"Hear this now. I will always come for you."
"But how can you be sure?"
"This is true love. You think this happens every day?"

"Ah. Wot've we got 'ere, lads?"

Westley internally cursed, then thought better, and cursed outloud. The pirate standing over his hunched over body laughed. "You don't mean that in the romantic term, I 'ope?"

Brow furrowed, standing as straight as he could with all muscles tensed, Westley didn't respond though he could feel the flush of anger and humiliation claw up his neck.

"Scoundrel," He declared hotily. The man threw his head back and guffawed. "Son, ya can't 'ope to compare t'tha insults I've been on the recievin' end 'o all these years."

Which could very well be true. But it didn't mean he wasn't about to try.

"Perhaps if one said them often enough you would begin to realize the error of your person," he sneered. There was silence on the beaten and battered deck where a small group of pirates had taken residence. The crew that had been lucky(or unlucky, as it were) enough to still be alive after the miniature duel were huddled into a small pile near the center of the deck, and not lightly guarded.

The man in front of him, however, was clearly the captain; if the way the rest of them didn't immedietely hush when he spoke, or quickly move out of the way when he walked by wasn't a clue, then it was the air surrounding him-the way he stood, feet apart and shoulders back, chin tilted at an arrogant angle in such a way that he could peer down his nose at you. If Westley hadn't known better, his first assumption was that he had come from a life of wealth and ease.

As it were, wealth and ease or poor with broken backs, his glare didn't diminish.

By now, the pirates amusement had been replaced with something that looked suspiciously like curiosity. "Wots yer name, son?"

To say Westley was wary would be quite the understatement.

"...Westley."

And for a few more moments, no one said anything. The pirate scratched his chin through his sullied beard thoughtfully. And then he sighed.

"I'm real sorry, lad-"

Westley paled.

"-But t'Dread Pirate Roberts dunna leave captives o'live." He sent a meaningful look behind him, and many of the pirates nodded.

The crew was dealt with quickly, nearly effortlessly, and, Westley noted in the back of his mind, solemnly. No laughs, no jokes, no words. Just solemn silence.

And then Roberts shifted, drawing his blade, and took a step closer.

And that's when Westley realized he was going to die.

"I am sorry, lad." Roberts sighed again. He couldnt stand it.

Buttercup-his sweet, spoiled, demanding Buttercup-flashed before his eyes.

"Please."

Roberts paused, staring hard at him while he swallowed and tried to work up spit to speak properly.

"Please," he said again, quietly, looking up into the pirates surprisingly kindly looking green eyes. "I have to live."

And he described her.

He described Buttercup, in all her beauty, the words tumbling from his lips uncontrollably. The way her hair would shine when the first rays of morning light were caught in it, when the breeze lifted it and sent it soaring. The way she smiled, one corner of her mouth tilted up just a bit higher than the other, with just the hint of a pearly white smile showing, and how it made the corners of her eyes crinkle adorably. Eyes the color of a Spring morning, he said. Clear and fresh, darkening with anger, bright with mirth. Porcelain skin, unblemished and untouched by the life as a farmers daughter. The way his love grew for her, everytime she looked up at him or ordered him around even without a look in his direction. The way she loved him, by no means as much as his love for her, but still so stunningly sincere and such a stunning amount of love she had for him, farm boy. The princess without a crown and the farm boy. The way he saw she would only look at him, only glance at him from under her lashes, never at the village boys or travelers. Always him. Just him. Her trust in him to travel to far away lands and earn the money for a ceremony she deserved.

And when he was done, out of breath and heartsick at the thought of leaving her alone, of the pain she'd go through once she got word of his death, so heartsick he felt ill, he bowed his head and trembling, closed his eyes and thought of Buttercup. Waiting for the end.

The end didn't come.

When he dared to look up at the man almost a head taller than himself, to say that he was confused as he watched Roberts stroke his beard in an almost absent manner, eyes squinted... Lost in thought.

"...I think I hav' meself an idea, fellows," He called, eyes still trained on the pale Westley. The pirates didn't respond; it seemed as if all were waiting with baited breaths.

"I need meself a cabin boy." Roberts head tilted, almost curiously. "Woulda ya' be interested, lad?"

Buttercup, sweet, innocent Buttercup flashed before his minds eye. Sweet, innocent, broken Buttercup hearing the news of his death.

"Yes."


I'm such a glutton for punishment. I CANNOT STOP THE IDEAZ. afrjgj.

will be updated at random.*self loathing sigh*