(One more thing: for any of you who are not familiar with the plot, directly cribbed from William Goldman, I will say this now so you won't hurt me later. NO RULES ARE BROKEN IN THIS STORY. Trust me.)

Nikita was not raised in Section, but it was there she grew up. Her favorite pastimes were making nifty wire sculptures and tormenting her trainer. His name was Michael, but she never called him that. Nothing gave her more pleasure than arguing sticky moral issues with Michael.

"Spyboy, why must we always endanger innocent lives? It’s just not fair." she asked one day.

"We do what we have to," he replied.

That was all he ever said to her, "We do what we have to." Infuriating and ambiguous, it was quintessentially Michael. Later, she stalked into his office and slammed the door behind her. Blue eyes flashing, she demanded, "Spyboy, why did you hurt that child? The mother would have done anything you asked."

He looked up at her from his laptop, soulful green eyes boring into her. He turned off his computer, stood up, and walked towards her. Reaching out, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. So close, he murmured, "We do what we have to." With that, he was gone.

She peered out of his office door, idly watching him walk down the hall. He bent over the back of Birkhoff’s chair, intently studying the screen in front of him. He looked up and unerringly found her gaze. He held her eyes for a beat, then looked away. That was the moment she was amazed to discover that when he said, "We do what we have do," what he was really meant was, "I love you."

Even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.

*******************************************************************

It had been a particularly hairy mission, and Nikita was exhausted. Walter was off testing bombs somewhere, so she was alone in his workstation. Absently, she stripped off her vest, stored it neatly, and checked and cleaned her weapons. She lost herself in the mindless routine, concentrating only on the task in front of her. She didn’t want to think about where she had just been and what she had just done. The sound of soft footsteps interrupted her reverie, and she glanced up to see Michael quietly depositing his own weapons cache.

As he was about to leave, she said quietly, "Spyboy?"

He looked back at her over his shoulder, locking on to her troubled eyes.

"Why do we do this? What use do we serve? How can we not harm as much as we hurt?" The pained note in her voice echoed in the empty room, and she would not let him look away. Once again, he drew near to her, close enough to breathe the same air. He reached behind her, and as his lips passed her ear, he whispered, "We do what we have to."

Pocketing the PDA he had picked up from the desk behind her, he started to walk away again. This time when he looked back, he was rewarded with a heartbreakingly sweet smile. There was no need for words. He did what he had to.

******************************************************************

Section was not the most ideal place for a happy relationship, but, somehow, Michael and Nikita made it work. There were hard times, but those only made the good ones that much sweeter. They treasured every smile, every laugh, every whispered "I love you." In the midst of the chaos of their lives, their love was the one steadfast thing.

One night, during one of those rare times where they were allowed the pretense of a normal life, Michael stood in the kitchen over a simmering pan, working magic with vegetables and mysterious spices. Nikita sat nearby, content just to watch him. Catching her eye, he smiled at her. Suddenly, she flew into his arms and kissed him fiercely. When they finally broke apart, he murmured, idly tracing her cheekbone with his thumb, "What was that for?"

"Sometimes-" her voice caught. "Sometimes I feel as if I am looking at you for the last time; that I am going to blink and you’ll be gone. And I can’t stand that."

His hands stopped their gentle tracings and reached out to firmly cup her face. "Hear this now, " his voice low but insistent. "I will always come for you."

"But how can you be sure?" She squeezed the words out around the growing lump in her throat.

Amazingly, he smiled at her. "This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?" He held her gaze until she reluctantly returned his smile.

Their quick kiss threatened to turn into something more, until Nikita muttered, "The asparagus is burning." Together, they were truly happy and loved each other completely.

Which is why Michael’s death hit Nikita the way it did.

************

She sat absolutely motionless in her chair. "The Dread Pirate Roberts?" she asked, mildly surprised to hear how calm she sounded.

Madelaine nodded. "The entire team was lost. Roberts does not believe in captives. We thought you would like to know."

"Oh." Nikita stood quietly, said, "Excuse me," and left. Just as quietly, she returned to her apartment, locked the door, and smashed the surveillance equipment. For days, she neither slept nor ate. When she finally emerged, she did so as dry-eyed as she had entered. Upon her return to Section, Madelaine asked how she was doing. With a smile and a nod,

Nikita insisted she was fine. To herself and so low Madelaine nearly didn’t hear it, Nikita murmured, "I will never love again."

And she didn’t.

About this same time, a Situation developed in Florin. King Lotharon, never the hardiest of men, took a turn for the worse, and it became apparent that he was dying. Prince Humperdinck could avoid it no longer: he was going to have to get married.

"How about this one?" Count Rugen, Humperdinck’s closest confidante, tossed a picture on the table. The prince picked it up and studied it with a distinct lack of interest.

"No," he sighed. "I’m looking for someone more, more, well-"

"Stunning, " the count supplied.

Humperdinck slammed his hand on the desk. "Exactly! I need to find someone who makes people stop and stare. Someone who will make me the envy of all eligible bachelors. Someone-"

"Someone like her?" Rugen passed over another picture. Humperdinck leaned back in his chair, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"Someone like her, " he said, satisfied. "Find her, bring her to me. No matter the cost, I will have her as my wife."

"As my prince commands."

The picture was one of Nikita taken from the charity ball with Milovich.

To make a long and rather difficult story short, well, at least shorter, Humperdinck’s desires were made known to

Madelaine and Operations, and, lo and behold, less than a week later, Nikita was given the title of Her Most Royal Highness of Hammersmith, a lump of land somewhere near Florin. And then, gentle reader, with one thing or another, three years passed.

************

The Great Square in Florin City was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Humperdinck’s bride to be, Princess Nikita of Hammersmith. None had ever seen the princess, but rumors of her beauty were continual, each less likely than the last.

In the high tower above the square, the Prince made his usual grand entrance. His father was there, but old Lotharon was immediately shoved aside.

"My people," Humperdinck boomed. "A month from now, our country will celebrate its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, I will wed a lady who was once a commoner like yourselves. Perhaps you will not find her, common, now. Would you like to meet her?"

The crowd roared its approval. "I give you, " he paused dramatically, "Princess Nikita!"

A hush fell over the crowd like no other. She slowly stepped out of the doorway into a conveniently directed ray of sunlight. Her blonde hair shimmered around her like spun gold, and she seemed to glow with an inner radiance. To the people around her, she appeared as an angel descended to earth. One by one, without a sound, the crowd kneeled to her, paying her the highest respect they knew.

Nikita stared out over the crowd, unable to shake the sense of unreality that had haunted her since she was first informed of her newly-royal status. Eons away from the world in which she had grown up, she found herself immersed in a whirlwind fantasy of glittering jewels and empty smiles. Her emptiness consumed her. Lifting her eyes to the tower, she exchanged glances with her future husband. He smiled charmingly at her, but she returned him her own blank stare that was becoming far too familiar. She did not love him, and he knew she did not love him, but he did not care. She found no sympathetic ear in Madelaine, her only contact with Section. She simply endured in silence. She had become an angel with a heart of ice.

All eyes cast on her that day were adoring; all, that is, except one. In the farthest corner of the Great Square, in the highest building of the land, deep in the darkest shadow, the man in black stood waiting. His boots were black and leather. His pants and shirt were black. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes. Flashing and cruel and deadly…

***********

(In which Nikita shows quite a bit more backbone than Buttercup. Then again, that's why we like her.)

The only joy Nikita found was in her daily ride. A city girl, she had never gotten the chance to be around horses before, but she still fondly remembered her battered old copy of "Black Beauty" and her countless drawings of her own Beauty stuffed in old notebooks. Given the opportunity to learn to ride, she eagerly accepted. It was the one time she could be alone. Even though no one in Florin, not even Humperdinck, was aware of her operative status, she still packed heat, and she never left the castle grounds without her metallic best friend.

One fateful afternoon, Nikita escaped early to her afternoon ride. Wind in her hair and gun at her back, she felt free and wild. She forgot her troubles and galloped off into the wild blue yonder.

The wild blue yonder turned out to be the Royal Forest, not to be confused later on with the Thieves’ Forest, but that is later on. When she was perhaps an hour’s ride away from the castle, she reined in Horse (Here we see Prince Humperdinck’s incredible creativity with names; heaven help his children.). She did so as to not run over the three men standing in the road before her.

The shortest, a dark man, possibly Sicilian, approached her. "A word, my lady. We are but poor lost circus performers. Is there a town or a village nearby?"

Nikita sized up the three "performers." Next to the Sicilian was another dark man, probably Spanish, who was as slender and deadly as the blade of steel attached to his side. The third was easily the largest man she had ever seen. Casually shifting her reins to one hand and letting her free hand drift to her back , she said, "There is nothing nearby, not for miles."

"Then there will be no one around to hear you scream."

She didn’t scream, but the Sicilian did when she pulled her gun. Not wanting to shoot him, she clubbed him up side the head, dropping him like a felled bird. Leaping off the horse, she managed to knock the Spaniard aside. That still left the giant, and she couldn’t react fast enough. She fell quietly next to the Silician, dropping her gun. The giant picked it up and threw it away, then turned back to face his companions. He sat down to wait for them to wake up.

Fezzick, for that was the giant’s name, didn’t have long to wait. Unfortunately for Nikita, Vizzini, heretofore referred to as the Sicilian, awoke before she did. He motioned for Fezzick to pick up Nikita and take her to a waiting boat, then slapped the Spaniard, who will now be known as Inigo, awake. Inigo captured Horse and held him while Vizzini tore strips from a shirt and artfully placed them on Horse’s saddle.

With a heavy Spanish accent, Inigo inquired, "What is that you are ripping?"

Vizzini smacked Horse, startling him into a gallop, and said, "It is fabric from the uniform of an Army officer of Guilder."

Fezzick piped up. "Who’s Guilder?"

Vizzini gave a long-suffering sigh. "The country across the sea. The sworn enemy of Florin!" He boarded the boat. "Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make the Prince suspect the Guilderians have abducted his love."

He shoved Nikita off the bench upon which Fezzick had gently placed her, still unconcious. "When he finds her body dead on the Guilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed." A master and connoisseur of the cruel chuckle, Vizzini’s small frame shook with a splendid example.

Fezzick looked confused. "You never mentioned anything about killing anyone."

Vizzini settled himself against the side of the boat. "I’ve hired you to help me start a war. It’s a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition."

A troubled look settled across his broad features. "I just don’t think it’s right," Fezzick said, "killing an innocent girl." This shook Vizzini out of his self-congratulatory contemplations. "Did I go *mad,* or did the word ‘think’ escape your lips? You were not hired for your brains, you hippopotamic land mass-"

Inigo interrupted his tirade. "I agree with Fezzick."

The Sicilian graced him with a look of amused condescension. "Ah, the sot has spoken!"

His face hardened. "What happens to her is not truly your concern. *I* will kill her when the time comes. And never forget this - when I found you, you were so slobbering drunk, you couldn’t even buy brandy!"

He turned on Fezzick. "And you. Friendless, brainless, helpless, hopeless. Do you want me to send you back where I found you, unemployed, in Greenland?!" Vizzini stormed off to the other end of the boat to brood, muttering about finding good help.

Inigo leapt down on the deck with Fezzick, helping him with the ropes. Leaning in, he said, "Vizzini, he probably means no harm." He placed a special emphasis on the last word, his Spanish accent rolling the r. Fezzick nodded, his own Eastern European accent nearly obscuring his words. "Yes, and he’s very short on…charm."

(Author’s note: this movie/story has more accents than even Jurgen could manage. Please, use your imagination, and I won’t try to write all of them in.)

Inigo smiled and shook his head. "You truly have a gift for rhyme."

Fezzick blushed. "Yes, yes. Some of the time."

A voice rang out from the other end. "Enough of that!"

A pause. The only sounds were those of the water gently lapping against the side of the boat and the sail wafting in the light breeze. Then - "Fezzick, are there rocks ahead?"

"If there are, we’ll all be dead." Vizzini’s hirelings shared a conspiratorial chuckle.

"Stop that rhyming now; I mean it!"

"Anybody want a peanut?"

A shriek of inarticulate rage echoed across the water.

Night settled as the boat sailed further and further away from Florin. Nikita awoke to find herself quite neatly bound hand and foot. It took her a full three minutes to free herself. Old habits kicked in, though, and she pretended to be securely tied up in order to find out what was going on. She didn’t have long to wait.

"We’ll reach the cliffs by dawn," said Vizzini. Noticing Inigo, positioned by the rudder, glancing back yet again, he asked, "Why do you keep doing that?"

Inigo shrugged. "Making sure no one is following us."

Vizzini grinned. "That would be inconceivable."

Nikita thought it was time for her to stir up some information. She opted to maintain her cover as a proud, yet devoted fiancée and princess. "Despite what you may think, you will be caught, and when you are, the prince will see you all hanged."

