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The Ruined Abbe	By : pip Category: M through R > Quills Views: 2536 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Quills, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Author’s Note: A short chapter, but since I found this (personally) squicky to write, I think it deserves a chapter of its own. Yeah, it’s really not my thing, so with that in mind…
Warning for this chapter: Golden shower.

Chapter Sixteen
“Trust me?” Sade asked, looming over him, breaking into his thoughts almost before he could catch his breath. Even after the experience he’d been given, something about that question made him shake his head in doubt.
“I want to,” he said honestly. The Marquis appeared to consider that answer for a moment and then shrugged elegantly with one shoulder, dismissive, as if it mattered little either way.
“Good enough.” And perhaps it was, because he didn’t protest when Sade used the torn nightshirt to bind his ankles and wrists, pulling them tight beneath the table so that he ended up helpless, the front of his body arched up slightly as if pleading for the Marquis’ touch.
So restrained, Coulmier wondered what was in store next, remembering the torture Sade had inflicted on the back of his body previously. Whether he wanted to or not, he felt awfully vulnerable and somewhat stupid. Sade stood at the foot of the table watching him, as if Coulmier was about to entertain him in some way. Mistrustful after all, he raised his head as high as he could, and saw nothing – except – Sade was holding his prick in one hand, but it was soft now and it seemed so bizarre, yet strikingly familiar…
And quite suddenly, he knew what unspeakable act Sade planned to carry out next.
“No!” he said in a panic, and violently wrenched at the slipknots that held him to the table so that it rocked alarmingly. Sade put a hand on his pelvis, stilling the worst of his movements and attempts to escape. The table righted itself.
“Wait for it,” Sade said, drawing the words out, smirking, as if it was somehow amusing, and then it was on him.
The first tentative splashes landed hot and steaming on his stomach, making him thrash about again so that Sade had to press him down and keep him still. It ran in horrible rivulets down the side of his body, settling underneath him, wet and thin, and quickly becoming cold once it had left Sade’s bladder.
The Marquis laughed, directing the steady flow now so that it washed over his chest, the hairs there making it run in a thousand directions all at once. For a second or two, he watched in horror and disgust as the urine hit one of his nipples, no doubt deliberately, and the sensation was such that he still couldn’t help writhing beneath it as his eyes watered at the astringent odour.
He coughed as the pungency hit the back of his throat, then a drop of it splashed on his lips, and he compressed them tighter together, breathing through his nose, desperate to beg for an end to it, but not willing to open his mouth.
Still Sade laughed, and still Coulmier glowered, until the spray moved up to his shoulder. Coulmier had the disturbing impression that his genuine and righteous outrage was amusing Sade all the more. “Open your mouth, Abbé,” Sade suggested. He shook his head desperately, letting his head fall back, exposing his neck to it in preference to his face. Yet when it fell on his neck it ran down over his cheeks, into his ears and then his nose, fizzing there so that he couldn’t breathe. It ran over his closed eyelids and into his hair, wet against his scalp like summer rain.
Desperate to breathe and panicked, he lifted his head again and opened his mouth, getting one small breath in before Sade was directing it there, the hotness of it shocking against his lips and teeth. His tongue recoiled from the salty taste of it, but to be fair it wasn’t so different to the tang of tears or sweat. Worse than the taste was the sound, it made a hollow deep trickling noise as it filled his mouth, and he rejected it, spat it out, only for the horrible sound of it to begin again before he could close his mouth. He wrenched his neck violently from side to side to escape it, but Sade made sure to follow his movements. And then, some of it slipped down to the back of his throat, and he swallowed without meaning to.
“Good. Drink it down.” Sade’s mocking voice again, laughing at him… wasn’t it? There was something wrong. Coulmier shook his head again, wishing he could scream, and this time felt a hand behind his head, guiding his lips. But that was impossible.
He woke up.
