Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Buttercup always had large wings. This came as no surprise to her, since beautiful people always had larger and more pronounced wings than others, and Buttercup was by far the most beautiful person in her village and surrounding towns, arguably the entire country of Florin. Once she was six, her wings were bigger than all of the other children, and once she was twelve, they were larger than some adults achieved in their entire lifetime. It was a strange thought to come to terms with; already she was more loved, more adored than the blacksmith and the tailor and the town drunk that wandered around town with a song of love on his lips. At twelve years old, Buttercup found that rather hilarious. 

Her parents, on the other hand, were not nearly as well endowed. Their wings were short and close to their bodies, following the curves of their bones and somewhat looking like chicken wings when spread out. The milk farm wasn’t very popular, after all, given its poor products and lazy cows. So their wings were short and thin and raised like hackles as they shot barbs back and forth, back and forth.

Such people, of course, were rather unprepared to manage an almost fully winged toddler and all the destruction that was caused by a poorly managed set of limbs. Her mother must have spent countless hours trying to get Buttercup to sit down and manage her wings, preen them and bind them close to herself, but if Buttercup didn’t have the patience to comb her hair straight she certainly didn’t have the patience to preen her wings. They just got dirty again anyway—all wings that big did. Not that her parents would know. 

When she was a child, Buttercup would sit next to the fire and inspect her feathers, checking on their mottled brown and golden colors, and watch the light bounce off them. Sitting there, colored beautiful by the firelight and glowing from the inside, Buttercup would ask her parents why she was different from the other children. Why did she have larger wings than Cornelia from the village? Why did her mother’s look so much simpler than her own? And her mother would answer with a smile that it was because she was beautiful, because she was adored, because she was incredibly lucky and the love of the village grew in her where it didn’t grow elsewhere. Also, that she and her father loved her very much, and that’s why her wings would have been bigger even if she was born ugly. 

“But you’re ugly and your wings are small,” Buttercup would say simply, head put to the side in that adorable way she had. That never failed to prompt a scowl from her, and her father would try his best to suppress a smile. 

“No, my wings are small because of your father.” She would then glare at the man, who would say that they were bigger than the day the two were married, and her mother would just huff and look away with a bristle of wing movement. And then her father would sigh and sit next to her mother on their small sofa, and her mother would lean on his shoulder, and their wings would touch since they had indeed grown since they were married, and really grew every year, bit by bit. But Buttercup didn’t really care about that and would jump to her feet, bored, and start running around with her wings flapping all over the place, and her parents would have to rush to pick her up before she knocked over a vase again. Sometimes she would jump off the sofa while her wings flapped egregiously as if she was trying to take off, giggling all the way. But she was always too heavy and her wings too short, and her parents always managed to pick her up before she could jump from high enough. 

When she was thirteen, her wings stopped growing. They were still large but did not cover her, not as impressive on her larger size. For anyone else, the lack of growth would be humbling, but Buttercup never cared about how she looked and figured she was loved enough to keep wings bigger than most, so why bother worrying about it? They were awkward now, gangly and strange as the rest of her body, but all girls went through a strange phase before becoming women. Her horse sniffed at them sometimes, but otherwise they proved to mostly be a hindrance for daily chores and riding around in the forest. 

Sometimes, though, she would sit out on the ravine along one of her riding routes and stretch her wings out in front of her. Their mottled brown color would catch in the light and she would look at them with a frown. Was this really all she could be? This smaller size, not even down to her hips when folded? Did she have the potential for something even greater, to be even more loved? 

Because sometimes, sitting out on that cliff and kicking her feet above nothing, watching the birds dip and dive, she longed for them to be bigger. In the light of sunset, she would close her eyes and imagine that they were larger than anything, than anyone’s. That she could stretch out her wings and jump off the cliff like the other winged creatures around her. 

Sometimes, deep down inside, Buttercup wanted to fly so badly it hurt her. 

It was a silly idea. Only those with great, true loves got to fly. It was something of fables, of stories passed through grandmothers and midwives. There hadn’t been a flying man in ages, let alone a woman. But maybe, just maybe, if Buttercup was beautiful enough, enough people would adore her to let her fly. To soar above them and be free, truly free. Away from the expectations of parents and the eyes of leering men and the chores of a dairy farm and the pressure to sit still and be a quiet woman, one easy to marry. Away from cows and people and trees and even horses. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Loved enough to fly, and then she would be away from them all. 

But besides that, Buttercup didn’t care. Wings were wings, and love was love, and if she checked her wings in the mirror everyday, that was just a coincidence. And that was all the thought Buttercup put into wings until she was fourteen, because that’s when the farm boy made the matter much more interesting. 

She had just come back from a ride along the cliffs, wings relaxed against her back, but something was different. Her mother was waiting for her by the stables with her hands together, tapping her foot against the ground. When she dismounted and put her horse safely away, her mother grabbed her hand and all but dragged her to the farm house, chattering in that fussy way she had. Her gray and mottled wings flicked with every rushed word, which was a bit funny. “You’re late,” she rushed, “And we’ve all been waiting for you! How much more small talk can we make, after all?” 

“Why wait? It’s not even dinner time,” Buttercup replied, trying to match her mother’s pace. She dodged a flick of wing movement.

“No, no, not for dinner.” Her mother finally bothered to explain, approaching the back door of the farm house. “Your father found a boy looking for work and he wants to make him our new help around the farm. You know how much he’s been complaining since we let the last one go.” Buttercup drew her wings closer to herself at that. Her mother said that they had fired the man—nearly twenty—because he drank too much in the village, but even Buttercup knew that wasn’t the truth. She had overheard it during one of her parents’ countless arguments. Her mother didn’t like how the man had looked at Buttercup, and so he had to go. Frankly, with how the man stumbled back to the farm drunk with dark eyes, Buttercup didn’t like it either. She would never receive such looks if she could fly. 

Anyway, her mother continued to ramble, fastening the handkerchief that covered her head. “He insists the boy would make for a good worker even though he is young, and I told him I would only consider it if you approve of the little ragabond.” Great, thrown into another argument. In hushed tones now, since they were close to the door, “The boy is an orphan and has no references, bouncing from job to job, and boys like that are always trouble. Why would he think this is a good idea? Never listens to me, I swear…” 

The rant faded when she opened the door, wings stiff and also blocking Buttercup's view through the back door. From behind her mother, she could hear her father’s voice and a new one, young and with a more northern Florinese accent. Wow, he really was a stranger. It wasn’t a bad voice, really. Just strange. New. Buttercup pushed past her mother on the stairs—which wasn’t difficult since she was already taller than the shrimpy woman—and finally entered the farmhouse. 

The stranger was speaking as she entered. “As I told you, I have dealt with cows before and have always done well with them.” Her father sat up as he spotted her, and so the stranger turned towards the back door as he continued his smooth talking. “And despite your concerns, I assure you I’m not easily distra—” 

The words died on the boy’s tongue the moment they locked eyes. Because he was a boy, really; practically the same age as her and already working on farms as a farm hand. How odd was that? Buttercup put her head to the side as she inspected the boy—look, he had pale blonde hair like those that live in the north, where wings weren’t so brown or gray. The boy looked strong too, tall even where he was sitting down at the table. And he had blue eyes, the deepest ocean blue, like sea water before a storm, the ocean before something terrible. 

Buttercup was only able to discover this detail, however, because the boy hadn’t blinked once since they locked eyes. His mouth was still stuck in place from his last words, syllables unspoken as he stared at her; his hand was gripping the table, utterly and completely unable to speak. He started to look a bit pale since he hadn’t taken a single breath in his surprise of her. Just staring, staring. Blue eyes and all. 

But that wasn’t a surprise. Boys were always staring at Buttercup. It was practically formulaic. Any boy with working eyesight would see her, go pale with shock, and then turn into a red, stupid mess as they tried to talk to her. So Buttercup just crossed her arms and waited for the boy to say something, wings spreading out a bit at the motion. 

But the boy’s stormy, terrible eyes wouldn’t leave hers. His mouth clicked shut, his face went red, but he didn’t say anything. Just staring, staring. 

That was a bit odd. Maybe something was wrong with him. She looked away to her father—breaking away from those eyes—and said, “Is this the new farm boy?” 

“If you approve of him.” His eyes flicked to where her mother must have been behind her, “And your mother approves too, of course.” 

Arms still crossed, she raised her eyebrow and looked back to the stranger. Still red and staring. What a weirdo. Even the worst of the boys tried to say something at this point. “Well, he seems fine.” The boy straightened at that, face somehow even redder. “I mean, he said he can work with cows, can’t he? Isn't that all a farm boy is for?” Buttercup tried to wave her hand a bit, wondering if that would break the boy out of his staring. “Hello?” She looked back to her father since this boy was certainly not going to answer her any time soon. “Doesn’t he talk?” 

“He was a moment ago,” the man said with a furrowed brow. 

Buttercup gave the boy a few seconds to respond to the accusation, but—unsurprisingly—he didn’t. This was starting to be a bit uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose you don’t need to talk that much to take care of cows,” she said slowly as if that would make the boy understand her words. Maybe he was just a bit simple. 

“Does that mean you approve?” Her father all but jumped at her words, grinning as his eyes flicked between her and her mother. 

Buttercup could only shrug. “He works with cows and has all his limbs, so he’ll make as good of a farm boy as anyone else.” She was sure in her statement until she looked at the boy again, a realization coming to her. 

The boy didn’t have all of his limbs. Sure, he was strong and tall and tan and blue eyed, but where were his wings? Where was the rest of him? She had simply assumed they were small, but now she was noticing she couldn’t see them at all. 

She looked back to her father, the question on her tongue, but the man answered her before she could say it. “The boy says his wings are beneath his shirt, nothing to worry about.” Said boy stiffened at the mention of them and then finally looked away from Buttercup. Instead, he looked down to the floor, gripping the chair tighter. 

“Suspicious,” her mother mumbled under her breath, but Buttercup could hear. And she didn’t blame her; those who hid their wings were like the villains in the stories she used to hear, the ones who opted out of the silent language of touches and movements, unnerving in their silence. The ones who were so unloved they opted not to show just by how much they had been abandoned by society. And there was no one like that in the nearby towns or villages. At least no one she knew. 

Even to Buttercup, it was a bit strange that no one loved this boy enough to even make his wings visible, worth having outside of a shirt. Maybe he committed terrible crimes, boiled babies alive. Maybe he was just that alone—didn’t her mother say that he was an orphan, hopping from job to job? Plus with his staring habit, it was doubtful he could make many friends. (Somewhere, deep down, Buttercup wondered how a boy as pretty as him didn’t have enough admirers to make them as large as her own.)