"Of all the necks on this boat, Highness," Vizzini said, an ominous note creeping into his voice, "the one you should be worrying about is your own."

Nikita fought not to laugh.

Inigo glanced back again.

"Stop doing that," Vizzini snapped. "We can all relax now; it’s almost over."

"Are you sure nobody’s following us?" asked Inigo.

"As I said, it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other cases, inconceivable. No one in Guilder knows what we have done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so fast."

He lifted his head. "Out of curiosity, why do you ask?"

Inigo shrugged again. "One time, I happened to look behind us, and someone was there."

Vizzini shot up. "What?!" He joined Inigo at the rudder, and Fezzick peered over the side of the boat to see. Sure enough, there was another boat not five hundred yards behind them.

"It’s probably…some local fisherman, out for a pleasure cruise at night…in eel-infested waters," Vizzini tried.

Nikita decided to use their moment of distraction to test their determination to hold her. She didn’t really want to escape; it was a good fifteen miles to shore in either direction. Still, she was tired of just sitting.

Her splash certainly attracted attention. Vizzini yelled at Inigo, "Go in after her."

He shook his head. "I don’t swim."

"I only dog-paddle," Fezzick apologized.

Another shriek of inarticulate rage echoed over the water.

"Left! Left!" Vizzini barked at Inigo, who had returned to the rudder.

Nikita was about twenty yards out and swimming easily. She knew she could outdistance them, hide in the darkness, and activate her Section tracker, but she still didn’t know what they had planned to do to her. She felt something large brush against her leg, and she realized there might be another factor in play of which she had previously been unaware.

"Do you know what that sound is, Highness?" A high-pitched keening floated up from the depths, painfully vibrating the bones in Nikita’s head. "Those are the Shrieking Eels." She had heard of them, but she had never heard them before.

"They always get louder right before they feed on human flesh." Her stomach dropped out the bottom of her feet. "If you swim back now, I promise no harm will come to you." This time Nikita did laugh, but the slimy body that knocked her aside cut that laugh short. "I doubt you’ll such an offer from an eel." The eel charged, mouth easily as large as an alligator’s, body more than fifteen feet long and a foot around, and more teeth than she had ever seen in her life. She could see no immediate escape.

(She does not get eaten by the eels at this time. You weren’t nervous? Oh, concerned. We can stop for now, if you like. A little bit more, if I want? Then, pardon the interruption.)

A fist as large as her head swept out of nowhere and knocked the eel away, yelping. That same hand plucked her from the water as easily as a mother cat picks up her kitten by the scruff. She was unceremoniously dumped back on the deck and her hands retied, much tighter this time, but they left her feet free.

"I think he’s getting closer," Inigo called out from his post.

"He’s no concern of ours," Vizzini snapped. "Sail on!"

To Nikita, he said, "I suppose you think you’re brave."

"Only compared to some," she replied. She thought the noble attitude was a nice touch, but it rubbed too closely on an unhealed wound. Michael… She turned away.

************

As the rosiness of dawn touched the horizon, Nikita and her ill-fated captors arrived at the Guilder coast. Inigo exclaimed, "He’s right on top of us!" Indeed he was. Barely fifty feet separated the two boats. "I wonder if he’s using the same wind we are."

"Whoever he is, he’s too late!" Vizzini was gleeful. "Look!"

Before them, a vast expanse of rock stretched along the horizon, rising hundreds, if not thousands of feet in the air. Its face was nearly sheer, and even from the bottom, its height was dizzying. "The Cliffs of Insanity!"

Vizzini was nearly beside himself with excitement, ordering his assistants with a manic glee. "Move that thing! No, the other thing!" Ropes were tied, loosened, and flung around. "Move it!"

The boat crept between two immense walls of stone, the tops towering so high as to almost meet overhead. At a small, sandy outcropping, they anchored.

"We’re safe. Only Fezzick is strong enough to go up our way. He’ll have to sail around for hours to find a harbor."

A rope was conveniently hanging down the side of the cliff. Fezzick was fitted with a large leather harness with loops hanging across his back. Nikita was tucked into one, and as she stared up the heights, she began to regret not ending this kidnapping earlier. The top of the cliff disappeared in the distance. She closed her eyes as she felt Fezzick begin to move.

Hand over hand, the giant crept up the cliff with three people desperately clinging to him. As they slowly ascended, the boat which had followed them all night anchored beside their deserted vessel, and a lithe figure in black leapt out. Moving with a deadly grace, he seized the rope and began his own ascent.

Inigo peered over Fezzick’s massive shoulder. "He’s climbing the rope." Then, slightly disbelieving - "He’s gaining on us."

Vizzini, clutching to Fezzick’s neck, saw the black speck on the rope beneath him, cried, "Inconceivable! Faster, faster!"

Between breaths, Fezzick said, "I thought I was going faster."

"You were supposed to be this colossus, this great legendary thing, and yet he gains!"

"I’m carrying three people, and he’s only got himself," Fezzick gasped.

"I do not accept excuses. I’m just going to have to find myself a new giant."

"Don’t say that, Vizzini."

Beneath them, the man in black continued gaining.

"Did I make it clear your job is at stake?!?!"

They still had a good hundred feet on the man in black when Fezzick reached the top. Inigo nimbly climbed off and helped Nikita onto the top of the cliff. Vizzini scrambled out and scurried to the rock around which the rope was wrapped. Inigo and Nikita pulled Fezzick up, and not a moment too soon. Vizzini cut through the rope and watched it slip over the edge with a satisfied smile.

They all peered over the edge. Below them, clinging to a rock, was the man in black.

"He’s got very good arms," Fezzick remarked.

"He didn’t fall? Inconceivable!" Vizzini exclaimed.

Inigo looked at Vizzini. "You keep using that word. I do not think him is what you think him is." They looked back down. The man in black began to climb.

"Whoever he is, he has obviously seen us with the princess and therefore must die. You - " Vizzini poked Fezzick with his knife, "carry her. We’ll head straight for the Guilder frontier. Catch up when he’s dead. If he falls, fine. If not, the sword."

"I will have to do him left-handed," said Inigo.

"You know what a hurry we’re in."

"It is the only way I can be satisfied. I use my right," he shrugged, "is over too quickly."

"Fine, fine. Have it your way." Vizzini stormed off.

Fezzick clapped Inigo on the shoulder. "Be careful. People in masks canno be trusted." Inigo nodded his thanks. Nikita, tossed over Fezzick’s shoulder, immediately began running through a mental list of terrorist groups who had masks as an identifying trait.

"I’m waiting!"

I have most of the rest, but it's kind of long. If this is a total overkill on detail (almost word-for-word from the movie, with a few additions from the book), let me know, and I can trim it up a bit. Thanks. You guys are the best.

************

Inigo was alone. Fezzick, Vizzini, and the girl had left, and the man in black was still dangling from the side of the cliff. He paced back and forth, loosening his arms and hands. It had been quite some time since his last duel, but he wasn’t worried. After all, he was the best. He hoped the man in black was good. He hated winning with no effort nearly as much as he hated losing. Or as much as he thought he would hate losing. He had never lost before.

Mindful of Vizzini’s impatience and his father’s insistence on politeness, Inigo leaned over the edge of the cliff and called out, "Hello there." He raised a hand in greeting. "Slow going?"

The masked man looked up. "Look, I don’t mean to be a bother, but this is not as easy as it looks, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me."

Inigo nodded. "Sorry."

"Thank you."

He paced a bit more, withdrew his sword, and went through a few passes, first with his right hand, then, pausing for a moment, shifted his blade to his left hand. He returned to the edge. "I dinna suppose you coulda speed things up?"

A sigh reached his ears. "Look, if you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope, or a tree branch, or find something useful to do."

"I have some rope up here," Inigo offered. "But I dinna think you will accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you."

"That does put a damper on our relationship."

"But," Inigo said, feeling rather generous, "I promise I will not kill you until you reach the top."

"That’s very comforting," said the man in black, his voice dry, "but I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait."

"I hate waiting," Inigo muttered.

An idea struck him. "I could give you my word as a Spaniard."

"No good." A hint of strain entered the man in black’s speech. "I’ve known too many Spaniards."

Inigo was getting frustrated. "Is there any way you’ll trust me?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

A look of fierce pride entered Inigo’s warm brown eyes. "I swear on the sword of my father, Domingo Montoya, you will reach the top alive."

Brown eyes met green. "Throw me the rope."

Inigo grabbed the frayed end of the rope left from Fezzick’s climb and dragged it to the edge. He lowered enough for the man in black to reach the end of it then hauled it back up with the man in black attached. "Thank you," the masked man said. On his own two feet again, he reached for his sword.

Inigo waved him off. "Wait until you are ready."

"Again, thank you." The man in black sat down on a nearby rock and took off one boot. Turning it upside down, a veritable flood of rocks, pebbles, and dirt fell out of his shoe.

Sitting across from him, Inigo asked, "I dinna mean to pry, but you wouldn’t happen to have six fingers on your right hand?"

The man in black paused, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Do you always start conversations this way?"

Inigo shrugged. "My father was slaughtered by a six-fingered man."

The man in black held up his gloved right hand: five fingers. Inigo nodded his thanks.

"He was a great swordmaker, my father," Inigo said, taking the other man’s silence as an invitation to tell his story.

"When the six fingered man appear and request a special sword, my father took the job." He unsheathed the sword at his side, handling it with reverence, and passed it to the man in black. "He slaved a year before he was done." The man in black accepted it with same the dignity with which it was presented to him. With a practiced eye, he examined it.

"I have never seen its equal," he said respectfully, returning it.

"The six fingered man returned and demanded the sword, but at one-tenth his promised price. My father refuse. Without a word, the six fingered man slash my father through the heart. I love my father, so naturally I challenge his murderer to a duel." He shrugged. "I fight. The six fingered man leave me alive, but he gave me this." Turning his face, he showed the man in black two scars running parallel to his cheekbones. They were pale enough to almost fade into his skin, but Inigo wore them proudly, almost as badges of honor.

"How old were you?" asked the man in black.

"I was eleven years old. When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing." Steely determination was evident in his voice. "So, the next time we meet, I will no fail. I will go up to the six fingered man, and I will say," a look of magnificent pride and unspeakable sadness shone in Inigo’s eyes.

"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

"You’ve done nothing but study swordplay?" The man in black’s voice cut through Inigo’s moment of reverence and much-anticipated revenge.

"More pursue than study, I suppose," Inigo clarified. He slumped on a rock next to the man in black. "But I canno find him. It has been twenty years now, and I am starting to lose confidence. I just work for Vizzini to pay the bills. There’s not much money in revenge."

The man in black gave a small, caustic smile. "Well, I certainly hope you find him someday." He stood up and drew his sword with his left hand.

"You are ready then?" Inigo asked. Inside, he was delighted. His weak hand against the other man’s strong; this would prove to be an interesting fight.

"Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than fair."

"You seem a decent fellow," Inigo smiled. "I hate to kill you."

The man in black smiled again. "You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die."

"Begin."

*************

They touched swords, then settled into fighting positions. First Inigo feinted, then the man in black, testing each other’s patience. Inigo fought a grin. His opponent was holding back, overconfident. He would soon lose his cockiness. He attacked in earnest and was delighted when the man in black defended himself brilliantly. It had been so long…

"You are using Bonetti’s defense against me," Inigo chuckled, reveling in a true challenge.

"I thought it best, considering the rocky terrain," the man in black returned, never missing a beat.

"Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro," Inigo said while driving the man in black up one of the many rocky protrusions that were scattered along the cliffside.

"Naturally, but I find that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro." Inigo forced the man in black to the edge of the rock and over. He landed gracefully, nary a hair escaping the black bandana which hid it.

"Unless the enemy has studied Isa Glippa," Inigo said carelessly, as he executed a neat flip off the edge of the same rock and landed soft as a cat, "which I have."

Swords flashed, feet flew, and hands moved faster than the eye could follow. Inigo was wiry and agile from years of training and single-minded revenge. He was dressed, as always, in preparation of a duel: fawnskin breeches that moved like a second skin, a shirt that was white in a former life and now a comfortable cream but was loose enough to allow a full range of movement, and boots that . His hair and moustache were as black as the other man’s clothes, the former falling nearly to his shoulders. The Spaniard was the consummate swordsman. His opponent was his antithesis, his shadow. Head to toe, from sooty mask to ebony boots, he wore black. His raven shirt was cut as Inigo’s, soft and supple enough not to hinder movement. Sable breeches clung to his legs and disappeared inside inky boots. Black gloves covered his hand, and black fabric covered his hair. The only parts of him not cloaked in ebon were his flashing eyes and expressive mouth. He was as unobtrusive and quiet as the shadow he resembled, yet far more deadly. They were well-matched adversaries, and theirs was a duel that would have been remembered for years - if anyone had been there to see it.

