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One day, when the boy was 14, he skipped school and went to visit his grandfather. It was February, and after only five minutes of walking, the boy thought to himself that he should have waited a few more months. The sky was slate gray, the snow was dirty gray, and the wind knifed through his bones even though he'd worn his warmest winter coat (which was charcoal gray). The boy kept walking.
"Hey, Grandpa," he said when he got there. He rubbed his gloved hands over his arms, trying to stay warm. "I know I should be in school, but..." The boy trailed off, unsure what to say. He kicked at a chunk of snow with his boot. "It's just been a while since you told me a story." He stopped and thought about it. "Six weeks exactly. So I thought I'd tell one to you."
The problem with publicly humiliating a man as powerful as Prince Humperdinck was that it was bound to lead to political unrest. Once the people of Florin (most of whom had never liked him much anyway) got word of his cowardice and scheming, they mobilized. The Great Square of Florin City was overrun, and before long, people from the countryside and the surrounding villages had joined their urban neighbors in a show of strength and solidarity.
Unfortunately, peasant uprisings of the time were rarely successful, due to the fact that soldiers--
"Oh, sorry," the boy said, stopping. "We're learning about feudalism in my history class. I'll skip that part."
The main problem with the uprising was that the people had no agreed-upon leader. Instead, there were five factions with seven separate (and opposing) lists of demands, and even if Prince Humperdinck had been inclined to make concessions, he didn't know which concessions to make. The peasants would gather in the square, armed with very sharp farm implements and shouting so loudly the Prince would get a headache; Humperdinck would come out of the castle and agree to meet with their leaders; and then there would be a large catastrophic dinner in which nothing was settled.
During the first such dinner, Alfric (a blacksmith) and Landor (a cloth merchant) were having a lively debate about whether they should be demanding lower taxes. Alfric was very firmly on the side of yes, but Landor felt the tax rate should stay the same and the money spent on civic improvements rather than on Humperdinck's personal army. This argument lasted for almost an hour, during which time the others tried and failed to get a word in edgewise, and Prince Humperdinck rolled his eyes and drank heavily. It ended when Alfric banged his fist on the table to make a point, knocked over three candles, and set Landor on fire. Landor, convinced Alfric had done it on purpose, launched himself at his attacker. A brawl erupted. Humperdinck excused himself halfway through the soup course.
So the uprising continued, growing steadily more violent. Small bands of people from opposing factions clashed in the streets, and Florin lurched between revolution, civil war and all-out anarchy. Storefronts were burned, tax collectors were murdered, houses were broken into and looted, agents of the crown were attacked. The castle was constantly surrounded by jeering crowds, making it impossible for Humperdinck to leave the grounds and go hunting.
After six months of this, the Prince -- who felt he had shown considerable patience so far -- gave his army permission to forcibly subdue anyone showing signs of resistance. But by then, almost everyone (from the nobility to the Brute Squad) was showing signs of resistance. The death toll climbed from a few dozen to a few hundred in a matter of weeks. Soldiers fired crossbow bolts into crowds, armed bands roamed the countryside setting fire to houses and slaughtering farm animals. In the face of the mounting pressure, the rebels stopped fighting amongst themselves and gathered in united, ever-larger crowds for some good, old-fashioned mob violence.
Humperdinck stopped rolling his eyes.
That was the state of things when Westley and Buttercup returned to Florin. It had taken three months for Inigo to recover from his injuries and learn enough about the finer points of piracy to take over the mantle of the Dread Pirate Roberts. Westley had been right -- Inigo was a natural -- and as for Fezzik, there are very few enterprises which do not benefit from having a giant along. Once Inigo was ready, Westley's crew had to be taken to their desired points of debarkation, and Inigo needed to hire a new crew and get everyone up to speed on their new and glorious profession as Dread Pirates.
From there, Westley and Buttercup were planning to retire to an island off the coast of Spain to raise children, ride horses, and spend quite a lot of time kissing. But first, they needed to stop in Florin so Buttercup could say goodbye to her parents. One of their first arguments as a married couple (they'd been married by the priest who sailed on the Revenge to look after the souls of the pirates) was about whether they should invite Buttercup's parents along to the island. It was quickly resolved when they determined that her parents were certain to refuse the invitation, and so there was no harm in extending it.