His ocean eyes went back to her and Buttercup could only jerk her gaze away. She tried to smooth her feathers—strange how puffy they felt—and crossed her arms again. With an apathetic tone, she said, “Well, unless our cows start flying, that shouldn’t matter. So he should do fine.” To her mother, turning her head away, “Is that all? Can I go back to my horse now?” 

“Are you sure?” Her mothers voice was almost pleading, but Buttercup never cared enough to take sides in her parent’s arguments. 

“As sure as it takes for me to be done with this conversation.” Her mother’s face fell and her father all but cried out in victory. “I’m going back to the barn,” Buttercup said with finality. She turned to go, wings relaxed and pressed to her back so as not to hit her mother, and she locked eyes with the boy one more time. 

Blue eyes on blue. Staring, staring. What colors were his wings, she wondered. It was an embarrassing thought that she quickly pushed away. It didn’t matter, obviously it didn’t matter. She jerked her eyes away and walked out the back door.

Who stared that much? Even the worst boys didn’t do that. He couldn’t even talk. He’s simple for sure, Buttercup concluded. It’ll be a wonder if he can do anything right. She walked out of that house assured with that answer, the world properly in place. And she tried to pretend that she couldn’t feel how his eyes followed her out and away. At least it wasn’t as weird as how the last farm hand had looked at her.

She was determined then. When she could fly, she’d leave his eyes behind like all the others. Freer than anything, the ocean beneath her.

—-

She was not a part of the plan. 

There was always a plan. Westley was very good at making plans. It was one of the reasons he was still alive and thriving and had all of the limbs that mattered. Ever since he left the capital city to look for work in the countryside, young and hungry and desperate to leave the coughing masses, he had determined there would always be a plan and he would always keep himself safe, no matter what. And though it was hard—people were reluctant to hire a twelve year old—he had always pulled off the basics of the plan excellently, wings close to his back and eyes narrowed at potential threats. 

The plan was simple. He had come up with it a few months after he left the orphanage in Florin City, a dirty place stuffed to the brim of other victims of war. Get work, do well at it, and then leave as soon as he had enough money for decent shoes and the slimmest possibility for something else to do. Don’t get attached, don’t piss anyone off, avoid small alleys and big boys with knives, and don’t stick around. 

But though the plan was simple, it took a while for Westley to master it. He had the scars on his wings and sides to prove it, the white spots from disease and abandonment. When he finally was able to catch a ride to the countryside, he had made the mistake of staying too long at a farm with a nice mother and a nice father and three other boys just as desperate to stay there as he was, desperate to have wings that didn’t fester. And they were all older, and Westley wasn’t as fast, and after he stayed there a day past what they thought was appropriate, got just a bit more food than they did, he quickly understood their message. More scars and terrible shoes later, he was on the move again. He picked up another job and left it much quicker, even though the lady at the tavern was nice. Nice didn’t matter if you wanted to survive. Even when your wings start to rot and you become sickly again, at least you’re alive. 

His journey brought him down south, deeper than he ever thought he’d go, and he often caught himself looking out at the coast and wondering why he didn’t just grab the next farmer’s cart to Germany. He knew enough German to get by—his mother had always liked the language—and Westley really, really hated Florin. Hated its root vegetables, hated its inbred countryside, hated its terrible poverty and snotty looks to those who were unloved, hated its fashion for wings in the clothing saloons in towns, hated its close knit families visible from windows outside their homes, hated everything. His dream was just to get away, somewhere far off where he never had to think about Florin ever again. Or be near the trees his father had loved so much. Somewhere far and away and free, where wings didn’t matter and nothing hurt. And maybe Germany was like that.

Yet, despite such a dream, he always shied away from the farmers’ carts. He left German travelers alone, took routes away from a border that marked the new and unknown. Because, even though he hated Florin, he knew it. He knew how to get work, how to watch livestock, how to use festivals to his advantage, how to make flower crowns no one would ever wear. Even if he went from job to job, at least the mountains remained the same. 

Despite its many flaws, Florin was familiar. What gain would there be to go somewhere new? To see new trees? Germany could always wait. Next time. He’d be free next time. Once he had more money, fairer weather, better shoes, healthier wings. Germany wasn’t going anywhere. 

 Following the plan, Westley had rolled into a town close to where she lived and started asking about work. He was calm and polite, and pretended like he didn’t see how people’s eyes darted over to where his wings should have been. Where they had been before his parents were killed and before he had to sew the entrance holes of his shirt shut. Their own wings would move a little—people were so careless with their expressions—and the intent behind their eyes would change. Ah. Someone unloved and unwanted. Sorry, but there’s no work here, try the next tavern. It was fucking annoying. 

So by the time Westley had found her father at the third tavern he tried, he was practically ready to shake his fists at the sky. But her father was humorous and kind, even to a scruffy young orphan boy, and offered him some cheese from his table. Westley turned it down, obviously being polite because he was absolutely hungry, and the man heard his practiced speech about work and what he was good at and if he knew anyone who needed a farm boy or a sheep herder or even someone to throw away trash behind a tavern. And when her father had mentioned that he was looking for someone to work at his farm, Westley had all but jumped at the opportunity. He had picked up a skill on making people convinced towards his side of an argument, and so even though her father seemed hesitant, they were quickly walking to the dairy farm and he was explaining all the chores that needed to be done. And Westley was nodding along and saying that his wife was being unreasonable and that he was totally right to buy those blankets, and how much would he be paid again? 

The job itself seemed like a stroke of luck, a beacon of hope. Easy work—cows had always liked him—with decent pay and his own place to sleep in? What kind of brain dead idiot had screwed it up before him? I’m not going to be making that kind of mistake, Westley thought to himself with utter confidence, and he entered the house still talking and chattering away. The plan was simple. The plan was in motion. 

And then she walked in. 

Westley had seen many girls. In the capital city, there were a lot of them. In the countryside, there were less, but still a decent amount. He never had the courage to talk to any of them, keeping his sharp words for the boys and sneering men, but they were around. They liked to look at him, and sometimes—before he mastered his plan—he felt his wings grow at night, smiling to himself a bit. They never grew enough to undo his shirts, but it was nice. Westley knew what girls looked like. Passed them by, left them behind. Girls were easy. 

But Buttercup was not a girl. 

She was obviously female—his teenage brain picked up on all the features indicating that—but she didn’t look like any girl he had ever seen. Her hair was the color of autumn leaves, somehow a million all at once but gold in the light. Her eyes were crystal blue, like rocks he had seen in the best parts of town, the ones he was always chased out of. Her skin was the color of wintry cream and perfect—nary a blemish—and her cheeks were rosy and her figure perfect and her lashes long and her face symmetrical and her lips red and Westley probably could go on forever and ever, that’s how beautiful she was. 

But her wings! It was her wings that were the most surprising of all. Westley had never seen any girl with such wings. They were huge, almost up to her hips when folded, and they were colorful and mottled and sprinkled with white and brown and gold and she was so utterly loved. So admired by everyone, so above them. There was no mark of disease or misuse or grief like his; she was untouched by everything but adoration. When he saw her wings, when he saw her move them and how they caught in the light, he knew he wasn’t looking at a girl. 

Buttercup was an angel. Angels were beautiful and perfect and had the biggest wings of all, and now he had met one. Sure, angels were supposed to have white wings like the ones shown by royalty—chosen by god and pure of color or blemish. Her wings were the exact opposite of that royal idea, but she seemed like an angel anyway. A new one, and he had managed to meet her. When he saw her walk out of the back door, unable to take his eyes off her for a moment, that was what he was thinking. Not about the plan, not about money or some cheese he could try to manipulate his way into his hands, but her. That he could finally die because he met an angel. 

He was so brain dead by the sight of her, numb and thinking about the wealth of her eyes, that he could barely negotiate himself into the job after she left. Her mother put up quite the fight, trying to spite her husband as much as he wanted to spite her, but he managed to land himself work for a year. Longer than he was used to, but this job was easy and would keep him fed and he’d leave after that anyway. The tour around the farm was simple enough and meeting the cows went over well, and though his new place to sleep was rather messy and smelled like animal manure, it still had a functional roof. Westley was already having a good feeling about this job, a feeling that was made even stronger when they went to the barn. Because she was there. 

Well, she was leaving. Having spent time with her horse, which her father said she did often. 

“She loves to ride that nasty creature everywhere, so you’ll probably be taking care of it more than anything else on this farm,” he said, shaking his head and walking towards the barn. 

Westley had regained the power of speech by that point, and said, “I’ve always done well with horses, even more than cows, so I’m sure I won’t mind.” Especially if it was her horse. That meant he would see her all the time, didn’t it? Just the thought of that made his pulse jump. 

“You say that now, but wait until you try to brush him. Horse can be incredibly fickle.” 

“Horse?” 

“Oh, that’s his name.” Smiling a bit, “Buttercup named him as a child, and that’s the way it stayed.” 

Horse. Buttercup had named her horse, Horse. That was so adorable. She was so adorable. No wonder she had such big wings. 

Her father started again, as they were close to the barn now. “Anyway, the barn will have to be—” 

Westley stopped listening then because that was the moment Buttercup left the barn, brushing some hay off her dress in a way that was just wonderful to watch. The moment he laid eyes on her again, he didn’t know how he survived the brief moment of time she had spent away from him. It was like drinking cold water after working all day, seeing her. He had only known her for about three hours yet he wanted to look at her more than anything else in the world. How was an angel like her even born from someone as wrinkled and shrimpy as the man next to him? (And his wife, if he was being perfectly honest.) They must be the reason for her colored wings, because she was clearly an angel from the poetry he had always strained to hear outside church gates. Look, her autumn hair was moving in the wind, her pale skin shining in the sun, and Westley felt different than he ever had before, looking at her. 

And yes, Westley knew, somewhere in the back reaches of his brain, that he was being completely irrational and idiotic. Normally, Westley was a very rational and smart person, not this light headed and poetry obsessed fool. The type his father would have slapped on the back of the head and called ridiculous. He had a plan, after all. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to look at her. 

She finally noticed that they were there, looking up from her dress, and smiled slightly at seeing her father. (Oh, her smile! She was radiant when she smiled.) And then, against all reason in the world, her eyes went to him. And they were so beautiful. Even when she looked away, he couldn’t stop admiring them. Will she smile at me, he thought. When will she smile at me? 

“Hello, Father,” she said, like a complete angel, the greatest poet. And then her eyes went to him again, making his heart beat faster than that time he was cornered in an alley without a weapon. No smile, but she was still brilliant. “And the farm boy.” Back to her father, “I suppose that means Mother said yes.” 

“You bet,” the older man said with a grin, wings moving a bit in victory. He smiled much more than his daughter. 

“Great.” Did that mean she wanted him here, that she thought he was worth having? Her wings moved as a sigh went through her, looking utterly annoyed. It was a strange look for an angel. Was she annoyed a lot? 

In a more irritated tone, she said, “You know this means she’s going to badger me as soon as I get back to the house, right? Wondering why I didn’t take her side in this stupid argument.” 