"You are wonderful," Inigo said with obvious admiration, surprised to find himself being driven back.

"Thank you," the man in black said nonchalantly. "I’ve worked hard to become so."

"I admit it, you are better than I am," said Inigo, the words coming far more easily than he would have thought.

"Then why are you smiling?" For, indeed, a small grin, almost reckless in nature, hovered around the lips of the man who had devoted his life to the sword.

"It is because I know something that you do not know." The grin now threatened to turn into a full-fledged chuckle.

"And what is that?"

"I am not left-handed."

In one smooth motion, never missing a thrust or parry, Inigo switched hands on his sword. While he had been outstanding before, with his strong hand, he was beyond comparison. The tide of the battle quickly turned, and Inigo fought the man in black into the ruins that were scattered along the cliff. Several times, the Spaniard nearly ran the man in black through, but sheer luck and agility kept him alive.

"You are amazing," the man in black said with a hint of respect, his back to the cliff.

"I ought to be, after twenty years," said Inigo, allowing himself a bit of cockiness, secure in the knowledge that he was still the best. He drove the other man to the edge, swords locked body-to-body, and pressed him against the crumbling stone wall. A few slipped and fell, their splash delayed and distant.

Trapped beneath the Spaniard, the man in black forced out, "There’s…something…I ought to tell you…"

Inigo paused, gracious to the last, allowing his opponent his final words. He leaned in close.

"I’m not left-handed either."

With one easy motion, the man in black flung Inigo off of him, switched hands with a flourish, and immediately began to attack. With only a few motions, he flung the six-fingered sword out of Inigo’s hand. At sword’s point, he backed Inigo down the ancient stone stairs. Searching for any escape, Inigo leapt through a partially-disintegrated doorway and swung himself off a conveniently-located beam to land beside his sword.

Never to be outdone, the man in black threw his sword like a knife, where it landed in one of the sparse patches of grass dotting the cliff. He, too, swung himself off the beam, but with a splendidly-executed flip as well. He landed as gracefully as a cat and, never looking down, reached out and took his sword, which was literally at his hand.

"Who are you?" Inigo demanded, mystified and intrigued by this opponent he thought he had judged so well.

"No one of consequence." The answer came lightly, but the man in black’s eyes were hard.

"I must know."

"Get used to disappointment." What could have been harsh seemed to Inigo nearly gentle, so he accepted this answer with a shrug and a grin, then recommenced their battle.

If the duel had been impressive before, it was now breathtaking. Over rocks, under ruins, up stairs, down inclines, their swords flashed faster and more furious. Bodies straining to their utmost, minds racing with tactics and anticipation of the other’s movements, the two fencers performed feats of near-miraculous skill. Still, the only sounds were their harsh breathing, footsteps, and the silvery resonances of the two swords clashing. Time stretched interminably, any other considerations forgotten beneath the immediacy of the other man’s sword.

Suddenly, the tide of the battle changed, and one man began to weaken. The other seized his advantage, using delicate precision to force his adversary off balance, darting in and out, finally getting close enough to lop off a lock of the other man’s hair. With this distraction, he disarmed his opponent once again, with no hope of regaining his sword.

"Kill me quickly," Inigo said, sinking to his knees. The man in black circled him, sword tip resting at the base of his throat.

"I would as soon destroy a stained glass window as an artist like yourself." The man in black was courteous and even respectful in victory. "However, since I can’t have you following me…" It was neatly done, a single blow to the side of the head, and Inigo slipped quietly into unconciousness. "Please understand I hold you in the highest respect."

Moving swiftly, the man in black retrieved the scabbard for his sword, then ran off, following the footsteps left by Vizzini, Fezzick, and Nikita.

***********

"Inconceivable!"

Past the rocky lands surrounding the Cliffs of Insanity and into the gently rolling hills of Guilder, Vizzini, Fezzick, and their rather unwilling captive, Nikita, were perched behind one of the many boulders that dotted the landscape. Over the closest crest of hills, Vizzini had just spotted the man in black decreasing their lead even more.

"Give her to me," Vizzini demanded, pulling Nikita out of Fezzick’s arms. The giant had been forced to carry her after she "accidentally" tripped Vizzini for the fourth time. "Catch up with us quickly." He started to drag Nikita off, an impressive feat for such a small man.

"What do I do?" Fezzick felt like he had missed something. He often felt like that around Vizzini, and Inigo wasn’t around to explain things for him. He hoped Inigo was all right.

"Finish him! Finish him, your way!" Even more now, Vizzini wanted the man in black dead.

"Oh, good. My way. Thank you, Vizzini." A thought occured to Fezzick. "Which way’s my way?"

Vizzini grasped a firm hold on his last threads of patience. "Pick up one of those rocks; stand behind that boulder. In a few minutes, the man in black will come running around the bend. As soon as his *head* comes in view, hit it with a rock!" He and Nikita soon disappeared over the next hill, but Vizzini’s muttering could be heard long after he was gone.

Fezzick stood for a moment, contemplating. "My way’s not very sportsmanlike," he decided. Still, Vizzini usually knew best, so he picked up a rock and stood behind a boulder.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the man in black came running around the bend. He paused, as if sensing that this was the most logical place for an ambush. He was scanning the surrounding boulders and trees when a rock exploded beside his head.

He whirled, drawing his sword in one motion. Fezzick came out from behind his boulder, another rock in hand. "I did that on purpose," he explained. "I didn’t have to miss."

"I believe you," a hint of surprise creeping into the man in black’s voice. Fezzick was quite a sight to behold, a literal giant. "So what happens now?"

Fezzick smiled. This man might understand. "We face each other as God intended. No weapons, no tricks. Skill against your own."

"You mean you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try to kill each other like civilized people?"

"I could kill you now," Fezzick offered.

Always astute, the man in black said, "Frankly, I think the odds are slightly in your favor when it comes to hand fighting." He carefully lay down his sword.

"It’s not my fault I’m the biggest and the strongest. I don’t even exercise." Fezzick tossed aside the rock, big as a man’s head, as if it weighed nothing.

Not wanting to waste time, the man in black charged the giant, slamming into him with his shoulder. He bounced back.

He tried again. This time, he wrapped his arms around Fezzick’s stomach and started squeezing. Its effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that his arms didn’t quite reach all the way around the other man’s waist. The man in black began to show signs of physical strain, but Fezzick simply stood there with a small grin on his face.

The man in black retreated again. "Are you just playing with me, or what?"

"I just want you to feel that you are doing well. I hate for people to die embarrassed." He finally took a swing at the man in black, who dove between the other man’s legs to roll neatly to safety.

"You’re quick!"

"And it’s a good thing, too." The man in black said this in an undertone, but Fezzick still heard.

"Why do you wear the mask?" Fezzick liked to make conversation during his fights. "Were you splashed with acid or something like that?"

"No, they’re just terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future."

Meanwhile, the man in black was dodging swinging fists that were nearly as big as his head. Using his smaller size and greater speed, he scrambled up a rock and leapt onto Fezzick’s back. The giant’s throat became his handhold.

Fezzick flapped desperately at his unwelcome passenger. "I just figured out why you give me so much trouble," he squeezed out between the hands around his throat.

He backed forcefully into a nearby boulder, smashing the man in black between the rock and the hard place that was Fezzick’s back. "And why is that?" the man in black asked, managing to sound conversational with all the air forced from his lungs.

"Well, I haven’t fought just one person in so long. I specialized in fighting groups, gangs for local charities, that kind of thing." Fezzick felt his air running out, and he felt if he kept talking, he couldn’t die. He couldn’t die while he was talking, could he? He tried slamming the man in black against a rock again.

"And why should that make such a difference?" The last word was choked as the man in black’s skull was knocked against the stone.

"You see, you use different moves," Fezzick gasped, his vision going starry, "when you’re fighting half a dozen people," he collapsed to one knee, "than when you only have to deal with on…" He lay still.

There is a thin line with air deprivation between unconciousness and death, and the man in black rolled Fezzick over to find out if he had crossed that line. Luckily, the giant’s heartbeat was slow but steady beneath his gloved fingers. "I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awaken," he told the involuntarily sleeping man, "but in the meantime, rest well and dream of large women."

Two down, one to go. The man in black continued his inexorable hunt.

*************

The man in black was not the only one hunting that day. Back above the Cliffs of Insanity, booted feet traced the steps of the two duelers, carefully, as not to mar their technical perfection.

"There was," the owner of these feet said, "a mighty duel." He tracked the prints over the rocks and through the ruins. "Ranged all over," he murmured to himself. "They were both masters."

These feet were attached to none other than Nikita’s would-be husband, Prince Humperdinck. Bedecked in royal purple, the prince cut an imposing figure. Black curls tumbled about his face, setting off features that represented the best of a thousand year’s of Florintene nobility. With full, pouty lips and marvelous cheekbone structure, the prince was a sight to behold, a fact of which he was very much aware. Still, those warm, soulful brown eyes hid a streak of cruelty that none of his brokenhearted conquests had ever seen. Nikita, too, missed the depth of callousness in his eyes, being preoccupied with the fiercely green eyes she would never see again.

Humperdinck was not alone. He was accompanied on the cliff by an entire troop of his best hunters, as well as his closest advisor, Count Rugen. Rugen, perched on horseback, asked the prince, "Who won? How did it end?" The prince leapt off the rock on which he had been subtly preening. "The loser ran off…that way. The winner followed those footsteps, towards Guilder."

"Shall we track them both?" The count was the epitome of deference and discretion.

The prince looked at him gravely. "The loser is nothing. Only the princess matters." He turned to face his men. Raising his voice, he called out authoritatively, "Clearly, this was all planned by warriors of Guilder. We must all be ready for whatever lies ahead."

"Could this be a trap?" Rugen asked.

Mounting his horse with an easy grace, Humperdinck replied, a small smile dancing around his lips, "I always think everything’s a trap. That’s why I’m still alive."

Deeper into the countryside, the man in black crested yet another hill. This time, he was not greeted by a sword-wielding Spaniard or a rock-tossing giant, but Vizzini and Nikita, seated behind a rock with a tablecloth. The two could have been sharing an intimate picnic in the open country, if it had not been for Nikita’s blindfold, gag, restraints, and the knife at her throat. The man in black approached slowly, sword shimmering in his fist.

"So it is down to you, and it is down to me," Vizzini said comfortably. He sipped casually from a wineglass as the man in black sheathed his sword and continued walking towards him. "If you wish her dead, by all means, keep moving forward." He could have been discussing the weather.

The man in black stopped. "Let me explain," he started.

"There’s nothing to explain," Vizzini interrupted, sounding a mite displeased. "You’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen."

The man in black tried again, creeping forward. "Perhaps, an arrangement can be reached?"

"There will be no arrangement, and you’re killing her." A single drop of blood formed at the juncture of Nikita’s jaw and throat, trailing down her white skin. The man in black stopped again.

"If there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse." The man in black seemed unperturbed, mildly amused by the entire situation.

"So it seems." Vizzini matched him for blandness. "I can’t compete with you physically, and you’re no match for my brains."

"You’re that smart?" The man in black was just the right amount disinterested.

Vizzini was hooked. "You ever heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates?"

"Yes."

"Morons," he spat the word out.

"Well, then. In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits."

"For the Princess?" Vizzini was intrigued.

A nod.

"To the death?"

Another nod.

Vizzini sheathed his knife. "Very well, I accept."

"Good, then pour the wine." The man in black sat down opposite Vizzini, ignoring Nikita. Two identical cups sat on the white tablecloth before him. Vizzini poured the wine, filling them to the same height. The man in black withdrew a vial from a hidden pocket and pulled out the stopper. He presented it to Vizzini.

"Inhale this, but do not touch." Vizzini grabbed the bottle, sniffed, and returned it.

"I smell nothing."

"What you do not smell is iocane powder. It is odorless, tasteless, and dissolves instantly into any liquid, and is one of the more deadly poisons known to man." Vizzini made the appropriate noises of interest. Moving carefully, the man in black took the two wineglasses, one in each hand, and turned his back. Vizzini peered, trying to see what he was doing, but to no avail. The man in black turned around, switched the glasses around in midair, then placed one cup in front of each man. He tossed the empty vial on the table between them.

"Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun," he challenged. "It ends when you decide and we both drink. We find out who is right, and who is dead."

Vizzini looked on disdainfully. "But it’s so simple! All I have to do is divine from what I know of you, are you the sort of man who would put the poison in his own goblet or that of his enemy’s. Now, a clever man would put the poison in his own goblet, for only a great fool would reach for what he was given. Now, I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you must have known I am not a great fool. You would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me."

The man in black was nonplused. "You’ve made your decision, then?"

"Not remotely!" He was just getting warmed up. "Because, iocane comes from Australia, a land which is entirely peopled with criminals - " Nikita made a muffled noise of outrage. They both ignored her. " - Criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me. So, I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you."

