth be told, as I was slowly growing more and more aware of the house’s presence as the days passed.
It seemed to breathe, this House of Usher. It seemed to contain a heart of its own, one that palpitated in a constant, ceaseless flow that I could hear only with the abnormal heightening of my senses. I was convinced that if I were to force my own body to stop its functions for a moment-if I were to counteract the deadened atmosphere, which continually haunted my steps, with a strained effort at listening to the decaying foundation-I’d be able to probe the oppressive dreariness for the source of that heartbeat.
As a matter of fact, I believed that I’d actually found it though I said nothing to my friend. It was no use, after all, exciting him further with more accounts of wild imaginings and grotesque suppositions. I kept the thought to myself, which only led me to countless hours of unaccountable restlessness-of the kinds tinged with the barest hint of an unnamable dread; they kept me wary of dark corners and even darker shadows that perpetually crept across ancient walls.
The house’s heart, in brief, was nothing more than the earth that sank, inch by inch, under the mansion’s weight. Black, stagnant loam it was-wholly unfit to hold a structure let alone support any form of life.
It made its presence known to me in rhythmic releases of its putrid odor.
That is, every so often, while in the middle of a task or simply walking through the blackened hallways, I’d be struck by the sudden, inexplicable rise of the scent of rotting earth from the very bowels of the mansion. These exhalations lasted a mere few seconds, but they were potent enough to make me pause in my tracks, sniffing the heavy air with a violent, crippling attack of horror. I at first couldn’t understand the extremity of my responses. After all, I knew too well that the house, given its age, was certainly breaking apart at its very core, and the earth was simply taking advantage of every little crack or fissure that might have formed in the process of degradation.
It wouldn’t take long, however, for me to fully realize its significance.
A few days after my arrival, I was apprised of the Lady Madeline’s rapid and inevitable decline in her health. Usher’s physician had made the announcement, which my friend never once contradicted, almost overly eager in his acceptance of the dreadful bit of news. He was his restrained, quiet self though I clearly observed the brightening of his eyes to a mad luster. His gaze seemed to be obsessively searching-appalling in its unspoken demands, especially when it settled itself on me.
Too often I found myself squirming uncomfortably in his probing, my sentences easily degenerating into stammered incoherencies. Almost always, I was forced to drop my gaze and avoid his by drawing all my startled attention to the book I held or the sheet of music I perused. Changes in the subjects of our conversations became more and more imperative, and the burden fell on me to steer our talk and so distract that suddenly distracted mind.
And as time crawled on, I found that task to be increasingly more difficult to do.
My friend seemed to have settled what little lucidity he had left on a certain thought that had pervaded his mind and had begun to dog his every waking moment. I could tell by the way he regarded me from where he sat whenever we were together. The farther away I happened to be from him, the more intently he watched me, and the more thoughtful he grew. I felt as though he were a spectator of some uncommon form of entertainment-that he was irrevocably drawn toward this novelty-that at any moment he’d give vent to his thoughts in ways that might prove to be dangerous and liberating in equal portions.
A terrible thrill always shook my frame whenever we locked gazes. Perhaps it was the sight of my ailing friend watching me as though he were seeing me for the first time-I didn’t know. The thrill was odd, yes, influencing my perspective of Usher in ways that I’d never before expected.
All the same, I managed to keep my bearings and went about my business cheerfully enough, taking care to offer what strength and clarity of mind I had whenever Usher suffered a dip in strength and will.
It was the day of Lady Madeline’s interment that brought things to a very unexpected head.
I was alone in my apartment, whiling away the remaining evening hours in the company of a favorite book, when Usher joined me, a thousand apologies on his lips. He looked as though he’d just aged several more decades, I noted with a pang, his figure dwindling too rapidly under the weight of his devastating loss.
I invited him to sit on my favorite armchair by the window, which he gladly accepted, beckoning to me to join him. The only other piece of furniture in the room was my bed, so I chose to sit by his feet as though a child in reverence to a beloved parent. Heavy rain enveloped the night without, and I sought comfort in the warmth offered by my friend’s closeness as I settled myself on the rug beneath him.
“Would you care for a story?” I asked, glancing up at him and suddenly finding myself the object of a thoughtful, intent gaze. How long exactly he’d been watching me, I couldn’t tell. But he seemed to have been immersed in it for a good while when I raised my eyes that I was cowed.