“She wasn’t in that bad of a mood when we left,” her father lied, because she absolutely was. 

Crossing her perfect, wintry cream arms, she said, “Mother’s probably going to make me sweep up the whole house and start on dinner, all on my own. Do you think I have time for that, Father?” 

“What else do you have to do today?” 

“I don’t know, something better with my life? I suppose you wouldn’t understand.” Her eyes narrowed, that expression of annoyance only growing, and Westley was starting to think it was a permanent look on her. It was still beautiful, but a bit baffling to see. 

Crystal eyes moving as his expression changed, she finally spoke to him. Though she sounded much more annoyed than when she had first done so, back in the farm house. Irritation clear, she said, “I don’t know what you’re so confused about, Farm Boy.” Farm Boy? Where did that come from? Didn’t she know his name? Westley would love to hear her say his name, so where did this Farm Boy nonsense come from? “You’re the reason I’m in this stupid, irritating mess.” 

Now that was just a completely illogical connection. Even his numb self could understand that. Her parents clearly had a rocky and strange relationship that bordered on sadism, so they would have gotten into an argument about him no matter what he did. Westley was completely innocent in this matter as far as Buttercup knew. Why did she look so annoyed at him? He hadn’t done anything to offend her. He was so sure he hadn’t done anything to offend her. 

Westley was used to people being annoyed with him, could brush it off easily. But he didn’t want an angel thinking that. She didn’t even know him yet. 

“You already approved of him,” her father said quickly, making sure to keep himself in the clear. “You can’t take it back, no matter what you say to your mother.” 

That’s right, she approved of him. She wanted him here, didn’t she? Didn’t she say so? He felt like a desperate puppy, how he was looking at her then. Wondering why he was suddenly illogical and wanted Buttercup to smile at him so badly. 

“Oh, please.” Her eyes darted to him and back, her wings ruffling a bit—that meant she was emotional about something. About him. Still annoyed, “Approval is a strong word. I just hate to be in the middle of you and Mother’s arguments. I mean, look at him.” She gestured in his general direction, her ire sharp and degrading. What was she— “He’s clearly not the brightest boy you could have picked off the streets.” 

“Buttercup!“ her father said in surprise, but that didn’t stop her. With his heart freezing in place, no longer filling him with lightheaded joy, he realized that she wasn’t going to stop. 

“What, it’s true. Though I suppose he is a boy, so it’s an uphill battle to begin with. And it’s not like you need to be smart to be a farm boy anyway.” Her crystal eyes were back to him, eyes blank in total apathy. “It’s the inconvenience of it all that matters. My day is going to be worse because of idiotic behavior, and I think I have a right to complain about that.” 

“Yes, but—”

“But what?” Her father stopped talking, just sighing instead. Did he always let her walk all over him? Did she walk over everyone? Why would an angel say such things? How could anyone so adored say this to him?

Her apathy broke, almost in a practiced way. Annoyed with him again, she said, “If you two are going into the barn, make sure to leave Horse alone. He’s in a mood and I don’t want you to make it worse. Got that, Farm Boy?” Her voice was sharp like she wanted to break something, intentionally trying to provoke him. It had taken him a while to catch it, but Westley had been prodded at enough times to know when someone was trying to make him upset. Buttercup wasn’t going to succeed. She wasn’t. 

So Westley didn’t respond, just staring at her. Not able to take his eyes away even when she was like this, hating him. And he hadn’t even done anything to offend her. 

Was it him? Was it just who he was? Did she look to the empty spots behind him where his wings should have been? Did her eyes glaze over as she decided he wasn’t good enough, that he was unwanted? Why even bother with this idiocy talk then, why not just ignore him and be done with it? It was so unfair. Angels were supposed to be nice, weren’t they? And he hadn’t done anything to her. How could someone so unique be like everyone else?

Lost in his thoughts and feeling an ache in his chest, he had taken too long to respond. Her eyes narrowed with more hate, something strange behind it. “Well, I have to go be yelled at by Mother. Have fun in the barn.” She looked almost miffed, but her annoyance and hatred for the world was so strong that it was impossible to tell for sure. And so the most beautiful person he had ever met walked quickly past them, though he noticed how she grazed her father with her wings as she did so—as all family did. 

To him, however, she just muttered under her breath, “Idiot.” And then walked to the farm house, Westley watching her go. 

“I’m sorry about her,” the man next to him suddenly said, and it almost jolted him back to reality. Westley looked at her father with a dazed, unconnected type of expression, trying to collect himself from the vulnerable and strange place he had come back from. Trying to put his guard back up. Continuing, her father said, “She can be a bit of a handful, as all teenage girls are.” 

But she’s not a girl, Westley could only think. She’s not a girl at all. 

“In any case, I'm sure she won’t bother you. You’ll be working too much for that to happen.” For some reason, Westley found himself not believing the man. “Now, back to the barn—” 

He trailed on and on, starting to walk towards the structure. Westley took the step to follow him, looking away from where she had disappeared from view. 

His mind was racing now. What had that been about? How could she have disliked him so much already? How many people loved her, did she already have a sweetheart? Why in the world didn’t she just say his name? Would it kill her to say a single nice word to someone she just met? Why did she think he was an idiot? Why, even after she had insulted and demeaned him, did he want to see her again? More than anything in his life. Maybe even more than Germany. 

“Westley?” her father said suddenly, jolting him back to reality. “Did you hear that? Or were you distracted?” 

“I wasn’t, sir,” the boy lied, nodding his head. “Continue on.” And thought of Buttercup some more when he did. 

That was the last time he saw her that day. He went around the farm, became familiar with all of his new chores, met the cows again—normal work things. It passed by in a daze, almost, as he tried to come to terms with what had happened that morning and how he was feeling. At night, her father opened the back door and handed him some stew for dinner. The light from the house poured past his silhouette, so he couldn’t see her then. But he heard her. That voice that had called him an idiot and left him wanting more. For some stupid, infuriating reason. 

He went to his hovel after eating dinner on a stump he found around the back of the house, and tried to clean the building in the little amount of sunlight he had left. The structure wasn’t in bad shape, though the last farm hand had left it messy and in disarray. No matter, he could fix it. Just because he was by the animals didn’t mean he had to live like one. 

Westley lay down on his new cot, nose wrinkling since it stunk of booze, and went over what had happened that day. It was a daily habit that helped keep his mind clear, his wits sharp, and he definitely needed that right now. 

Part of the plan was completed. Westley now had a roof over his head and a belly somewhat full of what had been a passable attempt at food. A great step up from where he had been the previous night, that’s for sure. The work didn’t look to be that bad, and his new employer wasn’t cruel like the last one. The man even seemed to be a bit soft-hearted, if small-winged, and Westley could surely use that to his advantage in the future. Horse was indeed a pain, but all animals were easy to deal with eventually. The cows were fine, the fence posts needed to be fixed, the hovel needed to be scrubbed of booze, he needed to clean his wings and the spot between them, and so on and so forth until he arrived on one last thing to think about. Maybe the only thing that mattered. 

Buttercup. How to feel about Buttercup. He hadn’t even known her for a day and already he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop staring at his new hovel roof and seeing some of the colors that were along her wings. But he had to force logic into it, even if Buttercup was completely illogical. 

She was the beautiful daughter of the farmer he now worked for. She was fourteen—basically the same age as him, how lucky was that?—and liked to ride her horse, Horse. She had large wings, significantly larger than her parents, which meant she was either very loved by her parents, her community, or one person in particular—the worst possible option. She was spiteful and easy to anger, and so she often let those emotions loose on other people when she felt annoyed. Simple. Logical. 

Closing his eyes, he remembered how she was when he first met her. Her eyes kept meeting his and staying there, didn’t they? Did that mean she liked his eyes? Oh, and her wings had ruffled and moved a little when she looked away, so that must mean he made her feel something. Didn’t she say he’d make a decent worker? Was she feeling something about that, or was it his eyes that made her feel? 

Westley took a breath and opened his eyes, trying to calm his heart again. This wasn’t what he was supposed to think about. Wondering if how he was feeling would make her wings grow, new feathers glistening because of how fast his heart was beating at the thought of her. 

No. No, no, no. Snap out of it. Logic out of this. He was a logical person. He had to be. He was a survivor, he wasn’t going to stay. He wasn’t going to get attached over this year, wasn’t going to stick around. He heard it in his father’s voice, the one that told him to work and pay attention. Some farmer’s daughters were just beautiful. It wasn’t worth being all worked up over. He knew that, didn’t he know that? It wasn’t like he loved her or anything. God, he just met her. 

He just met an angel. 

Whatever. Stuff from churches and legends, stories to entertain himself on the road, keeping him from work. Carefully, very carefully, Westley bundled up everything he was feeling and put it into a box, something organized and neat and far away from anything he actually cared about. And, sitting there in the dark, trying not to be drunk, he made himself admit it. 

Buttercup was a girl. She was just like everyone else. Buttercup was a girl that he wasn’t going to see again in a year. And one that was cruel and irritating and demeaning and completely annoying. She would probably make this whole year just awful for him. A girl. A girl, a girl.

Unconvinced, Westley closed his eyes and let himself sleep. If he was waiting for an ache in his wings to keep him awake, it didn’t come. The world went black. The plan continued without her. 

—-

 Buttercup soon learned that despite a hefty argument from her mother, the boy would become a part of farm life. Staying there for a year, imagine that? She would have to deal with him and his eyes for a whole year. Her father was convinced he could make him stay longer, probably just to spite her mother, but that was dependent on how well he could work. If he could work at all, with a staring habit like that. 

 As he was now working on the farm, Buttercup named him Farm Boy appropriately. However, Farm Boy was indeed simple, and Buttercup quickly found herself convinced of his complete idiocy. Sure, he was tall and strong, but he was as mute as a doorknob the moment she came within eyesight, completely without thought. And sometimes he would be so focused on staring at her that he’d step on a rake or Horse would kick his legs—what kind of an idiot did that? It was rather irritating, really. Someone had to tell him how to do everything right, how to brush Horse’s mane and feed the cows and check the fence posts and clean the cowshed. That duty, sadly, fell onto Buttercup, and so she often found herself forced to be around Farm Boy, even if his lack of wings was unnerving.

She would order him around and make sure everything was done right, often taunting him while she did so. How else would the idiot learn? She’d see Farm Boy working and roll her eyes from atop the fence a ways away, calling him a dullard; who didn’t know how to fix a fence post? And if that made him look at her, well, that was just an unfortunate side effect. And if she was forced to spend time with him every day, hovering over his shoulder, that was an unfortunate side effect too.  