"Truly, you have a dizzying intellect." The man in black admirably restrained all traces of sarcasm.

"Wait till I get going! Now, where was I?"

"Australia."

"Yes, Australia. You must have suspected I would know the powder’s origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me."

"You’re just stalling now."

Vizzini snorted, wrapped up in his musings. "You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? Now, you have bested my giant, which means you are exceptionally strong. You might have put the poison in your own goblet, counting on your strength to save you, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But, you’ve also bested my Spaniard, which means you must have studied. In studying, you would have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from your own cup as you could, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!" Vizzini was triumphant.

The man in black was glacially calm. "You’re trying to trick me into giving away something. It won’t work."

"It has worked! You’ve given everything away! I know where the poison is."

"So make your choice." There was velvet steel in the man in black’s voice.

"I will! I choose - " a look of mixed surprise and horror crossed Vizzini’s face. "What in the world is that?" He pointed behind the man in black.

The other man whirled. "What? Where?" He stared intently into the surrounding forest, just long enough for Vizzini to change glasses while his back was turned. "I don’t see anything."

Vizzini acted puzzled. "I could have sworn I saw something. Nevermind." A chuckle escaped his lips.

"What’s so funny?" The man in black sounded defensive.

Vizzini waved him off. "I’ll tell you later. First, let us drink. Me from my glass, you from yours." A jollying grin followed the chuckle.

The two picked up their goblets, the man in black deadly quiet, and Vizzini gleeful. He raised his glass in mock-salute to his mysterious opponent, and each took a sizeable sip from their cups.

"You chose wrong."

Vizzini could contain himself no longer. "You only think I chose wrong! That’s what was so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned. You fool! You fell victim for one of the classic blunders," he kindly explained. "The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!" Mirth overtook him, and his whole body shook with laughter. He was still laughing when he died.

The man in black never even twitched. Smoothly, he rose from his seat and removed Nikita’s blindfold, gag, and restraints. She did not recognize him, not that there was much from which to identify him. Still, his voice was oddly familiar. She opted for the direct approach. "Who are you?"

"I am no one to be trifled with, and that is all you ever need know." Nikita was unable to restrain a most unprincesslike snort. He fixed her with a fierce stare, but she wasn’t looking at him.

Nikita had been listening to the "battle of wits" with half and ear and asked, "So all the time it was your cup that was poisoned."

The man in black ignored her for a moment, then said, scanning the trees again, "They were both poisoned. I’ve spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder."

************

Humperdinck was hot in pursuit. He and his men soon came across the site of Fezzick and the man in black’s battle.

Humperdinck leapt off of his horse, purple tunic rippling elegantly, and proceeded to investigate the area. Rugen and the other soldiers sat looking stoic. The prince noted the rather large indentation in the grass and helpfully announced,

"Someone has beaten a giant." Not sure how exactly all this tied into the search for his missing princess, he threw in, "There will be great suffering in Guilder if she dies." His horse was again conveniently located beneath him, and he leapt onto its back from above, not bothering with mounting. The search party rode off again.

Further along, the man in black and Nikita were still running. Nikita was still dressed in her riding clothes, including tall boots, and the running was beginning to take a toll. Also, she noticed, a bit shamefacedly, she had let her exercise regiment slack since becoming princess, and she was getting tired far more quickly than she should have.

The man in black noticed her fatigue as well. When they reached a large enough rock to hide them both from view, he released her arm and tossed her away. "Rest," he snapped, then turned away from her.

She was still not sure who he was. An idea was niggling in the back of her brain, but she couldn’t place it. His manner was vaguely familiar, and she thought she remembered reading a file that fit him, but she could not remember which. She was also curious as to why he had gone to a great deal of effort to take her from Vizzini and was obviously not rescuing her. She also doubted her ability to escape from him. Her own carelessness and laziness had prevented her escape from Vizzini, but she instinctively knew the man in black was far more dangerous than the Sicilian had been. Staying true to her role, Nikita tried to glean some information from this mystery man. "If you release me," she said plaintively, "whatever you ask for ransom, you’ll get it. I promise you." Desperation crept into her voice.

He smiled, a cold, vicious smile. "And what is that worth, a promise coming from you? You’re very amusing, Highness."

Nikita drew herself up. "I was giving you a chance." She figured it was time to throw in the Prince’s name. "It does not matter where you take me, there is no greater hunter than Humperdinck. He can track a falcon on a cloudy day. He can find you." Privately, she doubted the truth of this statement. True, Humperdinck was one of the greatest hunters she had ever seen and had skills that would put him at the envy of many of Section’s cold ops, but this man…worried her.

"You think your dearest love will save you?" The man in black’s voice was dangerously bland.

Nikita reacted as if slapped. "I never said he was my dearest love." She trembled quietly. It still hurt too much. She remembered herself. "And, yes, he will save me."

"You admit to me you do not love your fiancé." Again the calm voice.

"He knows I do not love him." She spoke softly, uncomfortable in speaking of matters of the heart.

"’Are not capable of love,’ is what you mean." The man in black spoke quietly, viciously.

"I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream," Nikita said harshly, hurting with her own hypocrisy. She, too, had become a killer, but she could not let this stranger know that. Even now, she had to maintain her cover. She refused to meet his eyes.

He raised his hand to slap her, and she stood firm, eyes locked on the horizon. At the last moment, he jerked his hand away. "The next time, my hand flies on its own," he said. "From where I come, there are penalties when a woman lies." He grabbed her arm again, and their flight continued.

************

"Iocane. I’d bet my life on it." Prince Humperdinck dropped the vial, pleased with himself for recognizing the poison. He always enjoyed showing off his greater knowledge and general superiority to the world in general. He glanced around and saw footprints with the logo of Nikita’s riding boots imprinted on them. "The princess is alive, or was, an hour ago. If she is otherwise when I find her, I will be very put out." He kicked Vizzini’s body aside and remounted, riding off again in pursuit of his most lovely trophy wife-to-be.

At the edge of a ravine, the man in black paused again, allowing Nikita to rest. She sat down shakily, taking deep breaths as quietly as she could. She let her mind drift, tired of thinking, tired of running, tired of pretending. Suddenly, it clicked.

"I know who you are," she said in a wondering voice. "You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts. Admit it." The last was said with an edge of venom unlike she had ever heard in her own voice.

Roberts executed a formal bow towards her. "With pride. What can I do for you?"

"You can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces - "she was just getting started, prepared to describe in loving detail exactly what he could do.

He interrupted her tirade. "Hardly complementary, your Highness. Why use your wrath on me?"

"You killed my love." The words were ripped from her soul.

"It’s possible," he said casually. "I kill quite a lot of people. Who was this love of yours? Another prince like this one, ugly, rich, scabby?"

"No," she bit off. "A sp-" she caught herself. She had almost said spyboy, her old nickname for him. "A special operative," she continued. "Poor." She supposed; material wealth was irrelevant in Section. "Poor and perfect." Her heart ached with the truth of that statement. "With eyes like the sea after a summer storm…" her voice faltered and stopped, hating herself for exposing her weakness to Michael’s killer. She sat for a moment, feeling more lost than she ever had. She would not look at him, would not see him savoring her sorrow.

She closed herself off, then continued. It all sounded vaguely old-fashioned, but the world of terrorism often had swashbuckling intimations. "On the high seas, your ship attacked. Everyone knows the Dread Pirate Roberts takes no prisoners."

Roberts had settled himself against a tree log to enjoy her story. He shrugged negligently. "One can’t afford to make exceptions. Once word leaks out that a pirate has gone soft, people begin to disobey. Then it’s nothing but work, work, work." The sarcasm was tangible.

"You mock my pain," Nikita said roughly, emotions thick in her voice.

"Life is pain, Highness." He used her ill-gotten title as an insult. He knew it now for the pretense it was. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." The sarcasm returned.

Nikita turned away, too raw to duel with words any more.

Roberts stood and walked over thoughtfully. "I remember this operative of yours. This would be, what, three years ago?" She did not move to face him or respond. An almost gentle note crept into his voice. "Does it bother you to hear?"

"Nothing you can say would upset me." Her voice was dead, empty.

"He died well; that should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering." Nikita let out a bitter half-laugh at this. Even now, the idea of Michael trying to bargain his way out of an execution or sobbing was ridiculous.

"He simply said ‘please. Please, I have to live.’ It was the ‘please’ that caught my memory. I asked him what was so important for him. ‘True love,’ he replied." He turned to look at Nikita, eyes hard. She was not looking at him, tears slipping silently from the corners of her eyes, falling unheeded and unchecked.

"The he spoke of a woman of unsurpassed beauty and faithfulness; I can only assume he meant you. You should bless me for destroying him before he found out what you really are."

This jarred Nikita. "And what am I?" she asked with a deadly sweetness.

"Faithfulness, madam. He spoke of your enduring faithfulness." All casualness was gone, replaced with an almost frightening intensity. "When you found out he was dead, did you get engaged to your prince at the same minute, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?" The hint of an accent crept into his voice, but Nikita was too furious to notice.

"You mocked me once. Never do it again. I *died* that day." Cold rage flooded through her body.

At that moment, the hoofbeats from Humperdinck’s horses reached their ears. Roberts turned to look. Nikita took the opportunity of his distraction to attack. She was behind him, and remembering Michael’s very first lesson, she delivered a punishing kick to his kidneys. Before he could recover enough to attack, she rained blow after blow on him, tears nearly obscuring her vision. She sought to remember everything she had ever been taught, intent on making this man hurt as much as she did.

In her fury, she forgot they stood on the edge of a ravine. Finally, one of her punches knocked Roberts over the side. "You can die, too, for all I care," she whispered. She had felt a part of her wither away when he said he remembered Michael’s death. To have it confirmed from the lips of his killer was unshakable proof that her other half was dead. She watched Roberts plunge down the side of the ravine with an empty sort of revenge. His voice faintly reached her ears.

"We do what we have to."

Shock flooded through her. "M-michael?" his name crept between her lips. "What have I done?" she gasped. She threw herself down the hill, running as fast as she could, until she lost her balance and tumbled down as well. The two came to rest side by side, breathing in unison, but barely.

***********

Michael, as always, was the first to recover. Bruised, having been beaten quite effectively by a woman he loved, exhausted, and heartsore, he still managed to drag himself over to Nikita. She was lying perfectly still, with her hands folded on her stomach. He stretched out one hand, tentatively touching the mussed halo of her hair. The thought that he could have lost her as soon as he found her again hurt him more than any of his physical injuries. He hesitated, afraid that if he touched her, she would disappear like she had so many times in his dreams, or, worse, he would find her cold and empty, only her physical shell remaining.

His heart lurched to a stop when her eyes trembled open. They were the same depthless blue he remembered. She had refused to meet his eyes while he was Roberts, and he had forgotten how easy it was for him to drown in those eyes. Finding his voice, he said, accent impossibly thick with emotion, "Can you move?"

Those blue eyes locked onto his fiercely green ones. "Move?" she said softly, smiling up at him. "You’re alive. If you want, I could fly."

All hesitation disappeared. He crushed her against him, clutching her tightly and stroking her hair. He murmured things in French she didn’t understand, but the words didn’t matter. Her heart spoke directly to his, and both overflowed with joy. She locked her arms around his waist and held on for dear life. Pulling back so he could look at her, he cupped her face in his hands, tracing its lines softly. Finally, ever so gently, in contrast to their desperate holds on each other, he bent his head to hers, touching, tasting, and rejoicing in her familiarity.

She nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder. Lips buried in her hair, he murmured, "I told you I would always come for you. Why didn’t you believe me?"

Nikita clutched him tighter. "Well…you were dead." The words escaped with a little half-laugh.

Michael brought her up to look at him. "Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it a while." He smoothed her hair away from her face and continued his idle caresses.

When his thumb came in reach, she kissed it. "I will never doubt again." Her voice rang with conviction and love.

"There will never be a need."

He bent his head to hers again…

(Here would seem to be the perfect place to insert an appropriately, ahem, romantic scene, but my attempts at "romantic" scenes are laughable at best and ridiculous at worst. Also, in case you forgot, this is actually the middle of a chase scene. Humperdinck is indeed hot in pursuit, as will be seen later. So, gentle readers, a single kiss will have to suffice…)

***********

(Let us leave our heroes for a moment and return to that toad of princes, or prince of toads, whichever you prefer, the illustrious Humperdinck.)

Far above the ravine, on the crest of a nearby hill, Humperdinck called his men to a halt. Standing in his saddle, he searched the surrounding lands, but all traces of the man in black and the prince’s fiancée had vanished. He slumped back down, losing his charm in a fit of pique, but regained it to declare, "He has disappeared. He must have seen us closing in. It might account for him panicking and erring. Unless I am wrong," he said dramatically, "and I am never wrong, they are heading dead into the Fire Swamp." With a bold motion, he waved his men on. With a flurry of hooves and the prince’s hair, the squadron disappeared into the swiftly rising mist.