However, as they neared Florin, they realized something was terribly wrong. The sky was dark with smoke, and the acrid stench of gunpowder and burning buildings clogged their throats and turned their stomachs. The harbor was filled with ships of the Florinese armada, firing their cannons at their own country. The sound was deafening.
Westley, Buttercup, and Fezzik leaned over the railing of the ship, trying to get a better look at what was happening to their home. Rumors of the uprising had reached the Revenge, but no one expected it to have escalated so far. Buttercup's jaw hung open in a perfectly attractive manner, Fezzik's hung open in a less attractive manner, and Westley's was clamped tightly shut. With each blast of a ship's cannon, his hand inched closer to his sword, and Buttercup could tell their retirement plans had just been added to the rest of the smoke in the sky.
"Westley," she said, moving closer and lacing her arm through his. "Perhaps we could just get my parents and... leave. There's no need for us to get involved."
Westley had never considered himself much of a nationalist (this was before nationalism), but the sight of Humperdinck's armies slaughtering their own countrymen offended his sense of honor. He glanced at Buttercup, one eyebrow raised. "Leave, my darling? You're welcome to do so, of course," he said, but he pulled her closer to him as he said it, his body physically protesting the very idea of losing her. "I will always come for you. But I'm afraid I must stay in Florin for a time."
Buttercup tried not to pout; she knew it was coming, after all. "But why?"
"Beyond the fact that my sword arm is itching for a fight after all those years of piracy, you mean?" He shrugged. "It's simple, really. I exposed Humperdinck for the worthless scoundrel that he is, and then I didn't kill him. The people are trying to clean up my mess. Helping them is the least I can do."
Buttercup sighed. There was no use arguing with him once he'd made up his mind. So she and Westley snuck into Florin under cover of night, leaving Inigo, Fezzik, and the rest of the crew to harass the armada with the best ship on the sea.
Once Westley and Buttercup were ashore, word of their presence spread quickly; someone had printed up pamphlets. Most of the people felt Westley had sparked the uprising in the first place, and so they naturally looked to him as their leader. They flocked to his banner (he didn't even realize he had a banner) and before he knew it, he was the leader of a small peasant army and had a secret training camp in the Fire Swamp, safe from Humperdinck's men.
"Look," he told Buttercup one evening, untying his hair with a sigh. "It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture. Their faith in me is really quite gratifying. It's just that after five years of piracy and that day of being mostly dead, I had rather hoped to settle down."
"You said you wanted to help," Buttercup pointed out, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice.
He smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. "We're doing a little more than helping, my love."
Buttercup sighed. Except for the part about piracy, she knew exactly how he felt. She pulled shut the curtain of their treehouse, blew out the candle, and fell asleep to the crackling of the Fire Swamp and the screams of the R.O.U.S.s in the distance.
With Westley in charge, things began to look up for the rebels. They had a leader, a charter everyone mostly agreed on, and a secret base. Additionally, their cause was helped by the Fire Swamp itself, which seemed to be feeding on its new inhabitants. Not in a carnivorous way, of course; rather, it was spreading. Its temperature climbed. New pockets of Snow Sand were spotted with increasing regularity. The R.O.U.S.s began to venture outside the borders of the swamp, and they brought down more than a few of Humperdinck's men.
Even with the swamp on their side, the rebellion raged for another five years. Although there were periods of peace, they were few and far between, and it was rare for a week to pass without Westley having to commit another body to the Snow Sand. For the most part, he lost them to starvation: The Fire Swamp was not exactly life-sustaining, they were unable to steal enough from Humperdinck to keep everyone well-fed, and the Prince's forces had razed the countryside. Anyone suspected of cooperating with the rebels by giving them food was executed, along with their family.
"Westley," Buttercup said one evening before bed. She (along with everyone else) had lost weight, and although she was no less perfect in Westley's eyes, she was considerably bonier.