At least he was obedient; it was one of his few noteworthy qualities. Buttercup would tell him to do something and he would do it. “As you wish,” was all he said, short and simple, and then he’d walk away to his next task. She would demand that he brush Horse's mane and he would respond to her like she was royalty, nodding his head and doing it without argument. Even if he was busy, even if it was strange and Buttercup thought of it on the spot. Farm Boy would say, “As you wish,” and it would be done. What a weirdo, right? Who did that? Whenever he’d say those words, they would lock eyes and her feathers would ruffle a little, and she would have to dart her gaze away. Ocean eyes. Staring, staring. 

What Buttercup found much more interesting than work or fence posts or blue eyes were the boy’s wings. She would see the outline of them often while he was working. It was clear that they were indeed small, but somehow that didn’t soothe her curiosity. Why hide them? What color were they? It was rather rude to keep such answers from her, really. But Farm Boy was rude and idiotic, so that wasn’t surprising. 

Her curiosity and constant hovering eventually bore fruit, however. It was after a month of bothering the farm boy, persistent and cruel. It was close to the afternoon, the summer sun beating down on everything, and Buttercup was walking over to the cowshed trying to plan out her taunting for the day. The previous day she had called the boy a simple minded northern ragabond, and that had caused the farm boy to actually roll his eyes at her. See how rude he was! Obviously today would have to be worse than usual. She was close to the cowshed, strategy almost in place, when she saw something that completely threw it in disarray. 

Farm Boy was shirtless. By the cowshed and shirtless. It made sense, since it was so hot outside, but it made her stop dead in her tracks anyway. Her mouth opened a little and she could feel her heart beating faster; Farm Boy looked different without his shirt on. Tall, strong, tan, focused. Her heart was so loud then, seeing him. She couldn’t move, just staring, and so she was in a perfect position to see what happened next. 

The boy hadn’t seen her, focused on his work, and so he turned toward the cowshed and put his back to her. 

And his wings were visible. 

This weird, scruffy, blue-eyed farm boy had wings, he really did. And they were black and spotted with white, but Buttercup couldn’t focus on that at all. 

Because Farm Boy’s wings were horrible, worse than anything she had ever seen. They were more severe than even the one widow in the village whose husband died in the last war with the neighboring country, Guilder. Far from natural white, his wings were pale from disease and misuse, red scars going all the way to the tips as if they never healed at all. Even the natural black color looked harsh, as if grief had darkened them like they did to the drunks outside the tavern at night. In just a glance, Buttercup knew his wings hadn’t been cared for in a long time by anyone but himself; no mother had forced him still as she preened and put rose-smelling oils on growing feathers. Sure, they looked as best as they could from just one person taking care of them, but no one was supposed to be loved alone. Could he even move them? 

His wings were scarred. His wings were horrible. What had happened to him? 

Maybe Buttercup breathed too loud. Maybe Farm Boy had eyes on the back of his head. Either way, he finally looked away from the cowshed and glanced behind him, freezing when he saw her. They just stood there, blue eyes on one another. Her autumn hair moved in the wind and her large wings tensed on her back. His didn’t move at all. 

Farm Boy reacted first. He set into a guarded expression that seemed practiced, turning to face her completely. His hand was tight on the rake he was holding and he glared at her as if daring her to say something. Glaring and mute, jaw set and eyes intense. He knew her taunting. He was ready for the worst. 

However, Buttercup didn’t say anything about those wings she had spent so long trying to get a peek at. The ones so horrible and lonely. Instead, she tensed up and went red. Her mouth opened and closed before she finally said, “Horse. I’m looking for Horse. Do you know where he is?” Her eyes went to the ground and back. “Very important business. Need to find him.” She was trying very, very hard to look at the ground and nowhere else, but he didn’t have a shirt on and it was very difficult. 

Farm Boy raised an eyebrow but pointed towards the pastures. Obviously Horse would be there, he seemed to say. Buttercup somehow became even more red and jerked her eyes away, walking off as fast as she could. She could feel his eyes on her as she retreated, and she wished she could fly far, far away from him. From him and the wings that made her feel so strange. 

That afternoon, she rode Horse out to the cliffs as she always did. She sat down on the edge she liked and saw the birds, how they swooped and dove, and thought to herself. It was rather sad that some people didn’t even have the hope of ever flying, she thought. She had the dream, she had the possibility. Her wings were growing and they were practically to her hips now. Angelic, mottled and perfect. She was so adored that her wings were filled with all colors, even some black spots, though brown and white continued to be the most dominant. They could be capable of flight someday, she knew. But how sad would it be to never even have the dream of it? 

She watched a bird dive again and brought her hands together. Perhaps, she thought to herself, when I come down from the sky, I’ll tell him what it’s like. That way he can know. Even if he’ll never be able to fly. Even if no one will ever love him enough. He’ll know and that’s practically like flying, isn’t it? Freer than anything. 

When she came back from the cliffs, she helped her mother set up dinner with those thoughts rattling in her head. And so, ever impatient, she couldn’t help but interrupt her mother’s rambling. 

“Mother,” she said suddenly, making her mother’s gaze leave the stew she was currently stirring. “How do wings become scarred?” 

“Scarred?” her mother echoed. Brow furrowing with thought, “What brought this on?” 

“I'm just curious.” Buttercup focused back on the carrots she was cutting, autumn curls in her vision. 

Her mother looked at her strangely before shaking her head. “Well, wings become scarred when they cannot heal. When they are broken and there isn’t enough love to repair them.” 

“Is that the only reason?” 

“It’s close to it,” her mother said simply. “Your wings are a manifestation of who you are. They change when your love changes, they grow as your love grows. When someone’s love dies, or they die, your wings change as well. If you’re particularly unlucky, if you experience a pain deep enough, that can manifest as much physically as it does emotionally.” Her mother looked back at the stew, face set. Quieter, “When your grandmother died, my wings stopped growing completely. In fact, they shrunk a little, wrinkled up. If someone had cut them, I’m sure they would have stayed scarred. I was lucky enough to not catch a wing disease, but my colors did change. Her loss hurt me not just through my grief, but with the absence of her love.”

The girl flinched at that; her grandmother was always a sore subject. She couldn’t imagine the pain that must have come with her mother’s wings becoming smaller, the loss made physical. She wasn’t there for the actual event, but she saw the aftermath. The way her father quietly cared for her mother’s wings, the oils and grieving expressions. Finally, she asked, “Could the scars ever heal? Can wings ever grow back?” Buttercup had completely stopped chopping the carrots, her pale fingers still. Could the farm boy ever fly?  

Thoughtfully, her mother said, “Perhaps. If they are loved and healthy enough, they could heal into something new. My wings became larger once I had you, so I know they can at least grow.” Her mother smiled at her, something soft there, and Buttercup looked back at the carrots. However, her mother kept talking. “Diseases of love can be treated just like any other, that’s why there are so many salesmen when we go to town. But damage never really goes away. Especially where love is concerned.” 

“How depressing.” 

“You were the one who wanted to know,” she said with a smile, befuddled as always, and she looked back at the stew. “Don’t worry, Buttercup. I’m sure nothing of the sort will happen to you.” 

Obviously. Buttercup was too beautiful for that to happen. People would always love her. But some people weren’t so lucky, were they? The girl gripped onto her knife and began cutting again, pushing black and white feathers out of her mind. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Some wings were scarred and some people were alone. That’s just how it was. No one ever got to fly anyway. 

That night, when she gave the farm boy his dinner, she couldn’t meet his eyes. His shirt was on and his wings weren’t visible, but she felt her own wings press against her back. She wasn’t trying to hide them. She just didn’t want them out at that moment. The farm boy grabbed his stew with a guarded look, staring at her like always, and Buttercup looked away fast. The back door shut with a click and something new resolved in her, a decision she couldn’t name but knew happened. She walked back to the dinner table and ate stew with her family, eyes not leaving the carrots. Staring and staring.

—-

Buttercup was an absolute demon. 

Those were the other creatures he had heard about as he hovered by chapels and storytellers. Some demons were born nasty, horrible creatures and rose through the bottom of the Earth to cause cruelty and temptation. Some of them were fallen angels, once perfect but made into cruel mirrors of themselves by falling to evil, wings stained new colors than the holy white. And that was just like Buttercup. Beautiful, full of temptations, and with a million colors. Also evil, ridiculous, and infuriating.

Once Westley started working at the dairy farm, he quickly realized that the angel he saw the first day was an illusion, and it was actually a demon there in her place. One that was intent on bothering him daily, prodding at his patience, sneering at all his mistakes. For some reason, she found utter fascination with his incompetence at some tasks, and just refused to leave him alone for significant portions of the day. Didn’t she have her own chores? Didn’t she have something better to do than to call him a dullard and look at her perfect fingernails? It was so infuriating because usually he was the most competent person on any job, never making any mistakes worth taunting about. Yet whenever she was around, they were suddenly abundant and easy to pick up on. On his second day there, he had been so distracted that he stepped on a rake and smacked himself in the head, which made Buttercup stare at him like the absolute idiot she thought he was. It wasn’t fair, he thought to himself while putting the rake back in its proper place. She was going to think he was an utter loser. And he wasn’t! 

It was very clear to him by that second day that he hated her. It explained everything. The way he couldn’t stop thinking about her, the way her visage accompanied him even when he closed his eyes, the way his heart beat fast whenever she was nearby, the way he was constantly waiting for her to show up to bother him, the way he tried desperately to do better so she wouldn’t taunt him so much. It was all proof of a deep, profound hatred, and Westley made sure to keep any thoughts to the contrary in a tight box where they could never escape and ruin his perfectly solid line of thinking. He was hated by a demon, and he hated her back. It was just something to deal with until the year was over.

And that’s how his hellish year began, spring days filled with demons and farmers who kept trying to make small talk despite how clearly obvious it was that Westley didn’t like talking. He hated Buttercup in a completely normal if passionate way, while also doing his best to ignore her. Whenever she was around, he tried to not bother her or let out any of the million thoughts of rebuttal that were always buzzing in his head, and made sure just to do what she said to avoid confrontation. It was clear that her parents adored her—who wouldn’t?—and that any move he made to piss her off would send him packing quicker than anything he could say in his defense. So when she was around, Westley made sure just to nod his head and do what she said in order to make her go away, even though part of him ached when he stopped seeing her. He just said, “As you wish,” and stopped what he was doing to clean Horse’s saddle or hold open the door or fetch water from the well or straighten up the fence posts or— 

That wasn’t the real reason. If he was honest with himself, really thought about it, he knew why he always did what she said, and it had nothing to do with her parents. When she came near him, his brain just shut off and she became all he could think about, cruelty or no. And when she ordered him to do something, she would look at him, and then his heart would beat fast and his breath would catch and he would do anything to keep feeling like how he did then. Like what he did mattered in any way in the grand scheme of the universe. If he did what she said, it meant that she noticed he was there. That she would keep looking at him. And so words that he had always used to seem polite and humble and easy to leave alone started to feel like something else. They would lock eyes and she would always look surprised by how smoothly he followed her orders, just a bit. And her wings would ruffle a little—she had such poor control over them—and she would have to blink for a few seconds to return to her cruelty, and those moments were worth more than gold to him. If his wings were willing to move, if he didn’t have such strong control over them, he knew they would be ruffling then too. To know he caught her off guard, that he made her feel. That he wasn’t just some tool to order around, but a person who could make someone like her feel something, anything. 