Michael and Nikita raced along the ravine floor, fleeing to the safety that the Fire Swamp would provide. Above them, teetering on the edge, were Humperdinck and his horses. Michael noticed, and with a most unMichael-like devilish grin, he pointed them out to Nikita. "Your pig ‘fiancé’ is too late. A few more steps, and we’ll be safe in the Fire Swamp," he said, derision dripping from his words. His venom surprised himself. He had not realized how much he resented - no, despised - the man who had succeeded where he had failed. While Michael held her heart, Humperdinck still held the right to Nikita’s hand. At least, in the eyes of Section…

He redirected his attention to the problem at hand: the Fire Swamp. Nikita regarded him doubtfully. "Are you sure it wouldn’t just be easier to kill ourselves now," she said, her spirit and sarcasm returned full-force. "We are *never* going to survive."

"Nonsense," Michael said, as close to cheerful as he got. With Nikita’s hand tucked firmly in his, they started running again, and he added, "You are only saying that because no one ever has."

**********

Ah, the Fire Swamp. The nightmare of all Florinese and Guilderian children. In grocery stores, parking lots, siblings’ sporting events, and virtually anywhere else misbehaving children could be found, one was bound to overhear at some point, "You do that one more time, and you’re going straight to the fire swamp." It was nearly as common as, "Clean your plate; there are starving people in Africa." As the children grew, so did their imagined danger from the fire swamp.

Nikita’s only source of information on the fire swamp was the young daughter of one of the resident elite that she befriended during her enforced stay at Humperdinck’s castle. A sweet, pretty thing of about eight, the girl suffered from a severe lack of parental affection, so she ran to Nikita when the nightmares started. Now, with the massive, dark trees actually before her and the ground going soft beneath her feet, Nikita remembered the small body, trembling, huddled up next to hers. "I’m going to die there; I know it, " the little girl tearfully insisted. Nikita had hugged her and eventually soothed her back to sleep, but the dream returned night after night. Always, she crept into Nikita’s bed and told her of her dreams, wild tales filled with thick, muggy darkness, sand pits that swallowed people whole in the space of a heartbeat, flames that could think and hunted victims with eerie intelligence, and, Nikita still repressed a shudder, rats the size of small ponies.

Wanting to comfort her little friend with the truth, Nikita tried to research the fire swamp. Oddly, no one would talk to her about it, and she could find nothing written. There were sundry rumours of people who ventured inside its boundaries, never to be heard from again, mysterious deaths on the bordering farms, but nothing definitive. The fire swamp was said to be impenetrable, and that was the closest to definitive information Nikita could find. No one would say any more.

Never one to quit at the first sign of difficulty, Nikita nonetheless paused on the edge of the fire swamp, throat tightening on the bitter air. She was used to facing enemies who, no matter the heinousness of their crimes, were still human. Mother Nature was a completely different story.

Michael stopped as well, no longer sensing Nikita at his right shoulder. After their heartfelt reunion, Michael had slipped into machine mode, intent on gaining their safety and freedom. Impatient, Michael looked back to find out the cause of her delay. Meeting her eyes, he saw her uncertainty and hesitation. He, too, had heard stories of the fire swamp, but nothing to the extent of what Nikita had heard. He had discounted most of it to rumour, but Nikita’s doubt was very real, and he had learned to trust her intuition. Still, trapped at the bottom of a ravine and with Humperdinck closing in, they had no real alternatives.

He caught up her hand in his again, and, while raising it to his lips, spoke to her with his eyes. I love you, I trust you, but we have no choice. He brushed his lips over her fingertips, then, reaching behind him with his other hand, replaced his lips with the butt of a gun. She grinned at him sardonically, dryly amused at the mixture of affection and violence that permeated their relationship, then tucked the gun in the waistband of her breeches. He reached out and took her left hand in his right, leaving her strong hand free to use the gun if necessary. (Michael, as seen previously, was competent enough with his sword using his left hand to beat any but the very best. At this point, the very best was getting roaringly drunk, trying to drown the memory of his defeat in a bottle of brandy.) Hand in hand, feeling a bit like Hansel and Gretel at the edge of the witch’s forest, the two operatives plunged into the dark heart of the swamp.

************

Michael led the way, sword drawn, hacking their way through the undergrowth. Trees towered so high above them that the daylight that managed to seep through was dim and sickly. Moss and overgrowth oozed off of the larger plants, connecting everything in a sticky web of living growth. The ground was soggy and sucked at their feet. The thick, sulfurous stench permeated the air, hinting at the gases that were burped up from the depths of the swamp. Strange creatures chittered and screeched just out of sight.

"It’s not that bad," Michael said absentmindedly.

Nikita just stared at him.

He glanced back at her. "I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here," he said, "but the trees actually are quite lovely."

Nikita shook her head, and they continued on.

They walked, climbed, and waded through one of the nastiest patches of land either had ever seen. The only sounds were those of the swamp, wet, breathy noises that did little for their state of mind. Suddenly, a loud popping noise nearby made them stop in their tracks. It stopped, but they remained wary. Abruptly, the ground under Nikita burst into flame, catching her in the middle of the blaze.

Before she could think, Michael ripped her out of the path of the fire, throwing her on the ground and rolling her over. Her clothes and hair had caught on fire, but the damp ground and the classic "Stop, drop, and roll" maneuver quickly extinguished her. Michael pulled her back up, gently fingering the burnt ends of her hair.

"Singed a bit?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You okay?" He shook his head as well. "Well, this is an adventure," she muttered.

Before she could say any more, the popping sound interrupted her. This time, it was Nikita who knocked Michael out of the path of the flame. "This place will certainly keep you on your toes," Michael said, brushing himself off. They walked on.

"I cannot wait until this is all just a memory," Nikita mumbled as she plucked strands of moss from her hair, slogging through shin-deep sludge and still dodging popping fireballs.

Michael heard her and half-smiled. "Roberts’ ship Revenge is waiting at the far end, and I, as you know, am Roberts. You will die mysteriously in the depths of the fire swamp; Humperdinck will be heartbroken - " Nikita snorted at this " - and Madelaine and Operations will have to find a new operative."

Nikita grinned ferally at this, finally to be free of Section, this time with someone to watch her back. Still, something gave her pause. "I’m still not quite sure how you can be Roberts, since he’s been marauding twenty years, and you only died three years ago."

A shadow flitted over Michael’s face. His soft, accented voice was empty. "We were given bad intel from the start. The entire mission was a set-up, and I never saw it. We walked right into Roberts’ hands. One by one, he tortured, then killed us. That story about saying ‘please’ was true, though."

Nikita stopped dead at this. It was so utterly unlike she had ever known him to do, not only to announce his love to a total stranger but to actually ask for his life to be spared. She remembered the countless times she had seen him walk into the jaws of certain death, almost eagerly in some occasions. She herself had held a gun on him at one point, and he had never flinched. She realized he now found life worth living again, and she only had to look into his eyes to find the reason why. That also gave her a start. Such naked emotion was expressed there, the kind of which she had never hoped to see. The three years away from Section had served him well. Unable to speak, she reached out and touched his face.

He covered her hand his with his. "It saved my life; you saved my life. It intrigued Roberts, a spy in love." At this, he smiled sweetly at her. "Finally, he decided something. He said, ‘All right, Michael, I’ve never had a valet before. We’ll try it tonight, and I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’

"For two years he said that. ‘Good night, Michael. Good work; sleep well; I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’ But he never did. I tried escaping three times, and he always caught me. For a pirate, the man had remarkable security. Then, after I had been there nearly a year, I realized that Section thought I was dead, and even if I did escape, I had no assurance that they would not kill me on sight. I realized," he paused, eyes blazing, "I was *free.*"

"After that," he continued, "life became much more tolerable, with one distinct lack." With his free hand, he caressed her lips with his thumb. "I learned to fence, and I found that skills I had learned in Section were equally valuable in pirating. I had to make sure I never crossed paths with any Section operatives, though. Roberts promoted me to his second in command about a year later. Then, it happened."

He paused for a moment, and Nikita, caught up in his tale and simply hearing the sound of his voice again, urged him to continue. She was surprised to see a smile dancing around his lips. "Roberts had grown so rich, he wanted to retire. He took me to his cabin and told me his secret. ‘You see,’ he said, I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts at all.

"’My name is Ryan. I inherited the ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited it from was not Roberts, either. His name was Cummerbund. The real Roberts has been retired fifteen years and living like a king in Patagonia.’"

"The name is the important thing for inspiring the appropriate fear," Michael said. "No one would surrender to the Dread Pirate Michael, and I couldn’t broadcast my identity. So, we sailed ashore, took on an entirely new crew, and he stayed aboard awhile as first mate, all the while calling me Roberts. Once the crew believed, he left, and I have been Roberts ever since. Now, though, I can pass the ship on to someone else. A ravishing blonde suddenly consorting with the Dread Pirate Roberts would be a bit suspicious."

Nikita, already thoroughly amused by the entire story, pealed with laughter at this last bit of teasing. She rolled off the log upon which she had sat down to listen to Michael, helpless with laughter and joy. Michael smiled, wondering how he had ever managed to live a day without hearing her laugh and seeing her smile. She pulled him down next to her and kissed him senseless.

They stood up and started off again, Nikita still chuckling. She took point this time, leading off through the underbrush. The ground grew drier, less soupy, and they were able to move faster. Nikita was turning around to say something to Michael when the ground dropped out from under her. In the space of a heartbeat, she was gone, only the sand on the ground as a clue to what had happened.

Michael stared where she had been seconds before, then, moving with a speed and grace born of desperation, cut a hank from a nearby vine, took a deep breath, and, holding on to one end of the vine, dove in after Nikita. All was still. Interminable minutes dragged by, and nothing moved. The sand pit was quiet.

***********

It was a lovely day in the fire swamp. A breeze rustled through the lowest canopy, and the distant call of birds could be heard. Small animals chittered in the underbrush, and a R.O.U.S. (Rodent of Unusual Size) ambled by cheerfully. It passed a sand pit and stopped to sniff. It had never seen a vine growing out of one of the lighting sand pits before, but it didn’t waste too much brain power on trying to figure it out. More important was where its next meal would come from. As a giant rat, it wasn’t too picky about the freshness of the meat, so it lumbered off, looking for the nearest, slowest meal.

The sand pit was still quiet. Beneath its peaceful surface, a battle raged. Unlike quicksand, the lightening sand pit killed its victims by suffocation, its fine, powdery sand sucking the body down and seeping into every opening, flooding the lungs. As soon as Nikita found herself beneath the surface, old training kicked in, and she froze, stretching out arms and legs to slow her descent. Not far above, Michael was diving down, one hand wrapped around the vine, the other reaching out for any contact, any brush of skin against skin, anything that wasn’t sand. Then, his vine went taut. If he let go, his chances of finding the vine to haul himself out again were slim, and he could not fight his way out against the weight of the sand. Also, he was running out of air. He reached further, desperately straining to find Nikita. He could imagine her, just out of reach… He let go of the vine and dove down. A hand wrapped firmly around his, and he strained upward, this time searching for the vine and their lifeline.

Then, from the sand pit, a hand emerged. Following it were two heads, one bright as the sunlight, the other dark and warm. Nikita had slung herself over Michael’s back, and he had pulled the two of them up and out. By the time they reached the surface, both were starved for air. They crawled away from the edge of the sand and crumpled, gasping.

They sat up and began brushing each other off. Between coughs, Nikita said, "I think I was right. It would have been easier just to kill ourselves before we ever got this far."

It took Michael a moment to respond. His attention had been captured by the two giant, snarling rats that were positioned in the trees behind Nikita. He refocused on her and shook his head. "Think about it. What are the reputed terrors of the fire swamp? The bursts of flame - easy to avoid. You discovered what the lightening sand pits look like, and we are almost through."

"What about the rumours of the giant rats?" Nikita asked, still uncomfortable.

Michael shook his head again. "I don’t think they exist."

The R.O.U.S. chose that moment to attack.

************

It leapt straight at Michael’s right side, knocking him over and latching claws into his body. Nikita froze for an instant, all her worst childhood nightmares come to life. The rat started gnawing on the arm Michael threw up to protect his throat, and his grunt of surprise jolted Nikita out of her fear. She drew her gun, but the rat and Michael were too closely intertwined for her to risk a shot. It was easily four and a half feet long, and its weight was enough to pin Michael. She flicked her wrist, and the knife in the sheath hidden under her sleeve slid into her hand. She attacked the rat, stabbing it repeatedly. It succeeded in getting the rat off of Michael, but it turned and attacked Nikita instead. She scrambled backwards, but it managed to latch onto her foot. Its teeth sank through the thick leather of her boot and crushed her foot. She writhed furiously, trying to shake it off and quell the familiar panic, but it hung on like a rat terrier attacking a mailman. Meanwhile, Michael picked up a branch and bashed it over the head. It returned to attacking Michael, knocking him down again, then crawling up his body to sink its teeth in the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Nikita tried to drag it off of him, but her injured foot hampered her. The rat tossed its head around, shredding all of Michael’s shoulder. Nearby, the popping sound that preceded a flame burst arose from the ground. With the rat still attached, Michael rolled over to the source of the sound, rat side down. The shock of the flame was enough to get the rat to let go. Michael fell away, and Nikita, almost crying with fear from the hideously familiar smell of burning rat, picked up his forgotten sword and plunged it once, twice, three times into the heart of the rat.