Usher merely shook his head absently, his eyes darkening ever so slightly as he continued to stare hard at me.
“No,” he simply said. “Not tonight.”
And with that, he raised a shrunken, pale hand and began to stroke my hair gently-wonderingly-as though he’d never before touched a human being. I felt the slight tremor in his fingers-felt the fading warmth of his fingertips as they softly combed through my hair, committing the texture to memory, it seemed.
I could only gape at him as he explored with his hand, moving to graze my cheek with bony knuckles. His aspect changed subtly with every touch-but not toward excitement, no. Instead, he looked as though he were aging too rapidly before me, the wild, manic light in his eyes gradually replaced with a profound sadness-and perhaps even bitterness.
“I’d done what I could with my life,” he presently said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers moved to trace my mouth. “And yet-for all the advantages and opportunities laid at my feet in my youth-I’ve never been with someone.”
He paused, his hand resting against my cheek and his thumb lightly moving against my lower lip, and he regarded me with weariness and resignation. “Curious how fortune fixes you in your predetermined path,” he added. “You have all the blessings of the world heaped on your head, and here I stay, bound to this house, unable to do much more than to wait for the inevitable.”
He paused again, stiffening a little, as he raised his gaze sharply up and stared intently in the gathering gloom around us.
“What is it?” I finally asked, my mouth moving against his hand, which seemed determined to linger there and to feel me till the very last possible moment. “Do you hear something?”
Usher swallowed and then shook his head, immediately turning his attention back to me. He offered me a tight smile, which did nothing to alleviate the look of oppressive terror that had suddenly taken a hold of him. Both of us flinched, startled, when thunder suddenly tore through the insistent rattling of the rain outside. I could feel a deadened iciness creep into me.
Whether or not he saw fear in my eyes was never clear. All I knew at that moment was of Usher redoubling his efforts at touching me, his hands moving almost hungrily against my face and my neck, alternately tender and demanding as they explored. Fingertips grazed my skin-stroking, pressing, and molding, causing heat to rise and infuse my face with a redness that I was certain remained there for the duration of Usher’s visit.
And while normally I’d voice my protests at his handling, there was a certain desperation in his manner that stopped me. That in spite of the odd expression of intimacy, my friend was simply seeking to experience something he knew he’d never have.
The scent of decaying earth suddenly assailed my nostrils right at that moment, and I couldn’t help but let a quiet gasp of surprise escape me. I understood-all too well-the significance of this effluvia, this sepulchral heartbeat of the House of Usher.
Sitting there, being made love to by my friend with only the use of his fingers and their awed, unschooled touch, I realized that the crumbling monstrosity that cradled us was no other than the wasting, fading figure that showered me with desperate attention. The rhythmic rise of earthen scents was Usher’s own heartbeat, their stagnant odor being my friend’s fixed, predetermined end. The house was no other than its own tenant, withering as he withered, helplessly anchored to sinking ground as he was hopelessly anchored to his lifelong malady.
Fool that I was, I thought it my duty to give him what it was he’d needed still, leaning closer and pressing myself against his withering legs. I don’t know what it was that had possessed me into being so reckless, but there I was-offering myself to him without a second thought, hoping to thwart fate’s final blow with an opportunity of which he’d long been deprived. The only thing of which I was aware was the fogged memory of Roderick Usher as a young boy-a quiet, reserved, timid child-my close friend from days long, long gone. I was his only friend, and I’d always felt honored by his distinction.
And perhaps-perhaps-I wished to give something in return, transitory though it might be.
But he merely returned my wordless offering with a wan smile and a shake of his head.
“It’s too late,” he simply said.
A few days later, Roderick Usher would be lying dead on the floor of my room, his corpse held fast in the arms of the Lady Madeline.
(fin)
Title: Noli Me Tangere
Fandom: The Fall of the House of Usher
Author: evremonde
Rating: PG / horror / angst
Pairing: Usher/narrator (unnamed)
Warnings: gothic themes
Disclaimer: “The Fall of the House of Usher” was written by Edgar Allan Poe. All characters and situations are used solely for purpose of entertainment and not profit.
Notes: Another one for the contrelamontre earth challenge (went over by about ten minutes for this fic). My apologies for being so… uh… loquacious. Given the fact that my litslash fics are either improvs or writing exercises on brevity (all of them run about 3-7 pages long), my muses tend to go nuts over plotbunnies. I feel so dorky right now spamming some of my communities with fic after fic. Sorry, sorry, sorry...