He smiled into her eyes and cupped her cheek with his palm. "Yes, my love?"
"Why can't we eat the R.O.U.S.s?"
Westley sighed and ran his thumb over her perfectly prominent cheekbone. "Well," he said. "For one, they'd hardly provide a succulent feast. For another, they've left us in peace so far, a state of affairs which I doubt would continue if we were to start eating them. We can hardly afford to fight Humperdinck and the R.O.U.S.s simultaneously."
"But why have they left us in peace?"
"I don't know," he admitted. It had been bothering him, but no one who lived in the Fire Swamp had been attacked by an R.O.U.S., and Westley wasn't inclined to question that particular bit of luck.
"Are you sure it would be so terrible? You and I fought one off successfully."
"That's true," he said, rubbing at his shoulder. It still bothered him occasionally, when he was particularly tired and when it was about to rain. "But you and I are exceptionally gifted fighters, and I fear I cannot say the same about everyone here. We'd all have to travel in large groups. The children wouldn't be safe. It--"
"The children aren't safe now, Westley!" she snapped, pulling away from him. "They're starving. Have you seen them?"
Westley slowly lowered his hand to his side. "Of course I've seen them, Buttercup," he said, his voice perfectly even. "I've buried them."
"Then what are you going to do about it? This can't continue." She was sure she loved Westley more than anyone had ever loved anyone else in the history of the world, but sometimes he made her want to run off and try her hand at piracy.
"If you want to leave, I can always get a message to Inigo. You're free to go at any time." The thought twisted his stomach into knots and froze his lungs, but it might be for the best. She'd be safer, and he could return to her when the war was won.
"I don't want to leave, Westley! I want this to be over. You have to kill Humperdinck."
"Oh!" Westley slapped his hand to his forehead. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that? How silly of me."
Buttercup stared at him for a long time, her face completely and terrifyingly blank, and then announced she was going to sleep. She lay down and did just that, leaving Westley alone with his thoughts. She was right, of course: They needed to kill Humperdinck. The two sides had been in a bloody stalemate for almost a year, with no progress in either direction.
It wasn't that Westley hadn't tried. He'd issued a standing invitation for Humperdinck to end the war at any time by dueling with Westley, but the Prince knew he'd never win that fight, and so he never took Westley up on the offer. He also never left the castle, and so far, no one had been able to get far enough inside to get the job done. A new plan was quite clearly required.
The new plan was this: Get word to Inigo and Fezzik that they needed exotic animals that presented particularly enticing hunting challenges. Cheetahs, rhinoceroses, orangutans, anything. While they sailed around playing zookeeper, Westley's men would pretend they were losing heart (this had the advantage of requiring very little acting ability). They would lose a few skirmishes, allow a few raiding parties to be chased away, let a few supply caravans get to the castle unmolested. By the time the animals were set loose in Florin, the Prince would believe the war was almost won, and he would venture from the castle to hunt. The first time he went out, he would take a large guard with him, and Westley's men would leave him alone. The next time, he would take fewer men, and the rebels would attack but be easily fended off. Westley theorized that eventually, the Prince would get cocky enough to go out with only a small handful of guards, at which point Westley could send all his forces out, and they would win the day.
"Bugger," the Prince said, because Westley's plan worked perfectly.
The rebels' celebrations were half-hearted. The people emerged from the Fire Swamp and tried to go home, only to realize they had no homes left, nothing to go back to. The country lay in ruins, the towns all destroyed. They tried to stay positive and begin rebuilding, but it only took a week for the next catastrophe to strike.
Guilder, sworn enemy of Florin, had been keeping an eye on the proceedings. Once the war was over and the people of Florin had declared victory, Guilder sent her ships across the channel. The Florinese, who had just overthrown their leaders, had no one to help them; Westley's rag-tag forces were no match for a fresh and well-equipped army. Many more died. The forests burned, the castle was sacked, and in a matter of days, Florin was no more. The Fire Swamp kept growing.