She looked down at Michael, drained. He was bleeding heavily from his ragged shoulder and numerous cuts, and she could not put weight on her mangled foot. Exhausted, injured, and still being chased, the two picked themselves up and continued on. Still, his eyes glowed with a fierce pride for her, for, quite literally, she had killed her greatest fear.

Eventually, the muddy swamp ground gave way to firmer earth, the giant trees dwindled in size, and the sun could be seen again. The first glints of the sea could be seen. Freedom was at hand.

"Now, was that so terrible?" Michael asked Nikita.

Nikita just looked at him, unsure whether she was more surprised by the ridiculousness of the question or the fact that Michael had asked it. Finally, she rewarded him with a brilliant smile.

Their "moment" was broken by the squeal of approaching horses. Humperdinck, Rugen, and the captain of the guard slid to a stop in front of them. Nikita moved to Michael’s injured side automatically, ready to fight. Then she remembered. To Humperdinck, she was not an operative; she was only Princess Nikita.

"Surrender!" The prince boomed.

Michael stood still, loose and confident. "You mean you wish to surrender to me?" he asked coolly. "Very well, I accept."

Humperdinck gave a small smile. "I give you full marks for bravery, but do not make yourself a fool."

"Who is the fool?" Michael countered, unperturbed. "I know the secrets of the Fire Swamp and can survive there for quite some time. Drop by when you want to die."

The bushes rustled, and the rest of Humperdinck’s ambush appeared, guns pointed straight at Michael’s heart.

"Surrender," Humperdinck demanded again.

"Will not happen," Michael bit off.

Drawing his sword, Humperdinck yelled, "For the last time, surrender!"

"Death first." Green eyes blazed.

"Will you promise not to hurt him?" Nikita interrupted.

"What was that?" Humperdinck asked, confused.

"What was that?" Michael asked, shocked.

Nikita ignored Michael. She said to Humperdinck, "If we surrender and I return to you, will you promise not to hurt this man?"

Humperdinck sheathed his sword and said, feeling magnanimous, "May I live a thousand years and never hunt again."

Nikita continued. "He is a sailor on the pirate ship Revenge. Promise you will return him to his ship."

"I swear it will be done." Humperdinck motioned to several of his men to take Michael. Humperdinck turned to Rugen and murmured, "Once we’re out of sight, take him back to Florin and throw him in the Pit of Despair."

Sweetly, the Count said, "I swear it will be done."

Finally Nikita turned to look at Michael. She said, glancing at her hands, "I once thought you were dead, and it almost destroyed me. I could not bear it if you died again, not when I could save you."

Michael heard the truth ring in her voice, but he also saw her hands. In mission shorthand, she signed to him, "Alive. Mission. No closure. Must go. Beware torture." Once Humperdinck had seen her, her chance for escaping Section was over. He would let Madelaine and Operations know she was still alive, and they would hunt her down. She hoped this way Michael could still escape. She also knew they would never return him to his ship and hoped to prepare him.

Humperdinck always insisted on the best, especially in his dungeons. The prince rode by and scooped Nikita up behind him on his horse. Michael’s last sight of Nikita as she rode off was her hands, signing more traditionally, "Love you."

The troop closed around Michael. Nikita still had his gun, and he was severely wounded. There would be no immediate escape.

"Come, sir." The gentle tones of Count Rugen interrupted his musings. "We must get you to your ship."

Pushed forward by men with guns, Michael said, matching the count in nobility and arrogance, "We are men of action. Lies do not become us."

Rugen smiled softly. "Well-spoken, sir." He motioned for a soldier to tie Michael’s hands together. Noticing Michael’s intent gaze at his gloved hand resting on his horse’s neck, Rugen asked, "What is it?"

With the smallest of smiles, Michael said, "You have six fingers on your right hand. Someone is looking for you."

All traces of charm and grace left Rugen’s face. With the pommel of his sword, he knocked Michael unconscious, then threw him over the back of the saddle.

************ Somewhere underground, a door creaked. Emerging from a cramped stairway was an albino, dressed in rags and carrying a tray. He stumbled down another flight of narrow stairs into a room that was once a cave. With no electricity, hundreds of candles lit the room. On the lower level, Michael was lain out on a table, stripped to the waist and strapped down at ankles, wrists, just above the knees, and just above the elbows. The albino set the tray down on a table next to Michael, then picked up a small bowl and rag. He soaked the rag, the gently dabbed at Michael’s ruined shoulder. He was a mouth breather.

Michael stirred. He glanced around muzzily, then asked, "Where am I?"

The albino picked at the sore around his mouth. "You’re in the Pit of Despair," he wheezed, the sibilant words hissing out. "Don’t even think - "He paused, hacking for a moment. Throat clear, he continued in a surprisingly mellow baritone. "Don’t even think about trying to escape. The chains are far too thick. Don’t think about rescue, either. The way in is secret. Only the Count and I know the way in and out." He continued to pat at Michael.

"I am here until I die." It wasn’t really a question.

"Till they kill you, yeah." The albino paused to switch rags. Michael’s shoulder had started bleeding again.

"Why bother curing me?" Section didn’t heal their "guests" unless they were needed for information, and since Humperdinck and Rugen had no idea who he really was, they could not want him for intel.

The albino heaved a long-suffering sigh. "The prince and the count always insist on everyone being healthy before they’re broken."

Michael set his face. "Torture, then." Nikita had been right.

The albino looked at him craftily. "Ahr, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Oh, I can handle torture.’ You survived the Fire Swamp, so you must be very brave." A gleeful look came into his eye, and when he shook his head, his jowls wobbled. "Nobody withstands The Machine."

***********

Nikita, once again bedecked in jewels and finery, paced the halls of the castle. She had gone along with Humperdinck’s story, telling Madelaine only how she had been kidnapped by Vizzini and his companions, only to be kidnapped again by a sailor from the Revenge. When questioned as to why she did not escape, she lied by telling the truth, that she did not want to break her cover. She affirmed that she had never been in any true danger. Since Humperdinck had not made public the details of his confrontation with Nikita’s kidnapper, especially since his wife-to-be had admitted love for another man at that time, she simply didn’t go into great detail about that time. She just said that Humperdinck had swooped her away and that she suspected the man who had taken her from Vizzini was now being tortured somewhere. Madelaine simply smiled and arranged for a fitting for Nikita’s wedding gown.

Today, she was in blue. Her skirts, the same fair color as her eyes, swept the floor. Priceless sapphires that had been in Florinese royal family for generations were buried in the golden depths of her hair. She had never been more beautiful. She had never been more miserable.

As she drooped through one of the back halls, Humperdinck and Rugen nearly ran her over. In a crosshall, the two screeched to a halt as Nikita passed. She never saw them.

Once she was out of earshot, Humperdinck said to Rugen, "She’s been like that ever since the Fire Swamp. It’s my father’s failing health that’s affecting her."

Rugen nodded gently. "Ah, of course."

They walked on.

***********

That night, the old king died. Before the dawn, Humperdinck and Nikita were married. At noon , she met her subjects again, this time as their queen.

Atop his balcony, with a crown as pretentious as he was, the new King Humperdinck spoke to his people. "My father’s final words were, ‘Love her as I loved her, and there will be joy.’ I present to you your queen. Queen Nikita!"

As before, Nikita emerged among the people, radiantly beautiful and this time wearing an elegant crown. Already, its weight settled uneasily against her brow. Again, the people knelt before her.

"Boo!"

The cry came from the middle of the crowd. An old woman, stringy hair falling around a pockmarked face, with rags drooping on her withered frame, fought her way through the kneeling masses. Defiantly upright, she heckled Nikita all the way, until she was jeering in her face.

"Why do you do this?" Nikita was still in somewhat of a shock, the marriage happening so quickly, and now this woman shook her even more.

"Because you had love," the old woman said, as if speaking to a child. "You gave it up."

"I had no choice," Nikita said with difficulty. "Madelaine would have found out if I hadn’t, and we both would have died."

The old woman was aghast. "Your true love lives, and yet you marry another." She turned to the crowd. "True love saved her in the fire swamp, and she treated it like garbage. ‘Cause that’s what she is. Garbage. Slime. Filth. Muck."

With each word she threw out, she drew closer.

Nikita’s attempts to explain the situation, to tell her that she had no choice, were drowned out. "Bow down to her, the queen of refuse. Bow to her, the queen of slime, the queen of filth, the queen of putrescence." She drawled out the words, watching Nikita flinch with each. Loathing filled the woman’s voice, turning each catcall into a deeply personal insult.

"Boo! Boo! Boo!"

************

Nikita awoke with a start.

It was ten days till the wedding; the king still lived, but Nikita’s nightmares were growing steadily worse. While her dreams were bad enough, it was actually her computer that had awoken her. It was Section checking in.

She popped open her laptop and was greeted with Madelaine’s smiling face.

"Good morning," she said sweetly.

"I think you mixed up your time zones, Madelaine," Nikita said fuzzily. "It’s two o’clock in the morning here."

"My apologies." Efficient as always, Madelaine immediately set down to business. "You are to delay the wedding. If that is not possible, you are to ensure that the ship Revenge is in the Florinese harbor by the morning after the wedding." At Nikita’s glance, she elaborated. "Our end game is the capture of the Dread Pirate Roberts. Approximately two weeks ago, not long before your kidnapping, he disappeared. His ship has been docked in a small harbor on the Guilderian coast since then, and we have been unable to infiltrate. We suspect that he was behind your abduction, since you positively ID’d your captor as one of his sailors. We are using you as bait. This may possibly have to do with your connection to Michael. He seems to have fixated on you. Since he has not surfaced, we need to lure him out. Your wedding will be the perfect opportunity to grab him. Delay the wedding, or whatever you need to do to make sure Roberts is there."

"You don’t ask for much, do you, Madelaine," Nikita said dryly.

"Just, follow orders, Nikita, and everything will be fine," Madelaine replied. A feral look entered her eyes, though. "I want to get Michael’s killer as much as you do. Believe me." She signed off.

"Believe me, I do," Nikita muttered. She threw on a robe over her nightgown, then stormed down the cold halls, prepared to do the acting job of her life.

It was late, but Humperdinck was still up. Blonde hair in disarray and big blue eyes full of tears, Nikita burst into his office.

"It comes to this. I love - " she paused, searching for a name. She couldn’t very well say Michael. " - Westley. I always have. I know now I always will. If you say I must marry you, then know I will be dead by morning." She stopped, tears threatening to spill over and pain written in every line of her body.

This gave Humperdinck pause. He knew she didn’t love him and that something odd was going on with her kidnapper, but he hadn’t expected this. He most certainly couldn’t have her dying on him. "I could never cause you grief. So, consider our wedding off." He stood and walked over to Count Rugen, who stood patiently by the fireplace. "You returned this - Westley to his ship?"

Rugen gave a courtly, deferential bow. "Yes, my lord."

Humperdinck shrugged. "Then we will simply alert him!"

He paused, a troubled look crossing his features. "Beloved, are you sure he still wants you? After all, it was you who did the leaving in the fire swamp. Not to mention, pirates are not know to be men of their words."

Nikita held her head up regally and borrowed Michael’s own words. "My Westley will always come for me."

The prince smiled condescendingly. "I suggest a deal. You write four copies of a letter. I will send my four fastest ships, one in each direction. The Dread Pirate Roberts is always close to Florin this time of year. We’ll run up the white flag and deliver your letter. If Westley wants you, bless you both."

His world-famous puppydog look crept into his eyes. "If not, please consider me as an alternative to suicide."

Nikita nodded, pleased that Humperdinck had played right into her hands. He would be more concerned with the letter she was writing than the actual communication she would be doing. She would pull every string, every favor, every connection she had to find Michael, and, thus, the Dread Pirate Roberts.

The next day, Rugen and Humperdinck were strolling deep in the heart of the Thieves’ Forest. "Your princess is really quite a winning creature," Rugen commented to the prince. "A trifle simple, perhaps, but the appeal is undeniable."

Humperdinck smiled smugly. "I know. The people are quite taken with her." He grew reflective. "It’s odd, but when I hired Vizzini to have her murdered on our engagement day, I thought that was clever. It’s going to be so much more moving when I strangle her on our wedding night." He sighed happily. "Once Guilder is blamed, they will be outraged.