NOLI ME TANGERE
My initial shock and amazement at meeting Roderick Usher lingered, and I was hard-pressed to keep my spirits soothed for days after my arrival. Life had settled into a quiet and yet vaguely unsettled rhythm, and I tried my best to fulfill every duty I felt was owed to my miserable friend.
Conversation, reading, music, and art filled the hours we’d spent together. I found the endless stream of diversions to be quite welcome, if truth be told, as I was slowly growing more and more aware of the house’s presence as the days passed.
It seemed to breathe, this House of Usher. It seemed to contain a heart of its own, one that palpitated in a constant, ceaseless flow that I could hear only with the abnormal heightening of my senses. I was convinced that if I were to force my own body to stop its functions for a moment-if I were to counteract the deadened atmosphere, which continually haunted my steps, with a strained effort at listening to the decaying foundation-I’d be able to probe the oppressive dreariness for the source of that heartbeat.
As a matter of fact, I believed that I’d actually found it though I said nothing to my friend. It was no use, after all, exciting him further with more accounts of wild imaginings and grotesque suppositions. I kept the thought to myself, which only led me to countless hours of unaccountable restlessness-of the kinds tinged with the barest hint of an unnamable dread; they kept me wary of dark corners and even darker shadows that perpetually crept across ancient walls.
The house’s heart, in brief, was nothing more than the earth that sank, inch by inch, under the mansion’s weight. Black, stagnant loam it was-wholly unfit to hold a structure let alone support any form of life.
It made its presence known to me in rhythmic releases of its putrid odor.
That is, every so often, while in the middle of a task or simply walking through the blackened hallways, I’d be struck by the sudden, inexplicable rise of the scent of rotting earth from the very bowels of the mansion. These exhalations lasted a mere few seconds, but they were potent enough to make me pause in my tracks, sniffing the heavy air with a violent, crippling attack of horror. I at first couldn’t understand the extremity of my responses. After all, I knew too well that the house, given its age, was certainly breaking apart at its very core, and the earth was simply taking advantage of every little crack or fissure that might have formed in the process of degradation.
It wouldn’t take long, however, for me to fully realize its significance.
A few days after my arrival, I was apprised of the Lady Madeline’s rapid and inevitable decline in her health. Usher’s physician had made the announcement, which my friend never once contradicted, almost overly eager in his acceptance of the dreadful bit of news. He was his restrained, quiet self though I clearly observed the brightening of his eyes to a mad luster. His gaze seemed to be obsessively searching-appalling in its unspoken demands, especially when it settled itself on me.
Too often I found myself squirming uncomfortably in his probing, my sentences easily degenerating into stammered incoherencies. Almost always, I was forced to drop my gaze and avoid his by drawing all my startled attention to the book I held or the sheet of music I perused. Changes in the subjects of our conversations became more and more imperative, and the burden fell on me to steer our talk and so distract that suddenly distracted mind.
And as time crawled on, I found that task to be increasingly more difficult to do.
My friend seemed to have settled what little lucidity he had left on a certain thought that had pervaded his mind and had begun to dog his every waking moment. I could tell by the way he regarded me from where he sat whenever we were together. The farther away I happened to be from him, the more intently he watched me, and the more thoughtful he grew. I felt as though he were a spectator of some uncommon form of entertainment-that he was irrevocably drawn toward this novelty-that at any moment he’d give vent to his thoughts in ways that might prove to be dangerous and liberating in equal portions.
A terrible thrill always shook my frame whenever we locked gazes. Perhaps it was the sight of my ailing friend watching me as though he were seeing me for the first time-I didn’t know. The thrill was odd, yes, influencing my perspective of Usher in ways that I’d never before expected.
All the same, I managed to keep my bearings and went about my business cheerfully enough, taking care to offer what strength and clarity of mind I had whenever Usher suffered a dip in strength and will.
It was the day of Lady Madeline’s interment that brought things to a very unexpected head.
I was alone in my apartment, whiling away the remaining evening hours in the company of a favorite book, when Usher joined me, a thousand apologies on his lips. He looked as though he’d just aged several more decades, I noted with a pang, his figure dwindling too rapidly under the weight of his devastating loss.