“You must drink,” the voice said, following him out into reality, and he spat out the warm water again before he realised it was just that – water. And then he drank deeply as someone held a jug to his mouth. His thirst was so dire and unquenchable that even the remnants of the nightmare couldn’t make him reject the proffered water. At last, because he needed to breathe, he paused, his stomach already gurgling in protest at the sudden intake of fluid.
At first, he thought it was Madeleine who stood there, taking her turn to torment him in the gloom, but it couldn’t be. She wouldn’t do that, not even in a restless death. Coulmier grasped at the woman’s sleeves and looked up, trying to see through the thin grey light of the coming morning, but she couldn’t see him. The darkness of the cell meant nothing to her. Madeleine’s mother.
“Madame?” he said, his voice hoarse and roughened from days of overuse and lack of sustenance, yet when she heard him speak, she smiled, her eyes fixed on a point just above his head.
“Praises be! When I found you in here, I thought I was too late, Abbé.” Tears filled his eyes at the simple sincerity in her tone and her compassion, and he clutched at her as if he were drowning while she put the heavy jug on the table. Belatedly, he realised he’d fallen asleep without moving from his place at the table and his muscles were sore and stiff from the way his body lolled against the chair.
“What have I done?” he whispered to himself brokenly, recalling all of his dreams and the torment and temptation he found in them, knowing that what Sade said was true, real or not, phantom or not. That the dreams he endured were slowly poisoning him, reordering his values, remaking him. But into what?
Madeleine’s mother held him to her midriff, a reassuring hand in his hair as he cried. She hushed him and her body rocked him slightly. “No more than was ever meant for you, I dare say.” Her words were so tender, so blessed, so forgiving. Coulmier took in a shuddering breath, wiping the last tears from his face, tears that she couldn’t see, but could feel.
“Wait,” he said, confused but glad of his saviour, “how did you get in?
“I have a key to all the rooms here, and you and I the only ones who know it.” Ah! Coulmier nodded, remembering. Of course she did, as the main cleaner and laundress, Madeleine’s mother could access any part of the building. “Forgive me for making use of it,” she continued, and Coulmier smiled, “but I was worried. That doctor has forbidden anyone to leave you food or water since you took to your room.”
So, it was as he suspected. But Royer-Collard was no enemy at all compared to the one in his dreams, and he could only face one of them at a time. Coulmier frowned, troubled by the turn of events, even though he had already guessed at it. Madeleine’s mother sighed. “He says that all rats come out eventually. Be careful of him, Abbé. I’m blind, but I’m not stupid. He means you harm.”
Something occurred to Coulmier then, hearing that the doctor referred to him that way, like one of the wards. Or, as he had thought previously, an inmate of the torture chamber Charenton had become. His heart thudded painfully. “Does he intend to detain me here?” In the tale of the tragedy lie the truth, that none of this would have come to pass if not for Royer-Collard’s interference.
“I do not know, but I can’t linger.” Now she spoke in a matter-of-fact way, instead of indulging his fear. “There’s some food and more water in the basket,” she said, reaching out a hand to feel for it so he would see it on the table. “I brought it along with the clean linen. When I… If I can, I’ll bring more.”
She was going away, feeling her way along the wall, back towards the door. “Thank you, Madame,” Coulmier said, wishing there were words for his gratitude. There was a lump in his throat. In the darkness, turned away from him, she was so like her daughter. “I want to say, I… never meant to hurt her.”
Something in Madame LeClerc’s posture stiffened, and then, clearly as close as she could come to mentioning the existence of the writing Sade left on the dungeon wall, she said shortly: “Did she know?”
Madame LeClerc couldn’t see him and never would, but Coulmier dropped his gaze regardless. “No,” he said quietly, admitting it all to be true with that one word, prepared to face her contempt now because he deserved it. Instead of that, she was easy on him again – forgiving.
“Then she’s at peace, even if the rest of us aren’t.” It was so perceptive that Coulmier looked up sharply, but now she was at the door, opening the latch.
“She’s with God,” he said as a reassurance, certain of it, wanting her to know. Madame LeClerc sighed.
“She loved you both, Abbé. Remember her well for that.” Then she was gone.
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The Ruined Abbe