All the usual here- Quills characters not mine et al. Spoiler alerts for Quills too, so if you haven't seen it, don't read on. Unless you have some kind of masochistic desire to spoil the endings for movies.
The night was the pinnacle of lonliness for him. The horrible isolation, the feeling that everyone else were enveloped in the quiet darkness of slumber, blanketed in their dreams. The bedsheets tangled around his limbs like arthritic fingers, their starched whiteness wrapping itself around his pale skin.
Sweat glistened at his throat, ebony curls of hair flattened upon his forehead. His nightshirt was unbuttoned to the chest, arms interlaced over it with the formality of the thoughtful. His eyes travelled over to his bedside table, decorated somewhat simply with a thumbed Bible, wooden rosary and a single quill in a pot. His emerald eyes widened their scope, falling upon the leather flog that hun on the wall. The frayed ends cried silently in their blackness, directly contrasting with the white of the wall. The grip fitted his hand perfectly, nestling into his palm as the welts upon his back became angrier, blooming like scarlet roses upon the most perfect of canvases. He felt satisfaction like no other when the strips would strike his skin, marring that delicate porcelain, blood firstly pearling then trickling as the strikes became more verocious.
The initial pain which raged and burned slowly melted into an overwhelming numbness, when all the while the 'Our Father' spilled from his trembling lips, every other word clipped and punctuated with a barely restrained groan.
*The Marquis would be so proud...*
Every time his mind was tainted, every time his thoughts were smoked with the soot of the fires of Hell, the flog would be reached for. Sometimes he wished Donatien could be on the other end of the flog, so expertly delivering the lashes that he had perfected throughout his life. How deliciously fitting, the epitome of depravity showing the young innocent a thing or two in the field of punishment. Sometimes it felt odd when he whipped himself, as if his inexperienced hands were doing something wrong, not fulfilling his penalty satisfactorily.
He secretly wished that Madeleine would walk in on him after his punishment, when he crumpled onto the floor and breathed raggedly, eyes ablaze and back screaming. How he wished she would run in, gather him in her arms, shower him with kisses, cleanse his skin and his soul. He wanted her cool fingers to run down his face and neck, pressing her body against his, her nightgown skimming her curves. He wanted to hold her in his arms, lay on his bed with her, letting the rosy hue of dawn awaken them, a pink blush warming their skin.
But now he knew that this would never happen. Far more finally than it ever would, for his beloved Madeleine was not with him. He would call her name, and the reply was silence. No Madeleine. She watched him from elsewhere, her young body desecrated with wounds, eyes looking her last, words spoken no more. And that pained him far more than any flog could. His heart blackened without her, his soul grew cold, and the hope died. And the Abbe de Coulmier wished he could, too. To be with her once more.