as you wish.
as you wish.
as you wish.
of course you will.
hear this now: i will come for you.
this is true love. you think this happens every day?
can you move at all?
i told you, "i would always come for you." why didn't you wait for me?
death cannot stop true love. all it can do is delay it for a while.
there will never be a need.
ha. your pig fiance is too late. a few more steps and we'll be safe in the fire swamp.
nonsense -- you're only saying that because no one ever has.
it's not that bad. i'm not saying i'd like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely.
instantly forcing buttercup to sit, gathering her flaming hem in his hands, doing his best to suffocate the fire. this isn't all that easy and it causes him a bit of grief, but he does his best to sound as jaunty as before.
well now, that was an adventure.
singed a bit, were you?
well, one thing i will say. the fire swamp certainly does keep you on your toes.
this will all soon be but a happy memory because roberts' ship "revenge" is anchored at the far end. and i, as you know, am roberts.
i myself am often surprised at life's little quirks.
you see, what i told you before about saying "please" was true. it intrigued roberts, as did my descriptions of your beauty.
finally, roberts decided something. he said, "all right, westley, i've never had a valet. you can try it for tonight. i'll most likely kill you in the morning." three years he said that. "good night, westley. good work. sleep well. i'll most likely kill you in the morning." it was a fine time for me. i was learning to fence, to fight, anything anyone would teach me. and roberts and i eventually became friends. and then it happened.
well, roberts had grown so rich, he wanted to retire. so he took me to his cabin and told me his secret. "i am not the dread pirate roberts," he said. "my name is ryan. i inherited this ship from the previous dread pirate roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. the man i inherited it from was not the real dread pirate roberts, either.
his name was cummerbund. the real roberts has been retired fifteen years and living like a king in patagonia." then he explained the name was the important thing for inspiring the necessary fear. you see, no one would surrender to the dread pirate westley.
so we sailed ashore, took on an entirely new crew and he stayed aboard for awhile as first mate, all the time calling me roberts. once the crew believed, he left the ship and i have been roberts ever since. except, now that we're together, i shall retire and hand the name over to someone else. is everything clear to you?
no. no. we have already succeeded.
i mean, what are the three terrors of the fire swamp? one, the flame spurts. no problem. there's a popping sound preceding each, we can avoid that. two, the lightning sand. but you were clever enough to discover what that looks like, so in the future we can avoid that too.
rodents of unusual size? i don't think they exist.
jumping onto its back, and the r.0.u.s. is all over him now, sinking needle teeth into westley's shoulder.
with death close at hand, as a popping sound starts. he tries one desperate move, rolls into the sound --
with the r.0.u.s. pinned under him, and as the beast bursts into flame, it lets go and westley rolls safely free, grabs his sword and exhaustedly stabs the r.0.u.s., which is trying to put itself out.
now, was that so terrible?
you mean you wish to surrender to me? very well, i accept.
ah, but how will you capture us? we know the secrets of the fire swamp. we can live there quite happily for some time. so, whenever you feel like dying, feel free to visit.
it will not happen!
death first!!
whirling to face her.
what was that?
staring after her. rugen watches as his warriors bring westley to him. the count has a heavy sword and he holds it in his hand.
we are men of action. lies do not become us.
you have six fingers on your right hand -- someone was looking for you --
where am i?
then i'm here till i die?
then why bother curing me?
so it's to be torture.
i can cope with torture.
you don't believe me?
he has suction cups on his head now, on his temple, on his heart, his hands and feet. he says nothing, keeps control of himself
and he's lying on the table, and he's only flesh and the chains are metal and thick, but such is his desperation it almost seems he might break them. a terrible sound comes from his throat, an incessant gasping. it keeps on coming as we finally
in anguish so deep it is dizzying. helpless, he cries.
dead by the machine. fezzik leans over him, listening for a heartbeat. then he looks at inigo, shakes his head.
 tr .  oooo .  luv.
i'll beat you both apart. i'll take you both together.
why won't my arms move?
who are you? -- are we enemies? why am i on this wall? -- where's buttercup? --
that doesn't leave much time for dilly dallying.
i've always been a quick healer. what are our liabilities?
and our assets?
absolutely stunned.
that's it? impossible. if i had a month to plan, maybe i could come up with something. but this.
my brains, his steel, and your strength against sixty men, and you think a little head jiggle is supposed to make me happy? i mean, if we only had a wheelbarrow, that would be something.
well, why didn't you list that among our assets in the first place? what i wouldn't give for a holocaust cloak.
all right, all right. come on, help me up.
now, i'll need a sword eventually.
true, but that's hardly common knowledge, is it? thank you. now, there may be problems once we're inside.
not yet.
light him.
fezzik, the portcullis.
give us the gate key.
there's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. it would be a pity to damage yours.
lying on the bed. yellin's sword is beside him. his voice sounds just fine, but he does not move.
gently.
gently!!
what hideous sin have you committed lately?
it never happened.
it never happened.
did you say, "i do"?
then you're not married -- if you didn't say it, you didn't do it -- wouldn't you agree, your highness?
no. to the pain.
i'll explain. and i'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you wart-hog-faced buffoon.
lying there comfortably, his words quiet at first.
it won't be the last. to the pain means the first thing you lose will be your feet, below the ankles, then your hands at the wrists, next your nose.
i wasn't finished -- the next thing you lose will be your left eye, followed by your right --
wrong! your ears you keep, and i'll tell you why --
-- so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish -- every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "dear god, what is that thing?" will echo in your perfect ears.
that is what "to the pain" means. it means i leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
lying there, staring at him.
it's possible, pig -- i might be bluffing -- it's conceivable, you miserable vomitous mass, that i'm only lying here because i lack the strength to stand -- then again, perhaps i have the strength after all.
and now he is standing, sword in fighting position.
have a seat.
speaking to buttercup as humperdinck sits.
tie him up. make it as tight as you like.
i thought he was with you.
in that case --
thank you, but no -- whatever happens to us, i want him to live a long life alone with his cowardice.
have you ever considered piracy? you'd make a wonderful dread pirate roberts.