That was the real reason. But Westley didn’t like to think about that. He didn’t like to think about the complete lack of logic and thinking that was going on at that farm, and so he stuck to his other reasons and pushed everything he didn’t like away and into boxes, easy to manage. Easy to think about at night in that new hovel of his. Buttercup was a demon, intent on making his life miserable, and that’s as far as Westley liked to think about her in any capacity. 

But there were moments—moments!—that spring which made him question his supernatural assumption of her. The first one came right after she saw his wings for the first time. He was so sure she would mock him for them like so many cruel people before her, his age or no. His wings were scarred and small and easy to make fun of—that’s why he always kept them hidden. It’s not like they would ever grow or heal in any significant way. He was sure any demon would jump at the opportunity, sneer and mock and hate him for it. To take advantage of how alone he really was.

But she didn’t. She just looked incredibly mortified and walked away like she was on fire, and then never brought it up again. Not even to mock him, just letting it go. He knew a thousand kinder children who hadn’t given him that grace, even at the orphanage in Florin City. For a few days afterwards, he was waiting for it, tense and with his wings pressed as close as he could make them, but she just acted like it never happened. What kind of a demon was she? 

And it was that moment, watching her walk away after the third day he revealed his wings to her, that he started to doubt himself. Thinking that she might be a girl after all. (And when he thought about how her wings ruffled and how she had looked at his chest, he immediately turned away and shoved those thoughts so deep they became almost unrecognizable. Because Buttercup wasn’t attracted to him, and he really didn’t want to think about how messed up it would be if she was. She called him an idiot daily, for goodness sake.) 

The second time came when he was working on the fence posts, fixing the rotten sections, and Buttercup was, once again, hovering over his shoulder and bothering him. She sat on a length of fence a decent distance away, too far to touch but close enough so he could hear her well. Already she had gone through all the classics—idiot Farm Boy, complete dullard, never amount to anything, incompetent, and more. So now she was just looking away and pretending like she wasn’t glancing at the wings under his shirt once in a while, content to leave him in some peace and quiet. And he was pretending not to look at her so much, waiting to hear her voice again. 

Buttercup looked up at the sky then, totally focused on it, and spread her wings out to catch the sun. It was still the late days of spring, so it was decently sunny out, and the light made her wings shine a million colors strong. Her hair too, since they matched so well. He felt a bit of envy then, at how large and perfect they were, but the needles of it went away as he took in the sight of her. She looked utterly gorgeous, completely radiant. Angelic. And the expression on her face just topped it all off. 

She was smiling at the sky and looking at it with longing. Peace and tranquility and longing, wings moving a little with the breeze. Like it was something she really wanted, the sky. Dazed by the sight, he wondered if she could ever look at him like that. Like he mattered more than anything else. 

What he wouldn’t give to have anyone look at him that way. Seeing her, she didn’t look like a demon at all, but a girl. And so he couldn’t help but think it then. 

Deep down, if he was honest with himself, Westley wanted to kiss Buttercup so badly that it hurt him. This girl who was so cruel and awful to him, staring at the sky with such longing. Like a demon never would. How would her skin feel under his fingers? How would her smile taste in the afternoon sun? (Her smile, her smile, her smile.)

Eventually, she looked back to him and he had to jerk his gaze away, more red than usual. Cursing himself for letting those thoughts out. Thinking about kissing Buttercup was an exercise in futility and pain, almost akin to stabbing himself through the arm. It led to nothing but frustration, especially as a teenage boy. Because she was cruel and awful and hated him, so kissing her shouldn’t ever happen in the first place. And because even if he ever found the courage to kiss her, there was no way she’d ever kiss him back. It was stupid to think about. Idiotic at best. 

But she still didn’t look like a demon, even as the minutes dragged on. Instead, she was a girl basking her large wings in the sun, longing for the sky. And Westley had to stare at the ground until he was composed again, heart beating fast. She ordered him to do something right then and he quickly said, “As you wish,” knowing it meant something else. But what? 

Moments like that kept popping up and haunting him. For some reason, she became less cruel after seeing his wings, lessening the harshness of her words and darting her eyes away. That had to mean something. One time, she grazed him slighty with her wings when she was walking by—the only time she ever did—and Westley had to pretend like the entire world didn’t stop when she did so. Did that mean she liked him? (No one had grazed him with their wings in a very long time, kept them close to their backs when he walked by. But she did! Did that mean something? (Of course not. Because her wings were large and she grazed everybody at least once, you brain dead moron.)) And another time, when she was handing him dinner by the back porch, her fingers had grazed his—a mistake no demon would make. (She was careful from then on, but was that just because of how he flinched when she touched him? If he had reacted differently, would she graze his fingers more often? (Of course not. Because even demons make mistakes, and she hates you. And you hate her too, even if her wings never change to reflect it.))

Another time, now in the beginning of summer, he had walked into the barn to find Buttercup asleep against Horse as they napped together. Just laying on the beast and resting, trusting the cranky equine with her body and soul in a way Westley thought no person should. (God, he hated Horse. Not because she loved him so much and was always showering the creature with affection and praise, but just because the equine was annoying. No other reason at all.) Buttercup was just lying there, completely asleep, and he saw the way she was shivering a bit in the cold. Demons don’t shiver. It didn’t make sense. His mouth dry, heart beating fast, Westley tore his eyes away from her, wondering how she could be even more beautiful when she was sleeping. And he grabbed the blanket Horse used and carefully dropped it around her so her shivering stopped, still asleep. Then he walked out of the barn and only returned when she was gone to finish his chores there. Feeling more idiotic than usual. (Did she always smile a little in her sleep? (It doesn’t matter, because she’ll never smile at you.)) 

In yet another time, she had been all in a huff about him not brushing Horse right, and he was feeling particularly annoyed even though he didn’t show it. He went to grab the brush, determined just to get the chore over with, when she went to grab it as well. 

And their hands met. Touched one another in a way that they hadn’t even in grazes. Her hand was so much softer than his—which made sense since his were rough with work—and his heart beat so loudly he was sure she could hear it. He had dreamed, literally, of how her skin would feel like, and now he actually knew. It felt soft. She felt soft and warm and completely unlike a demon that it surprised him. 

Westley didn’t like touching people. It came with his guarded nature and hard life; generally, people touching you just wasn’t a good thing. And he didn’t like touching people, since it was just weird and uncomfortable and intimate and he didn’t want anyone that close. But just then, their hands on one another, Westley realized that he didn’t mind touching her. Because she felt great. He was willing to touch her hand for a million years at that moment, that’s how great she felt. Better than any of his dreams. 

They were both surprised enough to look at one another, and he saw that her eyes were wide and her face a bit pink, though he only had a few moments to enjoy it before she jerked her hand away and marched right out of that barn, calling him an idiot as she left. And he watched her go, his heart beating so fast he was surprised it didn’t kill him. Strange how fast hate can make your heart beat. (Demons don’t have pink faces. They don’t, they don’t, they don’t.)

That night, for the first time in a while, Westley felt his wings grow. Earnestly, with more than whatever affection her father had for him. He lay awake the whole night and felt it happen, and in the morning he checked to see that his wings had grown nearly a centimeter. In one night! Did that mean something? It had to be. It had to mean Buttercup didn’t think he was a total idiot. That he was worth caring for. Why else would his wings grow? (Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup—)

Moments like that kept adding up, and Westley was thinking less about his survival and more just about her. When he was making deliveries and some girls followed him, it was her that he was thinking about. When he put down milk bottles on a villager’s doorstep, he couldn’t help but think about the stories he had collected in his head throughout his travels, the ones his father would have dismissed as childish. Because angels were holy and royal, and demons were cursed and common, and Buttercup was neither of those. Though Westley could easily see her among the swan-winged royals and the nobility of pure blood, he couldn’t think of any sin that would cause her to fall, that would cause a common milkman to pick her up and have her live on his farm. Besides maybe sloth. And her pathological hatred of him. (God, why did girls keep following him around? Delivery had to be the most tedious task of the day.)

She was so ever present that when he was in the village and eventually made small talk with some village boy his age, the subject of her quickly came up. 

“You’re living at the dairy farm?” the short one of the three said, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Buttercup's farm?” 

Westley nodded, still focused on the milk cart as he loaded it with empty bottles. Angels and stories outside of chapel gates—

“You must be the luckiest son of a bitch to ever live,” said the fatter one, shaking his head in disbelief. He was older and apparently more comfortable with swearing, and the other teenagers laughed around him. “I would do anything to work there. I’d give up being a tailor in a heartbeat, no matter what my father says.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Lucky bastard.” 

“I’m not that lucky,” Westley said in his defense, though the way they were looking at him in envy did stroke his ego. He was rarely at the center of attention in such a way that didn’t make him want to skip town. He leaned against the cart and said, “You must know how annoying she can be.” 

The short one furrowed his brow at him. “What do you mean?” The other two looked at him with the same amount of confusion. 

“You know,” Westley started, “how she likes to call people idiots and insult them all the time?” His focus went back to the milk cart, “I must have lost track how many times she’s called me a dullard this week.” 

“Wait a second,” said the last boy, the one with the now very wide brown eyes. Westley looked at him, eyebrows raised. “She talks to you?” 

What? What kind of a stupid question was that? Buttercup talked to him every single day, and wouldn't stop talking to him. Why did that make all of these boys so surprised? “Yeah? Why?” 

“I can’t believe it,” the short one said, turning to the others. “She talks to him.” 

And that was the moment Westley went from an interesting newcomer to the most hated boy in the entire province. He couldn’t even walk around the village without some boy glaring at him and muttering something under his breath. But that was fine. Westley hadn’t planned on making friends anyway. Sure, usually being hated by everyone was a top motive to leave town, but for some reason he didn’t feel inclined to follow his instinct this time.

Also, if he was completely honest, it filled him with glee to know how jealous they were of him. Him! The only boy Buttercup ever talked to, apparently. Why was that? And why did that make him smile in his hovel at night, tapping his finger against his chest? A demon would torture everyone, indiscriminate. But a girl would torture only him. (So what if she hated him? Why did that matter if she didn’t hate anybody else?) 

Summer came quickly, Buttercup seeming more like a girl with every month that passed. And, for some reason, she seemed to bother him less, choosing to only appear for small periods of time before returning to whatever else she was doing. Which was fine. Really, it was more than fine. He was happy to watch her go. He didn’t like being taunted and called an idiot and a worthless farm boy all the time. Westley would watch her walk away and know he should be jumping with joy, finally allowed to do his work and focus on his plan without interruption. Not wondering when she was coming back.