Westley and Buttercup ran. They could hardly do anything else. The remaining Florinese blamed them for their troubles and didn't want them around. Guilder couldn't afford to let them live, in case they decided to lead another rebellion. Buttercup's parents had been among the first to die in the uprising, murdered in their sleep. They had nothing and no one in Florin, so they sent word to Inigo.
The boy paused, frowning. "Maybe he sent a carrier pigeon? Did they have those?" There was no answer from his grandfather, so the boy went back to his story.
Inigo was still nearby, cleaning rhinoceros manure off the decks of the Revenge, and so he came quickly. As soon as he picked them up, Westley and Buttercup requested he take them to their Spanish island paradise.
"You are sure you do not want to stay aboard?"
Westley just shook his head. "No," he said, clutching Buttercup's hand. "No, I really think it's best if we get to that island."
"Ah," said Inigo. Even the mask couldn't hide his awkwardness.
"What?" asked Buttercup. "What now? We're perfectly capable of swimming there if we have to." That wasn't strictly true; both of them had been wounded in the war, and although the injuries had healed, neither Westley nor Buttercup was up to swimming several hundred miles. But one thing Buttercup had learned was that a little bluster went a long way.
"Well," said Inigo, fidgeting. "It is just... I do not think... it is maybe not so easy."
"What do you mean, not so easy?" Westley asked, his eyes narrowed.
"Don't be queasy," said Fezzik, clapping one big hand over Westley's shoulder, sending him stumbling into the bulkhead. "I'm sure it's nothing."
Buttercup made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. "If one of you doesn't tell us what's going on, I swear I will--"
Inigo held up his hands and took a step back. "I do not know! We thought it was just the area around Florin, but everywhere we go, things are different."
Westley frowned. "Different how?"
"It is very bad," Inigo said. "Everything is dying. Crops, animals, people. That is why it took us so long to bring you animals." He paused, shrugging. "Something is happening with the Fire Swamps. You have been very focused on Florin and Guilder, but it is happening everywhere. When we go swimming, the water does not freeze our--." He stopped with a glance at Buttercup, and cleared his throat. "You know. And we have heard rumors that in the north, they no longer have winter. If you were to go to your island, I do not know what you will find."
"Superb," Westley said. "I'm going to bed. We'll figure this out in the morning. Or perhaps the morning after that." He thought he might sleep for several days.
Once Westley and Buttercup were well-rested and reasonably well-fed, everyone gathered in Inigo's chambers to figure out what had happened. There had been a meteor shower one night, several years back, early in the war. Meteors fell to earth, igniting fires in forests, towns, and prairies. It was unfortunate but not unheard-of, and Westley and his men were too busy fighting a war to give it much thought. But looking back, that seemed to have been when the Fire Swamp started growing, feeding on the flames rather than the people who'd taken up residence in its trees.
There were not many options available, and so they decided to make for Spain, where perhaps the west coast would be more welcoming. If not, they would outfit the ship for oceanic travel, and head to the Americas.
Their first stop was Porto-Vecchio, on Corsica, where they hoped to purchase enough supplies to get them to Marseilles, if not all the way to Barcelona. But the town was quarantined, and they were not let off the ship.
"What do you mean, quarantined?" Buttercup asked, when Westley brought her the news.
"Plague," Westley said.
Buttercup flopped down on the bed with a sigh. "Plague."
"The guard said something about giant rats emerging from the hills, bringing disease and death. You can smell it from the deck."
She closed her eyes. "I've smelled enough rotting corpses, thank you."
"I'm sorry, my love."
Buttercup sat up suddenly and took his hands in hers. "Westley, what are we going to do? We can't stay in this room forever."
He brought her perfect hands to his lips. "Everything will be fine," he murmured, his mouth moving against her skin. "We've been in worse situations than this one, and we surely have enough food to hold us over until we're able to find more. If nothing else, we can fish."
At the next port, they were shot at and unable to even approach. The stink of death hung heavy in the air, the fetid scent of rotting bodies instantly recognizable to everyone on board.
"Perhaps a different island," Inigo said.