They will demand we go to war."

The two nobles shared a conspiratorial grin.

They paused by a tree. Rugen turned to study it. "Now, where is that secret knot?" he muttered gracefully. "It’s impossible to find." Humperdinck looked slightly bored.

Rugen found it, pressed it, and a door opened up in the tree. He started to enter, then turned back to his prince. "Our mystery man, Westley, indeed, has got his strength back. I’m starting him on The Machine tonight. Would you like to watch?"

Humperdinck looked mournful. "You know how much I like watching you work. You see, though, I’ve got my country’s 500th anniversary to plan, a wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped."

Rugen patted him on the shoulder. "Get some rest. If you haven’t got your health, you haven’t got anything." He gave his prince a charming little smile, then descended into the tree.

Humperdinck shivered. That man always gave him the creeps.

**********

The albino wheeled Michael out. He had been there for over a week and had received, for a prisoner, excellent treatment. He recognized the delaying tactics for what they were and simply ignored the apprehension he supposed he should be feeling. The albino never mentioned the Machine again, just simply looked at Michael mournfully. In a detached, professional sort of way, Michael was mildly interested in what this much-vaunted "Machine" would be.

Now, still strapped to his table, Michael sat patiently while the albino placed suction cups over his pulse points and various other strategic locations. There was still enough play in the restraint around his head that he could turn it and see the instrument of his torture.

If he hadn’t been gagged, he would have laughed. A mass of waterwheels, planks, pulleys, and buckets, it looked like something out of Rube Goldberg’s nightmares. He searched vainly for the hamster.

Rugen noticed his interest. He rose gracefully from his desk and went to stand by Michael. "Beautiful, isn’t it," he said fondly. "I’ve spent half a lifetime working on it. I’m sure by now you’ve discerned my deep and abiding interest in pain. At present, I’m writing the definitive work on the subject." He gently removed Michael’s gag. Staring earnestly at him, he said quietly, "I want you to be totally honest with me on how the Machine makes you feel."

He paused, as if expecting some sort of response. Michael gave him one. "I know the perfect woman for you," he said hoarsely. "You two would be quite a pair."

Undisturbed by this apparent non-sequiter, Rugen moved over to his control lever. "This being our first try, I’ll use the lowest setting." He raised the wooden lever, moving a pointer from the ornately inscribed "0" to the even more fanciful "1."

Water came rushing in, funneled into a wooden channel. It poured over the edge, pushing the largest waterwheel into squeaky movement. Gears spun, bellows were pumped. The lines attached to the suction cups on Michael’s body went taut, and that force yanked his body off of the table, only to be caught by the restraints. The skin around the cups at his temples flushed red, then drained to a pale white. His entire body was strained, pulling against itself. Rugen observed this all with a soft smile. The albino looked on, drawn to the scene like drivers to a car accident. When Michael started shaking, Rugen lowered the lever back to zero.

Michael’s body still twitched occasionally, but Rugen ignored this and returned to his desk. "As you know, the concept of suction is centuries old," the count continued conversationally, as if the last five minutes had never happened. "Really, that’s all this is, but instead of sucking water, I’m sucking life." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I’ve just sucked away one year of your life. One day, I might go as high as five, but I really don’t know what that would do to you. Let’s just start with what we have, shall we? What did this do to you? And, remember that this is for posterity, so be honest. How do you feel?" He picked up his pen expectantly.

Michael squeaked.

"Interesting."

Inwardly, Michael smiled. He had been worried that he was out of practice, but resisting torture was somewhat like riding a bicycle, not something one easily forgot. Even before the waterwheel had started turning, he had shut away his mind, completely ignoring his body. Instead, Michael remembered how Nikita would try to talk to him while brushing her teeth, how she would knock her pillow off of the bed in the middle of the night and steal his, how she would cock her head to one side when she was working on paperwork, how she would flash him a crooked half-grin when she pass him in the hall, how her blue, blue eyes would…

Rugen interrupted his thoughts. He missed most of what he had said, but when Rugen stopped, he figured some response would be appropriate. So he squeaked.

Humperdinck was run ragged. Papers were stacked higher that his head around his desk, and there were more on the floor. He supposed weddings were never easy, but a royal wedding in the middle of the country’s half-millennium celebration was a nightmare. He went over the schedule again: parade from 5:30 to 6:00. Speeches from 6:00 to 6:45. Procession to the church 6:45 to 7:15. Fifteen minute break till the wedding at 7:30. Wedding over at 8:15. Journey to the honeymoon suite 8:15 to 8:22. The new Mrs. Prince Humperdinck dies at 8:24. That still left two minutes… A soft cough interrupted Humperdinck’s planning. "Ah, Yellin," Humperdinck said, motioning for the man to come kneel beside his prince. He did so with alacrity, then blushed as he realized he had rested his arm on the prince’s chair.

Humperdinck stared at him scathingly, then leaned in confidentially. "As chief enforcer of all Florin, I trust you with this secret." Yellin puffed out in pride. The prince continued. "Killers from Guilder have infiltrated the Thieves’ Forest and plan to murder my bride on our wedding night."

Yellin was concerned. "My spy network has informed me of no such news."

"Any word from - Westley?" Nikita had been lurking outside the doorway, eavesdropping, but when a servant passed her with an odd look, she had to go in.

Humperdinck and Yellin rose as one. "Too soon, my angel," Humperdinck consoled.

"He will come for me," she said confidently, straining to read the papers on Humperdinck’s desk.

"Of course," he soothed.

She flounced out, then hid herself in the curtain that lined the opposite doorway.

Humperdinck and Yellin sat down again.

"She will not be murdered," Humperdinck said forcefully. "I want the Thieves’ Forest emptied and every inhabitant arrested."

Yellin did not like this. "The thieves will resist. My regular enforcers will not be enough - "

"Form a brute squad then!" Humperdinck snapped. "I want the Thieves’ Forest emptied before I wed."

"It will not be easy, sire," Yellin tried again.

Humperdinck gave a long-suffering sigh. "Try ruling a country sometime."

In the curtain, Nikita silently cursed her own stupidity. It had finally clicked. Humperdinck was the one who wanted her dead, not some mysterious killers from Guilder. He was the one who had hired Vizzini, and since that hadn’t worked, he was probably going to try and kill her himself and frame Guilder. She snickered. It was going to be a pleasure disabusing him of that notion. Sometimes this job does have its perks, she mused. Now, if she could only figure out what to do about Michael, or even where he was, for that matter…

************

The day of the wedding arrived. The brute squad had their hands full carrying out Humperdinck’s orders. Their guns were rendered nearly useless in the dense forest, so most of the thieves were chased down on foot and even a few on horseback. Children ran, women shrieked, men howled, and there were stolen chickens flying around everywhere. It was chaos.

Yellin was more than harried. Driving the last truckload himself, he paused to ask one of his guards, "Is everybody out?"

"Almost." The guard looked as exhausted as Yellin, with a nasty cut over one eyebrow. "There’s a Spaniard who’s giving us some trouble."

Yellin grinned nastily. "Then you give him some trouble."

"I am waiting for you, Vizzini." Inigo was slobberingly drunk. "You tol’ me to go back to the beginning," he paused, trying to focus on the bottle in his hand. Brandy, good. Empty, bad. He tried to remember what he was saying. Oh, the beginning. "I go back. This is where I am, and this is where I will stay. I will no be moved." He thought that he had never leaned against a more comfortable hay bale.

"Ho, there." The guard had found him.

"I will no budge; keep your ho, there," Inigo muttered. He shook the bottle again, hoping he had been wrong that it was empty. He sighed dramatically. Still empty.

"The prince gave orders," the guard said.

Inigo had forgotten about the sword in his other hand until he started lunging at the guard. "Are you Vizzini? You said, when the job went wrong, go back to the beginning. This is where we got the job, so this is the beginning." Even drunk off of his feet, Inigo was enough to startle the guard. "I will wait until Vizzini come."

The guard called, somewhat desperately. "You, brute, come here."

Inigo eased back. "I. Am. Waiting. For. Vizzini."

Two hands nearly as big as Inigo’s head grasped him by the collar and pulled him upright. "You surely are a meanie."

Inigo grabbed one of those hands and put his hand on top of it, trying to focus. Surely he wasn’t that drunk, seeing hands that big. Then he remembered, looking up. A smile broke across his face. "It’s you."

"True." Fezzick casually reached out and knocked the guard away. Turning back to Inigo, he said, "You don’t look so good."

Inigo huffed a breath, insulted. Fezzick winced.

"You don’t smell so good, either."

"Perhaps, no," Inigo shrugged it off. "I feel fine." Fezzick let go of him and clapped him on the back, ready to set off with Inigo at his side again. Inigo wasn’t quite so ready, crumpling to the ground.

The two friends were reunited at last. As Fezzick nursed his inebriated friend back to health, he told Inigo of Vizzini’s death and the existence of Count Rugen, the six-fingered man. Considering Inigo’s lifelong search, he handled the news surprisingly well. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fainted face-first into the nice potato stew Fezzick had fixed for him.

Fezzick took great care in reviving Inigo. Remembering what Vizzini had done, he dunked Inigo headfirst into a bucket of steaming water, then ice cold water. Finally Inigo shook himself free.

"Thas enough; that’s enough!" he cried. Life sprang back into his eyes. "Where is this Rugen, so that I may kill him?"

Fezzick looked despondent. "He’s in the castle, but the castle gate is guarded by thirty men."

Inigo kicked a bucket, frustrated. A calculating look crept into his eyes. "How many could you handle?" he asked Fezzick.

"I don’t think more than ten."

Inigo did some quick math on his fingers. "That leaves…twenty for me. At my best, I could never defeat that many." He sat down, despairing. "I need Vizzini to plan it."

"But Vizzini’s dead," Fezzick reminded him.

"No." Inigo felt brilliant. "Not Vizzini. I need the man in black."

Fezzick was now really confused. Inigo explained. "Look, he bested you with strength. He bested me with steel. He must have outthought Vizzini. A man who can do that, can plan my castle onslaught any day. Let’s go!" Inigo raced out of the cottage.

"Where?" Fezzick still wasn’t sure he understood what was going on.

"To find the man in black, obviously," Inigo called back.

"But we don’t know where he is," Fezzick protested.

Inigo stepped back inside. "Do not bother me with trifles. After twenty years, at last my father’s soul will be at rest." A feral grin crept across his face. "There will be blood tonight!"

*************

Humperdinck was sharpening a knife. Slowly dragging its blade across the whetting stone, he pondered, through the heart or across the throat? He sighed. So many decisions to make. He decided on slitting her throat. It wouldn’t do to rip the gown. But still, the drama of a knife through the heart might well stir the people…

Yellin burst in to kneel before his prince.

"Rise and report," Humperdinck said, putting away the knife for later.

"The Thieves’ Forest is emptied, my lord," he said. "Thirty men guard the castle gate."

"Double it," the prince ordered. "My princess must be safe." He grinned at his little joke.

"The gate has but one key," Yellin said, withdrawing it from his inner pocket. "I carry that."

Nikita cleared her throat from the doorway.

Humperdinck rose, beaming. "Ah, my dulcet darling," he crooned. "Tonight, we marry. Tomorrow, his men - " he gestured towards Yellin " - will escort us to Florin Channel. There, every ship in my waits to accompany us on our honeymoon."

"Every ship but your four fastest," Nikita said, trying to hide her glee. This man was just making it too easy for her. She had just got off the phone with Madelaine, who, in learning it was Humperdinck who was arranging the war with Guilder, gave her authorization to stop the wedding and stop the war. The Dread Pirate Roberts would have to wait.

Humperdinck looked blank, a smile still plastered on his face. "Every ship but the four you sent," Nikita prompted.

"Yes, yes, naturally not those four," Humperdinck said, desperately trying to cover.

Yellin excused himself, seeing the fight brewing from across the room.

"You never sent the ships," Nikita drawled. "Don’t bother lying."

"You are a silly girl." All traces of good humor were gone from the prince’s face.

"Yes, I am a silly girl," Nikita said, her distaste and loathing for this man finally given rein. "For not having seen sooner that you are nothing more than a coward with a heart full of fear."

Slamming down the knife he had been fingering, Humperdinck said softly, "I would not say such things if I were you."

Nikita recalled her cover at the last moment. "Why not?" she said sweetly. "You cannot hurt me. M - Westley and I are joined by the bonds of love. You cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds. You cannot break that, not with a thousand swords. And when I say you are a coward, it is only because you are the slimiest weakling ever to crawl the earth." And I didn’t swear once, she thought, satisfied. Madelaine would be so proud.

Humperdinck stormed around the desk. "I would not say such things if I were you!"