It didn’t matter if she came back. Because Westley didn’t care about Buttercup at all. The farmer’s daughter he refused to be attached to, even if he thought of her so often. 

Sometime around when she stopped bothering him so much, her father approached him with an attempt to start an actual conversation. Sure, he would try to make pleasant small talk as they worked together in the fields, and they always greeted each other in the morning, but Westley had learned long ago not to speak with soft-hearted farmers who look at your back too often. He was not something to be pitied. 

Westley had just finished working with Horse, wiping his brow and sitting on a haystack, cursing the stupid equine and wondering why Buttercup hadn’t talked to him that day. And then the farmer came into the barn, walking up to him. Westley stood up immediately, his first instinct telling him he was being reprimanded for taking a break—he was foolish, taking one in plain sight. But no, the man just gestured for him to sit down again, which he did slowly. His jaw locked when he saw what was in the farmer’s hand. 

“Horse give you a hard time, Westley?” the farmer tried, but Westley was not in the mood for small talk. 

“Why do you have that?” the boy asked, sitting up straight. Now they were both looking at the wing preener, a device meant to help reach the spots that hands couldn’t. The spots people couldn’t reach alone, the ones that fester. Whitened. 

The farmer gave him a pointed look. “It should be obvious why I have it, Westley.

He felt his expression harden, dislike rolling through him. This man might as well slapped him and called him unloved. Buttercup was horrible, but at least she was upfront about her dislike. At least she didn’t pity him. Apperantly it wasn’t a hereditary trait. “I don’t accept charity,” was all he said, standing up again. “Give it to someone else.” 

“Westley—”

“I take care of myself. I don’t need something from a street merchant to keep myself healthy.”

“Really, you’re that self sufficient?” Now he sounded like his daughter in a way he rarely did, dismissing his claims. “I suppose you’ve gotten sturdier and less starved all on your own then too. My wife’s cooking had nothing to do with it.” 

“It didn’t.” His face was getting hot, knowing how different he looked now. But he stood by what he said. He earned his food, he earned every breath he took. He didn’t need anything from anyone. “And I’m not accepting that, no matter what Buttercup has told you.” He had thought that Buttercup had let that incident slide, but clearly she said something to her father about his wings. 

“She didn’t have to tell me anything, boy. I have my own eyes.” Hearing that made him relieved, somehow. “My wife does your laundry, and I have seen what your sufficiency does you.” The farmer seemed stricter now, as if trying another tact. “This isn’t charity. You’re weaker without this, and I need a strong farm boy. Consider this as substitute for your payment for this month.” As if something as sturdy as that could ever cost what little he earned in four weeks. “If you’re so determined to be self sufficient, it would be best for you to have your own tools. Do we understand each other?” 

Westley’s face was still hot, trying to save face and avoid slapping the preener out of the man’s hand. But he laid out a careful argument, one that was hard to ignore. It would be objectively easier to take care of his wings with a device like that, and he could take it with him after the year was over. But he hated that it was basically a gift, charity, pity. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need anything. The spot between his shoulder blades ached as if in protest, but he pushed it away. He also didn’t answer, staring down into the hay as Horse neighed from the stables, wondering when the farmer would give him a carrot. 

“If you’re that resistant,” the farmer added, “you can earn it. I want to sell Bessie to the butcher in town, the one with the ginger wings. Take Bessie there and negotiate a sale.” 

Bessie? No, the farmer couldn’t mean the kind cow with the curly horns, the one Buttercup petted in the fields. Buttercup loved Bessie. “The cow is healthy,” Westley said, wondering why he was so defensive. “There’s no need to sell her off.” 

“I disagree,” the man said with a raised eyebrow, “She’s old and hasn’t produced much milk in years. And we need the money with how poor the roof is getting.” 

But Westley pushed back on that idea, relying on his previous experience with livestock. “That’s just because she’s eating poorly. The other cows bully her, but if—”

“Westley, my mind is set. Sell her on Sunday after mass, and we’re even.” The dismissive tone the man used was familiar, knowing his craft, but Westley still resisted. He couldn’t imagine going into the butcher with such a kind creature, eyes dull and blood on the floor. He had been around enough blood for a lifetime. Still, the man continued, scratching his beard. “Whatever is left from that debt, consider it payment for putting up with my demon of a daughter.” 

Westley bursted into a smile, taken off guard by the man’s blunt comment, but he stifled it quickly. It wasn’t fast enough, however, as the farmer saw it and seemed emboldened. “She is quite a handful,” he added, trying to pull him into a conversation, “which I do apologize for. She’s easily distracted and criticizes everyone. Perhaps all teenage girls are this way.” 

“It’s alright, sir,” he said back, keeping his smile stifiled. “She doesn’t come around me as much as she used to.” 

“Still, your patience is admirable.” He shook his head then, sitting down on a haystack across from Westley. The preener was put down next to him, and the boy tried not to look at it. “She wasn’t always so cruel, you know. I remember when she was a babe—when I could bounce her on my knee! The cutest little winged baby you could imagine.” He could imagine it, this wrinkled man holding a winged child, fussing and crying. That baby being Buttercup, the demon of the milk farm, he could not imagine. “Of course, her sour moods were the same then as they are now. Oh, all the crying!” He shook his head, yet his smile remained. “But she was kind to the cows and Horse, and she used to bring me flowers from the fields. ‘Have this, Papa,’ she used to say. ‘It’ll make you prettier, and then you can fly with me.’” Westley’s throat closed, the hay beneath him sharper than before. That wasn’t like…was she really like that? “Not to mention her toils of learning to ride! Walking by the pond near here with the frogs, swimming in the summer. But alas, children grow.” Something unfamiliar was in his expression, and Westley had to look away. Trying to remember who he was talking about, how his own family never had the chance to see him grow in such a way. And stifling the boiling jealousy from a childhood so idyllic. “She grew, at least. Never calls me Papa, shuts us out of her room. And nothing’s enough anymore.” 

Silence for a bit, and then Westley said quietly, “That’s not unique to her, sir. All teenagers are this way.” Looking down at the floor, feeling foolish for speaking at all. “We learn to find what’s enough.” He had learned so much over the past years alone, after all, maybe more than he should have. He knew what was enough because he never had it. And he couldn’t fault Buttercup for not growing as fast, as unfair as it was. 

The farmer smiled in a way his daughter never did, without a touch of evil or cruelty. “That’s good to know. Nice to have a fresh perspective” There was some satisfaction in his expression, and it was still there as he stood up, preener in hand. “I’ll hand this to you once the sale is complete so I know you’ve done a competent job. Until then, take care of yourself.” 

“I always do.” 

“Was that a mark of humor? I’m almost flattered,” the man said with that damned smile, as if he accomplished something important. “Make sure to clean out the cowshed tomorrow, Westley,” he ordered, gesturing outside the barn. “It’s looking dirty these days.” 

“Yes, sir.” Westley stood up and wiped the hay off his jeans, grateful that the farmer returned to their familiar dynamic to help him save face, trying to come back from a vulnerable place. And then the farmer walked away, completely ordinary, and Westley couldn’t imagine a demon ever coming from a man like him. Or even just someone like Buttercup. 

She’s so lucky, he thought bitterly, and he knew what he felt then was hatred. Green and unpleasant. That girl has no idea the treasures in her own home. The experiences she thought were beneath her. 

He suddenly found himself with a strange thought, staring out of the barn. I wish I was like her, he thought again, a bit surprised. It must be so much easier. 

Angry with that thought, he tossed it deep down where it wouldn’t matter, and returned to his chores. And he was exactly the same as he had always been, nothing changing or moving or attaching onto him. He refused to let it. 

At night, as he went over everything that happened that day—as always—he found himself staring at the hovel roof for a long time. The hovel didn’t smell like booze anymore, especially since he had gotten some nice smelling plants from the forest to liven up the place. He took a deep breath of the flowers and leaves and looked up at the thatched roof that needed repair, and thought of kind cows and nudges on his hands and the smell of blood. He thought of how he was so much stronger now, his frame not so thin and his wings sturdy and clean like they had never been before. He thought of being young and not. Wondering if he would be a demon too if his mother could dote on him as much as Buttercup's mother doted on her. Missing something with no name, and unsure what to do. He ended his thought tirade angrily, shutting his eyes and demanding sleep. None of that mattered.

The next morning, he went out to the cowshed and was surprised to see Buttercup there, petting Bessie. That itself wasn’t unusual, but she should have been helping her mother and Buttercup hated sitting in the cowshed. “Farm Boy,” was all she said, glaring up at him. There was more dislike there then there ever was, squinting and brow furrowed. He, of course, didn’t respond, his palms already sweaty. Going to grab the nearby pitchfork to start cleaning, he was incredibly surprised when she spoke again. “I know what you’re going to do, you know. My father told me.” 

Not responding, he took the pitchfork off the wall and ignored her, inspecting the tips that were dented. But she knew he was listening. (Of course he was, because she was finally speaking to him.) “I know you’re just a farm boy with rude tendencies, but even you have to see that it’s cruel to kill Bessie. She’s kind and loving and an excellent cow who has done nothing but love the world since I was a child and any half decent farm boy would see that.” Her voice was pointed, more than it had been in months. And it was almost demonic when she said, “You would send her to die when she still has so much to live for, so much more to see. How could you? Admit it, admit it! You don’t care about anything but yourself, least of all the cows you’re supposed to take care of!” 

It was actually hysterical that she would levy that charge onto him, and Westley almost smiled at the ridiculousness of it all. He was the selfish one? Him? For wanting to earn a preener? He would have rolled his eyes but the return of her hatred left him somewhat off guard; she never hated him these days. Westley finally looked at her, making sure to keep his face blank, and a part deep down relaxed, at peace. He always felt better when he looked at her—even with that hating, evil type of expression she had now. (Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup—) The sunlight from the window seemed to hit her perfectly, filling her blue eyes with purpose, hair shining golden. But her beauty was not so great as to disguise it. He knew what she was feeling immediately, mostly from the familiar signs. 

The way she clung to Bessie. The way she glared at him. The whiteness of her fingers. It was desperation, but something even more, something that left him as still as stone. 

Grief. 

Demons don’t grieve. 

His silence seemed to enrage her even more. “Well, aren’t you going to say anything? Why don’t you ever say anything?!”

Westley didn’t respond to the charge, feeling something shift within him, something he couldn’t name. He motioned with his hand for her to leave, his palms less sweaty. It should be obvious that he had to clean the cowshed. 