The next port city they found smelled like the previous two, but no one tried to stop them from docking or leaving the ship. Only a few crew members ventured ashore, their mouths covered and their hands gloved. The road into town was lined with half-covered mass graves, and the stench of rotting corpses grew stronger with every step they took. In the town itself, buildings still smoldered from fires never extinguished, and the most recent victims of the plague lay dead in the streets, their skin blackened and boiled and cracked open. The only sign of life was an R.O.U.S. on the other side of town, gnawing the arm off a corpse. The exploration party turned as one and ran back to the ship as fast as they could. Even if there was food in that town, none of them wanted it.
Everywhere they went, it was the same story: plague or famine caused by drought and rising temperatures and raging fires. It seemed that no matter how far from shore they got, they couldn't escape the smell. The smoke from the constantly burning fires covered the earth with a constant fog, making it difficult to navigate. Dead fish floated to the top of the sea, unable to survive in the warmer waters. Even their maps seemed inaccurate, the coastlines farther inland than they were supposed to be.
The boy paused, swallowing a few times and wishing he'd thought to bring some water. "There's other stuff going on, too," he said. "The polar ice caps are melting, rivers are drying up, there are violent storms all over the world. There are probably mudslides and flash floods and really bad earthquakes." He stopped and scratched behind an ear, where his hat was particularly itchy. "But the pirates don't know about any of that stuff, so I have to skip it. Sorry, I guess I should get back to the stuff they do know about."
They were halfway up the coast of France when Westley let himself into Inigo's chambers. Inigo was sitting at the table, his fingers laced behind his head and his legs stretched out in front of him, staring at nothing in particular. Westley sat down and mimicked his position, and the two of them sat in silence, listening to their stomachs growl, their skin stretched thin and bright over their bones. Inigo wanted a drink. Westley wanted his happily ever after.
"Inland?" he ventured. "It might just be the coasts."
Inigo didn't respond, which was itself enough of a response. They'd all heard the rumors of what was happening inland, and it was even worse than what was happening along the coastline. Rioting, plague, famine, fire, marauding bands of starving and rabid animals. They'd even heard of cannibals in the mountains. They didn't have time to risk finding out that all of it was true; the weaker among the crew would start dying of starvation in a matter of weeks.
Westley nodded. "Miracle Max?"
Inigo blinked and then his eyes finally focused on Westley. "You think he is still alive?"
"I don't know. But we need a miracle."
They made for Florin at full speed, but even so, it took several weeks to get there. Westley's predictions had been right: They lost three members of the crew along the way.
They reached the Channel at night, and Westley and Buttercup stood on deck, hand in hand, watching the shore draw closer.
"Do you hear that?" she asked.
He frowned at her, listening, but he could hear nothing but waves. "Hear what?"
"The shrieking eels."
"Ah," he said. She was right: There was no shrieking, and the only movement in the water was that of the dead fish the ship was churning up as it moved. "Perhaps they're asleep."
"Why must you lie to me?"
Westley sighed and turned to face her, putting his hands on her jutting hipbones and tugging her closer. "I'm not lying, Buttercup." He pressed his forehead to hers. "This is True Love. It ends happily. We must believe that."
She sighed, her breath wafting across his lips. "Miracle Max will help us," she said quietly.
"I'm sure of it," he said. Anything else was inconceivable.
Buttercup kissed him softly and tugged him off to bed.
They arrived in Florin the next day, and immediately recognized the signs of plague: mass graves, boarded up homes, smoldering fires. It seemed to have hit recently; there were still enough people living to warrant a man, completely covered in many layers of rags, driving a cart through the streets.
"If he says, 'bring out your dead,' I shall scream," Buttercup muttered under her breath to Westley.
He said it, but Westley clamped his hand over his beloved's mouth before she could make good on her threat. They picked up the pace, he and Buttercup and Inigo and Fezzik running as fast as they could for Miracle Max's, doing their best to avoid and ignore any bodies they came across.