Nikita allowed herself to be carried off, dragged down the hallway, and thrown into her room. It could not have gone better. Then, she looked in the mirror. "Sh*t," she muttered. "Now I have to redo the hair."

Humperdinck slammed the lock home on Nikita’s door and paused for a moment, rage obscuring his vision. Then, a cold, clear fury overtook him. He knew what to do, and who to do it to.

Rugen looked up, startled by the intrusion. Humperdinck ran straight for Michael’s table. Bending over him, he said venomously, "You truly love each other, and so you might have been truly. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the story books say. And so I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you." Michael blinked, prepared.

Rugen cried out, "No! Not to fifty!"

Humperdinck shoved the lever on the Machine to its highest setting.

The carefully crafted image of Nikita that Michael had structured in his mind shattered. His refuge gone, the pain overwhelmed him, blanketing him, swallowing him. And then he screamed.

Humperdinck smiled.

Rugen picked up his pen again, writing furiously.

***********

A scream echoed through the countryside. The sixty men in front of the castle searched for its source, but no one could find it. Nikita, locked in her room and gleefully imagining the ways in which she was going to hurt Humperdinck, paused in her reflections, the haunting scream sounding oddly familiar. In the village, Inigo paused, listening carefully to the scream.

He punched Fezzick in the arm to get his attention. "Do you hear that? That is the sound of ultimate suffering. My heart made that sound when Rugen slaughtered my father. It is the sound the man in black makes now."

"The man in black?" Fezzick wondered if he would ever figure out what was going on.

"His true love weds another tonight," Inigo said, pleased with finally understanding why the man in black was after Nikita. "Who else would have the cause of ultimate suffering?"

Inigo tried to fight his way through the crowd. They were going the wrong way, so they were getting trampled. He tried to be polite, then, "Fezzick, if you please."

Glad to be of help to his friend, Fezzick called out, "Everybody, move!" It was like the parting of the Red Sea. Inigo called back his thanks, running through the opening, hoping to trace the scream before it stopped.

Deep in the forest, the albino wheeled the cart out of the tree. Muttering to himself, he trudged off to the village to get supplies. Inigo’s sword at his throat cut his journey short.

"Where is the man in black?" he demanded.

Silence.

"Fezzick, jog his memory," Inigo instructed. Fezzick tapped the albino gently on the head, or so he thought. The albino dropped like a felled bird.

"Oops, I didn’t mean to jog him that hard." Fezzick looked sheepish, then looked around. "Inigo?"

Inigo was kneeling in the center of the grove, sword drawn and held aloft. "Father," he whispered, "I have failed you for twenty years. Now our misery can end. Somewhere, somewhere nearby, there is a man who can help us. I cannot find him alone." He closed his eyes. "I need you, Father. I need you to guide my sword. Please. Please." Eyes still closed, Inigo rose, following an invisible pull on the end of his sword. Taking small, careful steps, he crossed the grove. Suddenly, he swung in another direction. Fezzick watched in quiet respect for the moment. Walking forward, Inigo swung again. Stepping forward, his sword rammed into a tree.

Inigo looked up, the moment broken. He saw before him a tree. Nothing but a tree. He closed his eyes, shamed that he had failed his father again. He fell against a knot in the tree. The door opened.

Fezzick picked his head up off of Michael’s chest. "He’s dead, " he pronounced.

Inigo sighed. "Well, we Montoyas have never taken defeat easily. Come, bring the body."

"The body?" Fezzick vowed that someday, he was going to be the one to make the plans and know what was going on.

"Have you any money?" Inigo asked.

"A little."

"I just hope it’s enough to buy a miracle."

*************

They trudged through the forest, Inigo leading, hand on swordhilt, then Fezzick, Michael draped casually over his shoulder, cinnamon hair dangling barely to the giant’s waist. They came upon a cottage, and Inigo started banging on the door.

A window slid open, and a wizened head stuck itself out. "What, what?"

"Are you the miracle man who worked for the king for all those years?" Inigo demanded.

"The king’s stinking son fired me, and thank you so much for bringing back such pleasant memories," the old man snarled. "While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour some lemon juice on it? We’re closed!" The little window slid shut.

Inigo started banging again. The window slid open again. "Beat it, or I’ll call the brute squad!"

Fezzick spoke up. "I’m on the brute squad."

The old man eyed him. "You are the brute squad."

"We need a miracle; it’s very important," Inigo implored.

"Look, I’m retired," the old man sighed. "Besides, why would you want someone the king’s stinking son fired? I might kill whoever you’re trying to miracle."

Inigo shrugged. "He’s already dead."

"He is, eh? Bring him in; I’ll take a look."

They laid Michael out on a clear table. Max, for that was the miracle man’s name, puttered around, hemming and hawing. He picked up Michael’s arm and let it go. It dropped. "I’ve seen worse," Max said. He started poking again.

"Sir," Inigo tried. "We’re in a terrible rush."

Max shushed him. "You rush a miracle, you get rotten miracles. How much you got?"

"Sixty-five."

Max whistled. "I never worked for that little - except once, and that was a very noble cause."

"Oh, sir, this is a noble cause!" Inigo teared up. "His wife is crippled, the children on the brink of starvation…"

Max eyed him. "Are you a rotten liar," he chuckled.

Inigo leaned over, in deadly earnest. "He will help me avenge my father, murdered these twenty years."

"Your first story was better." He turned away, looking for something. "He probably owes you money, eh? Well, I’ll ask him."

"He’s dead," Inigo protested.

"Oooo, look who knows so much." He found what he was looking for, a pair of bellows. "It turns out your friend here is only mostly dead. There’s a big difference between ‘mostly dead’ and ‘all dead.’ Please, open his mouth." Max placed the mouth of the bellows between Michael’s lips. As he pumped the bellows, he explained. "Now, ‘mostly dead’ is still slightly alive. ‘All dead,’ well, there’s usually only one thing you can do then: go through clothes for loose change." He set aside the bellows.

He peered down at Michael. "Hey! Hello in there! What’s so important, what do you got here that’s worth living for?" He pressed down on Michael’s chest.

Indistinctly, the words, "True love," escaped Michael’s lips. Max looked up, startled.

"True love." Inigo jumped on it. "You could not ask for a more noble cause than that."

Max looked wistful. "True love is the greatest thing in the world - except for a nice MLT, mutton, lettuce and tomato, when the mutton’s nice and lean and the tomato’s ripe…They’re so perky. I love that." He lost the wistful air. "But that’s not what he said. He distinctly said, "to blave," which we all know means ‘to bluff.’ You all were probably playing cards and he cheated - "

"Liar!" A she-demon flung herself at Max. "Liar!"

"Get back, witch!" Max cried.

"I’m not a witch, I’m your wife," she cried again. "But after what you said, I’m not sure I want to be that anymore."

"You never had it so good," Max said, trying to be quiet.

"True love, Maxie, he said true love!"

"Don’t say another word, Valerie," he said, smiling vainly at his clients.

"He’s afraid," she tried to explain. "After Humperdinck fired him, his confidence’s gone."

"Why’d you say that name?" Max complained. "I told you to never say that name."

"What, Humperdinck?" she taunted him. He ran away, and she chased him, chanting, "Humperdinck, Humperdinck, Humperdiiiinck."

He hummed, he called out, "I’m not listening," but still she persisted.

"Lives are expiring, and you don’t have the decency to say why you won’t help," Valerie cried. Waving his hands around his face, Max tried to flap her away, but still she chanted the prince’s name.

Inigo interrupted. "This is Princess Nikita’s true love. If you save him, he will stop Humperdinck’s wedding."

"Shut up!" Max cried. He turned to Inigo. "I make him better; Humperdinck suffers?"

"Humiliations galore," Inigo assured him.

Max cackled with glee. "*That* is a noble cause. Gimme the sixty-five. I’m on the job." Valerie cheered.

Three hours later, Valerie held the tweezers while Max dabbed at the object that they held.

"That’s a miracle pill?" Inigo asked, highly skeptical.

"The chocolate coating helps it go down easier," Valerie explained. "But, you have to wait fifteen minutes for full potency." Max stuffed the pill in a bag. "And you shouldn’t go swimming for at least an hour."

"A good hour," Max agreed.

Fezzick grabbed Michael, and Inigo grabbed the pill. "Thanks for everything," he called back.

Valerie and Max waved to them from the doorway. "Bye-bye boys," she called after them.

"Have fun storming the castle," Max added.

"Think it’ll work?" Valerie asked quietly.

"It’d take a miracle," Max muttered. "Bye-bye!" he called out again, still waving and smiling.

************

The three conspirators managed to creep onto a parapet on the wall surrounding the castle. Fezzick peered over the edge. "Inigo, that’s a lot more than thirty men," he said, worried.

"Do not worry," Inigo said, trying to arrange Michael into a sitting position. "We’ve got him." He picked up Michael’s head, which immediately lolled to one side. "Here, take him. We’ll have to force-feed him."

"Has it been fifteen minutes?" Fezzick asked.

"We cannot wait." Inigo fussed with the pill. "We must strike in the hustle and bustle beforehand. Here, tilt his head back." Inigo shoved the pill between Michael’s lips.

"How long do we have to wait before we know if the miracle works?" Fezzick wanted to know.

Inigo shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Before he was done speaking, Michael’s eyes popped open.

"I guess not very long," Fezzick chuckled.

"Why won’t my arms move?" Michael asked, apparently totally alert.

"You’ve been mostly dead all day," Fezzick said, glad to finally be the one doing the explaining.

"We had Miracle Max make a pill to bring you back," Inigo finished.

"Who are you? Are we enemies? Where is Nikita?" Michael demanded in quick succesion.

Inigo opened his mouth. "Let me explain." He stopped. "No, let me sum up. Nikita is marrying Humperdinck in little less than half an hour. All we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, grab the princess, and make our escape. After I kill Count Rugen, that is."

"Hm." Michael was his usual expressive self.

Fezzick was fascinated. "You just wiggled your finger. That’s wonderful!"

"I’ve always been a quick healer," Michael said dryly. "What are our liabilities?"

"There is but one working castle gate," Inigo gestured behind the wall, "and it is guarded by sixty men." They tilted Michael back so he could see.

"Our assets?"

Inigo smiled. "Your brains, Fezzick’s strength, and my steel."

"Impossible," Michael said flatly. "If I had a day to plan, maybe, but this?" He shook his head.

"You just shook your head," Fezzick exclaimed. "That doesn’t make you happy?"

Michael rolled his head to look at him. "My brains, his steel, and your strength against sixty armed men, and you think a little head jiggle is supposed to make me happy?"

Fezzick just smiled at him.

"If we only had a wheelbarrow, at least that would be something," Michael muttered.

Inigo looked up. "Fezzick, where did we put that cart that the albino had?"

"By the albino."

Michael fixed a steely glare on Inigo. "Why didn’t you list that among our assets in the first place?" He got a distant look on his face, old operative instincts kicking in. "Now, if we had a holocaust cloak…"

Inigo shook his head. "There, we cannot help you."

Fezzick pulled something out from inside his shirt. "Will this do?"

Inigo looked shocked. "Where did you get that?"

"From Miracle Max," Fezzick said proudly. "It was so nice, I figured I could keep it."

They stood up, Fezzick and Inigo both supporting Michael. "I’ll need a sword or a gun eventually," he continued.

"Why?" Inigo wanted to know. "You can’t even lift one."

"True, but that’s hardly common knowledge."

Michael was having a bit of trouble with his head, and Fezzick had to keep picking it up for him. "We may have trouble once we are in the castle."

"I’ll say," Inigo huffed. "Once we’re in, how do I find the Count? Once I’ve found the Count, how do I find you again? Once I find you again, how do we escape?"

Fezzick turned Michael’s head to face him. "Don’t bother him so much; he’s had a hard day." He turned him back to Inigo.

"Right, right. Sorry," Inigo apologized. Fezzick nodded Michael’s head for him.

"Inigo," Fezzick whispered as they moved off, "I hope we win."

"You don’t seem excited, my little muffet," Humperdinck cooed as he affixed the crown jewels around Nikita’s neck.

"Should I be?" Nikita sounded bored.

"I’m told brides often are."

Nikita was beginning to enjoy the tragic romance of her cover story. "I do not marry tonight. My Westley will save me." She gracefully left the room, not there to see the vicious grin that spread across Humperdinck’s face.

It was dark. The wedding was about to begin, and the guards were restless. Watchfires burning cast eerie shadows across the courtyard. Hidden in the depths of one of those shadows were the three conspirators. Flames flickering across their faces, Inigo and Fezzick silently shook hands. With a bit of effort, Michael flopped his hand on top of theirs. The plotters sealed their plan with a shake.

************

Warning: it gets really crazy from here on out, and if I tried to switch parts every time the scene changed, we'd be here forever. So, hold on to your hats, and I'll do my best. The end is in sight! Also, in order to make the two stories work together, I fear I've create