Unquiet Reunions
WHO: The Marquis de Sade, Abbe de Coulmier; later, the Marquis de Sade, Dr Horrible, Pavi Largo, Severus Snape, Martha Jones, Libby.
WHERE: Level 1, Room 11; then the Halls of Level 2
WHEN: Shortly after the Abbe's most previous entry.
WARNINGS: Much angst and a medical emergency!
Coming to the prescribed Level, the Marquis could not help but feel the continuous sting of apprehension. He had dressed in his slightly more common fashion. The shirt and the waistcoat were the same as they always had been -- the modern cut of trouser, not so much. Nor the absense of his wig. It was the most he could offer toward normalcy for a man whom he had assumed he might never see again -- for a man who, if his recent entries and appearance on the Barge altogether indicated true, had changed a great deal for the worse.
This was a consequence of his previous life that he would have been happy to do without. It was one thing to admit his wrongs in this place and move on. It was one thing to assume responsibility in the face of people who were not there.
Another thing, entirely, was to face the people who had remained for the aftermath. He had never reconciled with himself how he felt about the Abbe de Coulmier, who had professed himself to be his "friend" before things had gone terribly wrong in the asylum, before Royer-Collard's grasping claws ruined what sense of normalcy he had managed to establish there -- a sense he now knew, as a free man, to have been heavily skewed. In the final weeks, however, it was all he could do just to find the right words, the right gestures, to showcase his defiance, to hurt as much as possible.
The Marquis was never a very good friend when he, himself, was feeling challenged or wronged. The Abbe de Coulmier had always borne the brunt of his hard feelings, even when he knew the younger man to not be the cause.
He looked for the room, now, part of him wondering if he shouldn't turn back.
He should have been better prepared for all of this. Had the Admiral assigned him already? Should he have heard a familiar name in the hours of the evening and early morning before? Truth be told he had slept so heavily that he could have been robbed blind in the night and not been the wiser.
The Abbe had been right. He did recognize the door. The familiar latches and windows on the doors to the cells at Charenton -- a door which had been his own until his recent graduation. His knuckles hesitated just before touching the metal frame. He swallowed.
"Abbe?"
WHERE: Level 1, Room 11; then the Halls of Level 2
WHEN: Shortly after the Abbe's most previous entry.
WARNINGS: Much angst and a medical emergency!
Coming to the prescribed Level, the Marquis could not help but feel the continuous sting of apprehension. He had dressed in his slightly more common fashion. The shirt and the waistcoat were the same as they always had been -- the modern cut of trouser, not so much. Nor the absense of his wig. It was the most he could offer toward normalcy for a man whom he had assumed he might never see again -- for a man who, if his recent entries and appearance on the Barge altogether indicated true, had changed a great deal for the worse.
This was a consequence of his previous life that he would have been happy to do without. It was one thing to admit his wrongs in this place and move on. It was one thing to assume responsibility in the face of people who were not there.
Another thing, entirely, was to face the people who had remained for the aftermath. He had never reconciled with himself how he felt about the Abbe de Coulmier, who had professed himself to be his "friend" before things had gone terribly wrong in the asylum, before Royer-Collard's grasping claws ruined what sense of normalcy he had managed to establish there -- a sense he now knew, as a free man, to have been heavily skewed. In the final weeks, however, it was all he could do just to find the right words, the right gestures, to showcase his defiance, to hurt as much as possible.
The Marquis was never a very good friend when he, himself, was feeling challenged or wronged. The Abbe de Coulmier had always borne the brunt of his hard feelings, even when he knew the younger man to not be the cause.
He looked for the room, now, part of him wondering if he shouldn't turn back.
He should have been better prepared for all of this. Had the Admiral assigned him already? Should he have heard a familiar name in the hours of the evening and early morning before? Truth be told he had slept so heavily that he could have been robbed blind in the night and not been the wiser.
The Abbe had been right. He did recognize the door. The familiar latches and windows on the doors to the cells at Charenton -- a door which had been his own until his recent graduation. His knuckles hesitated just before touching the metal frame. He swallowed.
"Abbe?"