They grew increasingly apprehensive as they approached the house. Fezzik slowed down, as if he were afraid of what they might find. Westley and Buttercup slowed their pace to match his, but Inigo sped up, and ended up trotting in circles around the other three as they moved toward Max's. Buttercup retreated into a distant silence, her hand sweating against Westley's, her grip white-knuckled on his. Only Westley seemed unaffected.
When they could finally see the hut, their hearts lifted. There were signs of life: a few chickens in the yard, a small fire burning out front. There was even a new sign on the door that looked to be freshly painted. When they got close enough to read it, they saw that it said, "In case of apocalypse: GO AWAY."
Fezzik pounded on the door, and kept pounding until there was an answer.
"Go away!" It was Miracle Max. The four of them exchanged relieved smiles, and Fezzik brought his huge fist down on the door once again.
"Let us in or Fezzik will break the door down," Inigo shouted. Fezzik readied himself. It had been a while since he'd broken down any doors, and he was so hungry that he wasn't sure he'd be able to manage. Still, the others were counting on him, so he had to try. But just as he was about to charge, the door opened and Max stuck his head out.
"Can't you people read?" Max demanded. "We're closed." He tried to slam the door, but Fezzik slapped a hand out and stopped him. Max looked at the four of them through narrowed eyes, a frown on his face. "Don't I know you?"
Westley and Buttercup stepped forward. "You helped me once," he said, "when I was mostly dead. Please, we need another miracle."
Max raised his bushy eyebrows. "How do I know you're not sick? Sure, you're all wearing masks and gloves, but you never know. You're looking awfully thin."
"We have been sailing," Inigo said. "No one on the ship has died of plague. We came straight here. Please, we must talk to you. I insist."
"Oh-ho, you insist! In that case, come right in. Make yourselves at home."
They crowded into his little hut and looked around. Inigo thought it looked the same as it had the last time he'd been there, stuffed to the brim with jars of miracle materials, stacks of paper piled high on every horizontal surface. A fire burned in the fireplace. Even Max hadn't changed much, though his eyebrows were longer and he was wearing a different hat. All of them felt their spirits begin to lift.
"All right," Max said. "What's so important you risked the plague for to come talk to me?"
The four of them looked at one another. They hadn't really planned this part out, and weren't even sure what sort of miracle they needed.
"We need a miracle," Fezzik said.
"You said that already."
"The shrieking eels are silent," Buttercup said.
"You want me to save the shrieking eels? What's the matter with you?"
She shook her head. "No. The surface of the water is covered with dead fish. Everywhere we go, the land is burning. There's no food. Anyone who doesn't die of the plague dies of starvation. It's not just Florin. It's everywhere."
Max rolled his eyes. "Yeah? What do you expect me to do about it, Princess?"
Buttercup drew herself up to her full height. "I am no longer a princess."
"And I'm no longer a miracle man. What do you want me to do about it? It's the apocalypse. The end times. We're over, through, finished, done." He drew a finger across his throat and stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth, making a gagging noise.
"But surely--" Inigo started.
"No! Surely nothing! I perform small-scale personal miracles for the right price. This is beyond me."
"What's the price?" Westley asked.
Max sighed heavily and spoke very slowly, all his humor gone. "There is no price. There is nothing I can do. There's nothing anyone can do. You think I want it to end like this? You think I haven't tried everything already? My wife is dead. I have two starving chickens and a jar of chocolate sauce. You can have it for free. Just go back to your ship and let me die in peace. I suggest you do the same."
They trudged back to the Revenge in silence, their voices too thick in their throats for speech. Halfway back to the ship, Buttercup couldn't take it anymore, and she fell to her knees and dry-heaved into a pile of dead leaves. Her reaction triggered one from Fezzik, who threw back his head let loose with a terrible scream that shredded his vocal cords and echoed over the countryside. He put his fist into a tree, which cracked and toppled under the force of the blow. Then he sat down on top of it and dropped his head to his arms. Westley and Inigo had both gone utterly still, their eyes locked on their boots, unseeing.
"Westley," Buttercup said, when she thought she could speak again. "Westley, please. If we must die, let's go to my farm." She swallowed, the taste of bile still in her mouth. "We were happy there once."