I invited him to sit on my favorite armchair by the window, which he gladly accepted, beckoning to me to join him. The only other piece of furniture in the room was my bed, so I chose to sit by his feet as though a child in reverence to a beloved parent. Heavy rain enveloped the night without, and I sought comfort in the warmth offered by my friend’s closeness as I settled myself on the rug beneath him.
“Would you care for a story?” I asked, glancing up at him and suddenly finding myself the object of a thoughtful, intent gaze. How long exactly he’d been watching me, I couldn’t tell. But he seemed to have been immersed in it for a good while when I raised my eyes that I was cowed.
Usher merely shook his head absently, his eyes darkening ever so slightly as he continued to stare hard at me.
“No,” he simply said. “Not tonight.”
And with that, he raised a shrunken, pale hand and began to stroke my hair gently-wonderingly-as though he’d never before touched a human being. I felt the slight tremor in his fingers-felt the fading warmth of his fingertips as they softly combed through my hair, committing the texture to memory, it seemed.
I could only gape at him as he explored with his hand, moving to graze my cheek with bony knuckles. His aspect changed subtly with every touch-but not toward excitement, no. Instead, he looked as though he were aging too rapidly before me, the wild, manic light in his eyes gradually replaced with a profound sadness-and perhaps even bitterness.
“I’d done what I could with my life,” he presently said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers moved to trace my mouth. “And yet-for all the advantages and opportunities laid at my feet in my youth-I’ve never been with someone.”
He paused, his hand resting against my cheek and his thumb lightly moving against my lower lip, and he regarded me with weariness and resignation. “Curious how fortune fixes you in your predetermined path,” he added. “You have all the blessings of the world heaped on your head, and here I stay, bound to this house, unable to do much more than to wait for the inevitable.”
He paused again, stiffening a little, as he raised his gaze sharply up and stared intently in the gathering gloom around us.
“What is it?” I finally asked, my mouth moving against his hand, which seemed determined to linger there and to feel me till the very last possible moment. “Do you hear something?”
Usher swallowed and then shook his head, immediately turning his attention back to me. He offered me a tight smile, which did nothing to alleviate the look of oppressive terror that had suddenly taken a hold of him. Both of us flinched, startled, when thunder suddenly tore through the insistent rattling of the rain outside. I could feel a deadened iciness creep into me.
Whether or not he saw fear in my eyes was never clear. All I knew at that moment was of Usher redoubling his efforts at touching me, his hands moving almost hungrily against my face and my neck, alternately tender and demanding as they explored. Fingertips grazed my skin-stroking, pressing, and molding, causing heat to rise and infuse my face with a redness that I was certain remained there for the duration of Usher’s visit.
And while normally I’d voice my protests at his handling, there was a certain desperation in his manner that stopped me. That in spite of the odd expression of intimacy, my friend was simply seeking to experience something he knew he’d never have.
The scent of decaying earth suddenly assailed my nostrils right at that moment, and I couldn’t help but let a quiet gasp of surprise escape me. I understood-all too well-the significance of this effluvia, this sepulchral heartbeat of the House of Usher.
Sitting there, being made love to by my friend with only the use of his fingers and their awed, unschooled touch, I realized that the crumbling monstrosity that cradled us was no other than the wasting, fading figure that showered me with desperate attention. The rhythmic rise of earthen scents was Usher’s own heartbeat, their stagnant odor being my friend’s fixed, predetermined end. The house was no other than its own tenant, withering as he withered, helplessly anchored to sinking ground as he was hopelessly anchored to his lifelong malady.
Fool that I was, I thought it my duty to give him what it was he’d needed still, leaning closer and pressing myself against his withering legs. I don’t know what it was that had possessed me into being so reckless, but there I was-offering myself to him without a second thought, hoping to thwart fate’s final blow with an opportunity of which he’d long been deprived. The only thing of which I was aware was the fogged memory of Roderick Usher as a young boy-a quiet, reserved, timid child-my close friend from days long, long gone. I was his only friend, and I’d always felt honored by his distinction.
And perhaps-perhaps-I wished to give something in return, transitory though it might be.
But he merely returned my wordless offering with a wan smile and a shake of his head.
“It’s too late,” he simply said.
A few days later, Roderick Usher would be lying dead on the floor of my room, his corpse held fast in the arms of the Lady Madeline.
(fin)