“Oh, you’re horrible,” Buttercup said, scowling. “Everything my mother says about you is true, do you know that? You can’t kill Bessie, you just can’t. She’s good and kind and loves scratches, and I won’t let you take her on Sunday, even if I have to carry her back myself. You won’t take her, you won’t!” Her voice was more stricken then, holding onto Bessie tighter. What he wouldn’t give to be held like that. Not that he’d accept it anyway. 

But, from somewhere deep inside, he knew what he had to say. It was the only thing he could say. Quietly, he put the pitchfork against the wall, making sure to meet her eyes. Her eyes, her eyes. “As you wish.” Knowing it meant something else.

It had the effect it always did. She looked at him, shocked for a moment and wings ruffling, and then it was gone and she was just surprised. “You mean—”

“I won’t take her,” he confirmed, and his words seemed to surprise her even more. He hoped they weren’t too strained.

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting—good. Okay. As you should.” Seeing Buttercup this off balance was a treat, and he watched as she wrestled for a way to belittle him. Her mouth opened and closed, and she looked like she was thinking very hard. Brow furrowed, still squinting. Adorable in a way demons were not. Finally, she settled on, “Really?” Head to the side, still not believing him. 

“Yes.” It was the only thing he could think of to say; this was probably the most he had spoken to her all year. But it was true. He wouldn’t do it. Not for a wing preener, not for anything. And the weirdest thing was that he didn’t even know why. He pondered this for a moment, reflecting his lack of selfish motivation, when Buttercup did something that took his attention right away. 

She was smiling. 

Not at him, of course. Like that would ever happen. No, Buttercup was smiling at Bessie who had moved her head into the girl’s lap, and she looked so utterly delighted that it surprised Westley. Was she smiling because of him or the cow? How come he only ever seemed to compete with livestock when it came to her attention? Probably cause animals were all she actually cared about, came a bitter voice, but he ignored it because of how beautiful Buttercup looked when she smiled, radiant and angelic and so un-demonic that he couldn’t believe he had ever—

“Good girl, Bessie. You’re going to be alright, you hear? It’s going to be alright.” She petted the cow’s nose, looking happier than Westley had been in years, ages, just by knowing that Bessie would carry on her short life. (Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup—) 

“I saved you from that scary farm boy, I did. Hurrah!” Buttercup, still smiling, raised a fist triumphantly, and Westley could feel his face fall, his gut twisting. By God, this girl! 

He turned away, no longer wanting to see the girl who didn’t smile because of him at all, just enjoying a triumph over a boy she could boss around, not caring about anything but those that didn’t deserve—she had all this love to give, and she chose to do THAT?! He hated her. He hated, hated, hated—

Screw this. He would clean the cowshed later. Taking a step to leave, he snuck one last glance at Buttercup—how could he not—and he thought he saw a flash of disappointment as he turned away. An illusion, he assured himself, walking away with a fast heart, hating. Like Buttercup would ever want him to stay. 

His feet took him where he needed to go as his mind tried to come together again, packing all of those pesky thoughts into boxes where they should be. They took him right to her father, who seemed surprised by the sudden visit. His wife was right there, looking at him disapprovingly. Her eyes always seemed to go to the spots behind him where his wings should have been; even after all this time, she still looked unnerved. Whatever, he decided to speak anyway. Buttercup may have been terrible, but Westley was going to be true to his word. “I’m not taking Bessie to the butcher, sir.” 

“What?” his wife suddenly said, looking personally offended. “Why ever not?” 

“Please explain yourself, Westley,” her father said slowly, not understanding. “If this is about—”

“Bessie is a good cow, sir,” he said without pause, not wanting the man to bring up his pride, “and she can pull her weight on this farm. I know how to make her healthier, and I will.” They couldn’t get rid of Bessie, kind eyes and warm blooded. Buttercup loved Bessie. And there was a better, logical plan Westley could put in place instead. 

“Say that to our roof—” his wife started, face a bit red, but the milkman spoke louder. 

“Are you sure you can pull off this miracle, boy?” he said, and Westley nodded, knowing it with his whole heart. It was possible, even if it felt sour now. “Then let it be done. You’ll earn your keep when you prove it.” 

“His keep? Whatever are you talking about?” 

“Just some men talk, darling.” He turned away from Westley, who knew his purpose there was done. And thankful he didn’t give his wife something new to needle him over. 

“Try people talk, it’s much easier to understand,” his wife said with annoyance in her voice, and then Westley turned and walked away, the echoes of their argument behind them. Wondering why he cared about whether a demon was sad or not, gripping onto her cow like it would secure her to the earth. 

There was an even greater change in behavior after that. Her taunting diminished, though still potent. It was like she discovered he was an actual person capable of making decisions, even if he was still the greatest fool she had ever met. Some strange part of him missed it, though. She was hardly around anymore. 

For some reason, her absence and the whole cow debacle made her words stand out to him more, dig into his mind in a way they never had. So when she called him a worthless farm boy who would never amount to anything, it seriously began to grate on him. He wasn’t worthless. He was going to be somebody, he was. In Germany or Asia or wherever he went eventually, when he was free. See, the cows were becoming healthier week by week as Westley took strict watch over them, carrying out his plan—living proof that he wasn’t worthless. So why did her words bother him? 

He was out in the village with her family on a Sunday, just finishing with mass and about to enjoy his free time far away from them all, when he overheard Buttercup's complaining as they left the church. “I’m not going to read, Mother, no matter what you say. The girls say it’s witchcraft to read too much.” 

“It’s good for you, not witchcraft” she insisted, and Buttercup rolled her pretty eyes.

“It’s annoying. I don’t want to waste what little time I have on this God given Earth reading.” 

“You have plenty of time to read, Buttercup. Perhaps it would give you some patience.” Her mother shook her head and Westley couldn’t stifle his smile. It was rare to see her mother reprimand her. Unfortunately, Buttercup caught his enjoyment of it quite quickly. 

“What’s so funny, Farm Boy? It’s not like you can read.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and added haughtily, “But then again, most idiots can’t.” 

“Buttercup,” her father said tiredly in reprimand, but he didn’t say anything else. 

“He was the one who was making fun of me,” she insisted anyway. “I was just making sure he stays humble like the priest says to be. Someone has to look out for his immortal soul, knowing where it’s bound.” Her father shook his head in defeat as Buttercup glared at them both. But then she was distracted again, shouting out, “Cornelia, wait up!” She ran after a dark haired girl, annoyed with her family and off to the next thing. Must be nice.

“She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” her mother added after she was gone, a cold expression on her face. Her wings reached out to the farmer in that secret language he could no longer use. The farmer just sighed, looking to him apologetically, and Westley tried to brush it off like he always did. (He wanted to kiss her so badly it—)

But now her comments wouldn’t go away, festering instead. Idiotic—how ridiculous. Westley was smart and talented and excellent at any work he did. He was going to amount to something, he was. And she had some nerve talking about his immortal soul when hers was the most damned one in the whole country. Idiotic—ridiculous! Passing by the ware seller in the village, peddling some old books, an idea came to him. I’ll prove it, he thought to himself. I’ll prove to her how smart I am because I’m going to learn to read. 

Buttercup thought she was so great? Well, Westley was going to learn how to read better than her and better than anybody who ever lived. That would show her. That would make all of his frustrating feelings go away. 

And so he bought the cheapest, easiest book he could, ignoring how her father watched him do it. And so he began the journey of literacy. Just to spite her. 

It was difficult. The most challenging task he ever had to overcome, and he had lifted a lot of haystacks. It was also incredibly embarrassing how little he could make of the shapes and the sounds, not even knowing where to start. Because reading could not be difficult if someone like Buttercup could do it, and what did that say about him?

“Do you want some help?” her father asked one evening, noticing how he squinted at the book in his hands. He had written some letters into the dirt, or at least as close as he could come to it. 

Yet, despite how lost he was, he said “I don’t need help.” Continuing his squinting and trying his best to ignore the soft hearted farmer that never took a hint. 

“What is it that you’re finding difficult? Just tell me.” 

“Nothing, nothing,” he said distractedly. He could do this on his own; he could do anything.

“I see. So you know what that letter is?” he said, moving closer and pointing to something in the book. Westley squinted, coming up blank. How was he supposed to know? “That’s the letter h. It makes this sound.” And so he said it, and then sat next to him on the stump despite Westley’s very loud complaints. “Allow me to pretend I can teach, since my daughter gives such little opportunity,” he said, and continued a basic lesson on letters and their sounds and how they strung together. 

And it was frustrating and impossible and ridiculous. It was ridiculous what he was doing, trying to to read. And for what? It’s not like anything would become of it. Farm boys never become scholars. Farm boys don’t read.

The farmer was surprisingly silent as his lesson ended, looking at him oddly. Perhaps he could sense how frustrating it all was, how little Westley understood, because then the farmer did something new. “Buttercup!” He yelled loudly, waving at the girl in the distance, and with much loud annoyance, the demon came over. 

“What is it, Father?” she said, pail in hand. The sunset light shone on her brilliantly, annoyed and all. “Did you get tired of the farm boy’s idiocy? I know the feeling.” 

Not addressing her, he pointed down at one of the letters he had drawn into the dirt. “What letter is this?” 

Buttercup said, “lower case n,” as Westley said reflexively, “lower case h.” 

Her father smiled at him, saying, “Look who’s the winner.” 

Westley blinked, not understanding, but quickly realized the farmer’s little trick as Buttercup went red. 

“What—that is so an ‘n’! Look, it has a loop!” She pointed to the dirt, scowling, but that didn’t persuade anyone. 

“It also has a tall bit here, making it an ‘h,’” the farmer said, and Westley was surprised to know he understood that, had memorized it already. Looking at the book as Buttercup continued to argue with her father, he found that he could recognize almost all of them. He was already better than Buttercup and he had just started. And the farmer had found a way to tell him so. 

Westley blinked heavily, something new settling in his chest. To distract himself, he turned his attention to the show in front of him. “This is ridiculous,” Buttercup insisted. “What are you even doing? What, is the farm boy learning how to read? How in the world is he going to do that without any Sunday school or school at all?” 

“He’s teaching himself,” her father explained, and Buttercup squinted at them both like she didn’t understand. 

“People can’t do that,” she said quite confidently. “And, more importantly, why would you ever want to?” She looked at him strangely, like he had revealed a part of himself she didn’t know existed

“I can’t say as to why, but he’s learning. You could learn something from him, Buttercup.” The farmer pointed at the girl expectedly, and Westley could barely hide his smile then, ducking his head. 

“What—that’s stupid.” The girl glared at them both, red and on the defensive. It was a marvelous sight. “This is stupid. You’re both stupid. Have fun being stupid together.” She was scowling even more now, turning away before jerking back to point at the dirt. “And that’s an ‘n’!” 

Westley couldn’t help himself now, gleeful in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. “H,” was all he said, his smile in full force, and she could only glare, say, “BAH!” and stomp away. Though he noticed how surprised Buttercup looked to see his smile before she turned.

