Nine months at sea
Some odd hours on land
Westley isn't absolutely sure he knows exactly what's going on, but he knows that he doesn't approve of how loud it is. There's a small man chopping wood behind his left eye, and every time the little mans axe falls, his eye throbs. He's not amused.
Something wet and lukeworm is trying to part his lips, but there's a horrid taste in his mouth and he's afraid if he pries his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he'll swallow it.
"Aw, c'mon now lad, be a man'n accept t'drink."
Wait. He knows that voice.
"...Ye either list'n to m'now, or be pay'n t'consequences later." There's a distinctly promising, malicious smirk attached to the not-so-mysterious voice. He wants to tell it that if he opens his mouth, he's going to choke on his tongue.
Something groans, and he thinks it might be him, because his throat is in sudden agonyh.
"Dunna be such a lass, son. Open yer mouth n'drink."
He doesn't wanna-
It takes a moment or two, but he finally finds the strength to pry his lips apart and not wince too much at the dry cavern that has become his mouth. The liquid pours in as the voice rumbles out approval.
And that's when Westley wants to die.
"Cap-? What in'ta name'o... Argh! Devil! Leave t'boy alone, for Chrissake!"
"W-? Ah! Dunna ye start throw'n things at me!"
"Don't ye start force-feedin' t'boy whiskey!"
"I wasn'na force-feedin'em nothin', ye crotchedy old-!"
His throat is on fire. It's going in all directions; down his throat, burning a path up to his nose, climbing back inside the Hell that is his mouth. He's coughing, gagging and choking and trying to gasp in breaths all at once. He is literally afraid that he is going to suffocate to death, and has a brief bleary instant where he flashes back to the first meeting with Roberts, and wishes his demise could have been as quick as that. A single instant of pain, perhaps. A momentary flash of panic and fear and guilt.
Now, he is going to suffer.
"Ah, hell. Lad, yer gotta sit up now. Thass it, laddie, just like that." The voice is back. Westley now recognizes it as the Devil.
The fire is receding, but only slightly. Every cough is like a fan to the flames, bringing back the white-hot pain and encouraging it to higher heights.
"Here, lad. Drink this."
Something wet and cooler than the first liquid touches his lips. He absolutely refuses to open them, biting back the soul-wracking coughs and heaves that want to come forth. His eyes are tearing from the effort, but if he's going to die, he will die as he chooses.
A small voice in the back of his head that resembled a very disgruntled Buttercup demands he quit being a toddler and just drink already, farmboy!
He immediately parts his lips, and paradise is splashing down his throat. Westley has always believed in God(for beauty such as Buttercups couldn't be Earthly, and there was no possible concievable way that a human heart, a soul could hold as much affection as he does for her without Divine intervention), but with the fresh taste of water, his faith is renewed.
'Amen,' He thinks dreamily. Buttercups wavering smirk is what greets him behind his eyes. The deep pool of blissful sleep that pulls him under moments later is welcomed with open arms.
When he next wakens, his head is heavy and he can barely keep his eyes open, but he absolutely refuses to be dragged back under to unconsciousness. There's a sort of restlessness in his limbs urging him to get up and move, but there's a deep underlying ache that loudly protests any movement. He can't ever recall having felt so horrible before.
Almost instinctively, he knows that this is somehow Roberts' fault.
He's still a bit groggy, but he forces his eyes to squint open to take in his surroundings. He has been asleep for far too long, he knows, and it's time to start being alert. He's not quite sure how to achieve this with everything being so out of focus, but he'll take what he can get.
He catches the end of a faint, muffled noise, but he can't pinpoint exactly where it is-or even what it is. The front of his skull is starting to throb again as he tries to concentrate.
Unwillingly, Westley drops back into a fitful sleep.
Things should pick up in the next update, and hopefully be quite a bit longer. Possibly even more exciting, since I was thinking about how to introduce the iocane. But yeah, Westley is sick, and he really just wants to die.
I can sympathize. Damn allergies.
(Roberts just lives to cause trouble, can you tell?)