A/N Hi There! I know this is unusual for me, but I had to write this for a school assignment and well… here I am. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: The characters in here belong to the wonderful William Goldman. Good writer, excellent liar. If you are confused about my disclaimer, just leave it. No, the Princess Bride was not written by S. Morganstern. I know. Trust me.
Inigo Montoya stumbled towards the door, clutching his sword. Black streaked with silver flopped in front of his face, causing the Spanish fencer attempt to brush it out of the way. But the tired Spaniard gave up, sighing as he slipped to the floor. Fighting to get back up, he pushed a scarred hand up to the door, pushing himself against it, struggling. "The son of Domigo Montoya will not be beaten by a wooden doorframe!" he muttered under his breath, and shoved harder, standing finally. His crimson sword slipped out of his hand, and he sank once again to the floor to pick it up. The six-fingered sword lay there innocently on the floor, acting as if it was not the cause of Domigo Montoya's death. Inigo shut his eyes, remembering the day Inigo had finally touched and for a while wielded the majestic blade. Slowly Inigo slid back into memories that had not been brought up for years…
Inigo, the sword maker's son, carefully treaded over to his father, clutching a cup of chicken soup (chicken soup was around then) and a beaker of water to give to him. The heat of the coals in the brazier nearly hurt the young Spaniard, but he tip-toed over to his overwork father, shutting his eyes against the burning heat. He carefully put down the soup and water, tapping his father on the shoulder.
Domigo Montoya whirled around, snapping, "Who's that- it- oh- Inigo! I'm working!"
Inigo shrank back, but murmured, "I brought some food and drink…" Looking up, he added more forcefully, "You need to eat!"
Domigo shrugged and muttered, "I ate yesterday, and slept a little this morning- that's all I need to have the strength to make my magnificent six-fingered sword!" he cried the last few words, making them sound like a royal statement.
And then he fainted.
Inigo hurriedly dragged his father onto a safer place, not so near the coals, and slowly trickled water onto his face. No go. Inigo tried pouring some of the water into his father's mouth- that didn't work. Finally, Inigo had to shout "The six-fingered man is here to receive his sword!"
Domigo shot up, grabbing wildly around him. He caught Inigo by the leg and barked, "Where? Tell him to wait a minute!"
And then he fainted again.
Inigo was about to yell that the sword was melting, but decided that, after all, his father was breathing and sleeping, that he should stay that way. The young Spaniard crept into his father's working room, where the brazier was burning brightly, and lights were reflecting off the still-yet-to-be-finished sword. There's nothing more to do with it but weigh it, checking for perfect balance. He stealthily slid across the room, and touched the six-fingered sword, for he had never before.
It felt keen under his fingers, and even sharper when he breathed on it, creating mist on the steel surface, creating the illusion of a perfect sword. Looking at the hilt, he noticed that it could fit into his hands almost perfectly, as the extra finger needed more room. Inigo's hands were once described as the ideal pair of hands of a swordsman. His acute eyes stared at the sharp blade, and he longed to pick it up and give it a few swings. Inigo touched the hilt, and then jumped back.
Nothing happened. Once again the young boy crept forward, and prodded the hilt. Finally, he worked up the courage to pick it up, and gave it an experimental swing.
It felt wonderful in his hands- it was as if Inigo was a starving man, and the sword was a piece of bread in his hands. Inigo wanted more of the sword. He swung it again, this time twisting his grip so it sang in the air.
Inigo spent about half and hour in his father's workshop, swinging the sword, pretending that enemies were attacking him, fiercely waging battle with the invisible. It's too bad, thought Inigo as he wielded the awesome sword. This will have to go to the six-fingered noble when father is finished. He tried not to dwell on the thought, for the feel of the sword in his hands overpowered the thoughts of where the sword would go and how it would be used.
Suddenly, Inigo heard groaning from the room where he had left Domigo, and quickly left the sword exactly where is had been. He skidded into the room just as his father opened his tired eyes. "What were you doing in there, son?" he asked, eyes suspicious.
Inigo quickly thought up a lie, though it hurt to lie to his precious father. "I was checking the coals, to make sure they are hot enough to heat the six-fingered sword." Nervously twining his fingers about his wrist behind his back, he added, "I was also getting your soup hot, too, because it got cold as you were sleeping. (Yet another lie, Inigo thought. The soup was so hot that it would be a nice warm temperature now.) Father, hold on, I'll bring it to you-"
Domigo sat up, mumbling, "No, I got it, it's fine, the sword is fine-"
"Father, we were talking about soup."
Domigo shook his head. "Yes ,yes, go get, quick, I need to get back to work."
Inigo ran back into the room, quick as a rabbit, and flung himself on the food and drink he had set up. Before leaving the room, he cast one last look at the sword who he had already dedicated his hand.
Inigo leaned against the doorframe, remembering that day. Looking at the sword, he stroked its surface, shimmering in crimson display. Picking up the sword, he trudged out the door.
Suddenly, the hiss of a blade being drawn out of sheath cut the air, and a sharp edge was at Inigo's neck. "So you're the one causing all the trouble," the voice, male, murmured. "I can't have that…"
Inigo simply twisted around, catching the attacker by the shoulder and shoving him down. Adrenaline coursed through him, and the Spaniard kicked the man fiercely, sending him crashing into the chair, the blade twisting around, burying deep into the once-attacker's chest. Inigo gave into weakness and sank into the floor, tired of these small skirmishes that so often came to him.
A large hand rested itself on Inigo's shoulder, and Inigo, with tired black eyes, looked up into his large Turkish friend's face. "Are you hurt?" he asked in his deep, friendly voice.
Inigo struggled to sit up, but Fezzik pushed him down. "I-…I-… I'm fine… but I feel like dirt." Inigo was feeling in a better mood that Fezzik was there, and even started their old rhyming game.
"Come ON!" yelled a voice from the not to far away.
Fezzik pulled Inigo up and put him over his shoulder. "Coming, Vizzini. But Inigo is hurt."
The man outside snorted. "He's healed before, let's go before I rot of boredom."
Fezzik curiously looked at the man, who was closer now. "Can you really rot of boredom?" He asked in his slow voice, along with a slow mind.
Vizzini laughed at the Turk, and turned towards the skinny road which lead into a hills that spread far. "Come, we must follow the Prince's instructions to murder his Princess."
Fezzik was still trying to figure out the retort about rotting. "But…"
Inigo muttered into Fezzik's ear, "Just go… and try not to bump." He feel into a swift sleep, filled with dreams of yelling (yet lovable) fathers, magnificent swords, and soup.
The trio headed towards the hills, unaware that a man in black followed them.