Westley looked into her eyes, their once-bright blue now dimmed by exhaustion and hunger, and knew he was helpless to deny her anything. "As you wish," he said, grabbing and kissing the back of her hand. She smiled faintly, and he pulled her to her feet.
They turned to look at Inigo. "I must see to my men," he said, his voice grim.
Westley nodded, but for once he had nothing to say. He stood, watching, as Inigo removed his pirate mask and tossed it to the ground. He took Buttercup's face in his hands and kissed her once on each cheek, and then he drew his sword, hefted it a few times, and then held it flat in both palms and extended it to Westley.
Westley took a step backward, shaking his head. "I'd sooner--"
"Please," Inigo said, cutting him off. "Please, take it."
"Very well," Westley said, taking the sword from Inigo. "Thank you. But you must accept mine in its place. You cannot return to the ship unarmed."
"Very well," Inigo said, his tone carefully formal. He sheathed Westley's sword and turned to Fezzik, who was still sitting on the fallen tree with his head in his arms. "Fezzik? Shall we?"
Fezzik pushed himself to his feet and nodded, avoiding eye contact with anyone. "I'm no good at good-byes," he muttered, and shuffled off in the direction of the ship. Inigo lingered for a few more awkward moments, and then wished them both good luck and trotted off after Fezzik.
It was a long, depressing walk to Buttercup's farm. She had once enjoyed the countryside, but what had been lush, verdant land was now a bleak vision of decay, the land a rotten, burnt-out husk of what it once was. They walked quickly, and made it to her parents' farm before nightfall. Surprisingly, the house was in decent shape; because her parents had died so early in the uprising, Humperdinck's men hadn't burned the place to the ground, and there were so few people left alive that no one else had come to live in it.
Buttercup shook out the dusty sheets on the bed while Westley looked for provisions. Although no one had been living there, the house had been looted several times over; anything of value (material or nutritional) was long gone. All he came up with was a jug of wine hidden under the floorboards of Buttercup's old room.
He took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, placing the wine on the floor between his feet. "What do you want to do?"
She thought about it for a long time. "I'm tired," she said, sitting down next to him. "I don't want to starve to death, or die of the plague. I think we should try again in the next life."
"Well," he said, swallowing, unable to look at her. "I have Inigo's sword, a dagger, and some iocane powder."
"I-- oh, god," she said, her voice breaking, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please, can we--"
"Hush," he said, gathering her thin frame into his arms and pressing his lips to her temple. "Sshhh, it'll be all right. I told you, death cannot stop True Love." He kissed her again. "Here now," he said. "I found some wine. We'll drink it, we'll make love, we'll figure it out in the morning. All right?"
He reached for the jug, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure she'd be able to hear it. He stared at her mouth as she lifted the jug to her lips and drank, stared at her throat as she swallowed, stared at her tongue as she licked the wine off her lips. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and brushed her hair back from her face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his hands shaking. "I love you so much."
She looked at him, confusion on her face. "I love you, too, Westley. What are you..." She trailed off, her eyes widening. Her gaze went between him and the jug of wine. "The iocane powder."
"I'm sorry," he said again. He thought he might throw up.
Buttercup put the wine on the floor and climbed onto his lap, clutching at his shoulders and desperately pressing their mouths together. "Please," she gasped between kisses. "Please, let me die like this." He kissed her back, just as desperately, his arms crushing their bodies together. Sobs wracked his body, thickening in his throat and locking the breath in his lungs. Still he kissed her, her perfect lips moving against his until they suddenly weren't.
He kissed her again, and once more for good measure, before laying her down on the bed. He could barely see through his tears as he drew Inigo's sword from its sheath, and he was in so much pain that the blade plunging into his stomach brought nothing but relief. He curled up next to his love and waited for the darkness.
"Well, that's it," the boy said. "The end." He dug in his backpack for his battered copy of The Princess Bride, and placed it carefully in the snow on the ground. He ran his fingers slowly over his grandfather's headstone, the tears frozen on his cheeks. "No more stories."