“She gets more like her mother every day,” the farmer mumbled, but Westley wasn’t paying too much attention. He was too busy absorbing the sense of victory and triumph that was always so denied him. And soaking in the slight bit of recognition he had gained from Buttercup. Some part of him even wanted to jump up and down. Young again. 

“Want me to continue?” the farmer started, pointing to the book, and Westley nodded as he tried to look stoic and ready to learn. He probably didn’t succeed, but the farmer went on with his lesson without a word. 

Reading and writing took over his summer and then fall. He was devoted to it, finding comfort and satisfaction there he could find nowhere else. Yes, it was difficult, but once he managed to find some inkling of understanding, learned the alphabet and the sounds, he soon found that he could work letters together and squint at words. Slowly, week after week, hour after candlelit hour studying in his hovel and out in the fields, he began making sense of the Florinese language. And it was fun! Writing and reading was so much fun. 

His mother would have loved writing. 

Soon, he found himself forgetting about spiting Buttercup, advancing for his own goals. He could often be found reading like a man possessed, desperate for knowledge and words he now had access to. 

Occasionally, he would talk to the farmer about writing; it was one of the few things the boy ever wanted to talk about, which the farmer quickly used to his conversation-obsessed advantage. Slowly, Westley found himself talking to the farmer once a week, and then twice a week, and then almost every day. Sometimes the farmer made him smile, most of the time he didn’t, but the man made an effort every day to engage with him beyond just small talk. He became accustomed to questions about poetry and history, debating the influence of certain battles and wars. Their arguments were the most entertaining, Westley becoming passionate in a way he didn’t know he could, and he found that he looked forward to seeing the man everyday. To seeing a smile that meant comfort and familiarity, offers of cheese from worn hands. 

However, no matter how much the farmer suggested or asked, Westley never talked about his past, even the parts not soaked with blood. No one was ever opening that chest of pain. Even if everything else was changing, that never would. 

 He continued working with the cows, with reading. Growing and changing. The cows responded well to his care, his individualized attention, and they became healthier as he changed up their diet experimentally, feeding them at different times of day. He even pet them when no one was around, wondering if he could understand Buttercup if he did. It never worked, but they seemed happy with the extra affection.

People in town started to remark that the milk was getting better, that the farmer was no longer the worst milkman in Florin. And they looked at him differently. That had never happened before. 

One day, he opened up his door before dawn, ready to start deliveries, before stepping on something wooden and sturdy. Blinking heavily, keeping his wings under control, he put the preener into his hovel and then went on his way. He had earned his keep. 

The year continued on into winter. The people of the village became used to his presence and knew his worth, kept their wings relaxed when he passed by or showed up at market. Some of the boys forgave his transgression of existing near Buttercup and even waved or said a greeting when he came around. Then the farmer started loaning out his services to some of his neighbors, insisting that Westley help out with odd jobs around the village and nearby town during the harsh winter. Word spread of his many practical skills, cultivated from years of bouncing between jobs. Before he knew it, he was making some extra money and people started talking to him. Like he was a common villager, someone to discuss important farming topics with. They nodded along and the boys even laughed at his remarks. It was never anything important, just idle talk and questioning the weather patterns, but they still talked to him.

So did the tailor, the blacksmith, the old lady at the outskirts of the village that always smiled when he brought her milk in the mornings. This was after he had fixed her door and delivered a letter on a previous trip to town. “You’re a good heart,” she said once, reaching down with shaky hands. “I can see why the milkman says your praises so often.” And the world stopped, and Westley kept blinking fast, and the woman smiled at him before she closed the door. It reminded him of…something older.

Festivals came and went throughout the year. He stood at the edges, near the food stalls, since he never missed a chance to enjoy free food. Yet sometimes people would come up and talk to him, no longer a shadow on the wall. Westley marked it up as his proximity to the milkman and how the short man always pushed him into the conversation, but still, it was different. Juice from grilled meat would drip onto his hands as he thought about it. Stared at all the dancing and thought about it. 

And then looked at Buttercup, standing with Cornelia and some of the other girls, and thought about her too. His wings pushed at his shirts all the while. 

She didn’t notice the changes he was undergoing, it seemed. Just going about her life, unaware how much she affected him. His anger towards her, the ever present bitterness and reactive frustration, seemed to diminish with time and exposure. It was just the way life was now. Or would be, until the year was up and he left. 

The only sign she gave that she recognized his changing came with the cows. It happened so quickly he almost missed it. “The cows are better now,” she said simply, petting Bessie out in the fields while Westley watched cows walk by. How Buttercup had so much free time, he’d never know. The acknowledgment finally hit him, and he clutched onto the book he was holding like a lifeline. Did she—did she finally think that he was—“Weird, that,” she added, shrugging to herself. “Don’t you think, Bessie?” 

The cow mooed in agreement, and Westley decided he hated her more than ever. But still, time moved on, and he couldn’t help but notice how she changed too. At least with how she acted. 

Once, in winter, she had thrown a snowball at him. It made her laugh so hard, having hit his shoulder when his back was turned, and she even doubled over when he looked her way. “Got you!” was all she said, gasping for breath. For a second, she just looked mirthful and not taunting at all, delighted in some game he didn’t understand. But Westley had been hit with plenty of snowballs in his lifetime and did not laugh with her. Hands itching to check for rocks in the snow lest one hit him, scratching his eye. 

“Oh, you’re no fun,” she said once her laughter died, shaking her head and walking away. She didn’t throw any snowballs after that, and Westley couldn’t help but feel like he missed something. 

Another time, she had made a snow angel, wings spread far and moving in place of her arms like most children did. She got up and wiped snow from her face, all bundled in coats and scarves, and she pointed to the snow angel as if it was her proudest creation. Westley stopped reading his book inside the barn—it was a Sunday—and decided to pay attention, since she didn’t seem cruel that day. “Look at that!” she said proudly. “Bet that’s the best snow angel you ever saw! Better than anything you can do, anyway.” 

She kept looking at him, evil and taunting, eyes sparkling in that way she had, and Westley’s mouth glued shut. His palms were sweaty and he could barely look at her when her gaze was like that—less cruel and just excited, waiting for him to respond. Not that he could. He turned to his book again in his place inside the barn. Words and long sentences were much easier to understand. 

“Whatever!” was all she said then. “Have fun being alone over there! Weirdo.” 

Christmas Eve came and went. They fasted at the farm, feasted in town. Where he had once relied on people’s loose pockets and reduced prices, he found himself to be the one celebrating at the farmer’s insistence. And then came the music and the dancing again, just like the harvest festivals, and people laughed and were merry in a way they never seemed to be in the city. The boys played ball and he even played with them a bit once the ragged thing rolled his way. He wasn’t very good, but he was getting better. He always got better. 

And he found himself happy, talking with another boy on the sidelines as the game went on, when his attention returned to Buttercup. As it always did. She was leaning against the wall, close to her family in a way the other teenagers were not. He saw how she looked at everyone else in the square—some of the girls dancing, some laughing in a circle by the bonfire. Wing beats filled the air and feathers littered the floor, the spectacle made even louder by the bow people used their wings to dance, tapping and bumping and twirling. Yet none of the feathers on the floor were a million colors, like hers. And there was something unfamiliar in her eyes as she watched Cornelia have fun far away from her, completely un-demonic. Human. 

A wild thought then, one from too much drink and merriment. It was a really silly idea, but he couldn’t help it in his drunken state and the boy yammering on next to him. Should he ask her to dance? His heart beat a thousand times a minute, his palms sweaty again, and he wished he had someone to ask what the right thing to do was, how to approach someone as horrible and glaring as Buttercup. He could, couldn’t he? Her mother wasn’t around, and no one else was dancing with her, and she looked lonely, and— 

A boy came up to her right then, hand out and hopeful as she gave him the cruelest look she had. She must have said something particularly awful, because the boy looked ready to cry as he walked away, hands empty. Just like every other boy who came up to her, which was almost all of them. 

Westley looked to the ground, foolish and ridiculous. He didn’t even know how to dance. And he had other things to worry about then something as silly as—it would never happen, never. This place was changing him too much, he thought to himself then. What, did he think he would dance with Buttercup the way his parents used to? Ridiculous. So, instead of doing anything to soothe the aching between his shoulder blades, he chose to pay attention to what the other boy said—game rules and what not. His eyes darted to her all the while. (He wanted to kiss her so badly it—)

And then they entered the less fun part of winter, with people coughing and shutting their doors tightly against the northern winds. It wasn’t as terrible as what he was used to growing up, but even he had to admit that winter was harsh. At least harsh enough that sometimes the family would invite him inside, letting him sleep close to the central hearth of the farmhouse instead of toughing it out in his shaky hovel. The farmer and his wife were almost constantly sick during that time, coughing into pieces of cloth and shaking their heads, and even Westley caught a cold or two. 

During one of those storms, the farmer invited him to play a game to pass the time, one of those strategic ones with a board that he always passed by in the city. He didn’t really know the rules—he had other things to worry about back then—but the farmer insisted he try to play anyway. A couple of rounds in, and Westley had picked up the rhythm of the game, moving pieces around with ease. The farmer squinted at the board like his daughter would have, trying to come up with a counter move based on the dice roll he had. It was amazing, the little trinkets that were in the farm house; the family didn’t have much, but it was still alien. More than just one spoon per person, for instance. Glass cups. A board for games. A worn down carpet, bought long ago or inherited. It was more than his family had, back then. The milkman had the luxury of being his own man, of having a trade, serving no lord and chained to no land. They’re so lucky, he thought to himself, moving one of the pieces on his side with such swiftness the farmer cursed. There were people who killed for far less. 

The farmer coughed suddenly, coinciding with a harsh wind shaking the house. This cough was particularly persistent. “Do you want something for your throat, darling?” his wife said suddenly, speaking up from where beside the man while also ignoring Westley. She always seemed irritated when he was inside, like his mere present represented danger. But she put up with it tonight, currently busy expanding some of Buttercup's coats for her ever growing wings. Her head was even bare, no handkerchief over it now that she was inside, and her marriage necklace shone in the firelight. The whole scene was surprisingly domestic, and it made Westley’s skin crawl. Knowing that she was right to think he intruded, that this was unnatural. He wasn’t meant to see things like this, what had always been behind the window.

“I wouldn’t mind some hot milk, if we have any inside,” the man commented, another cough going through him. Yet his wings moved to touch her leg, a brief graze to show his appreciation. His necklace shown in the firelight as well, identical to hers. Married and bound to one another. Would Westley ever have something like that? Or would he be alone forever? 

He pushed the thought away immediately. He preferred being alone. It was safer. Just because he was in a house didn’t mean the world wasn’t dangerous anymore. 

“Buttercup!” the woman shouted out loudly, and Buttercup groaned loud enough that Westley could hear from where he was. 

“What?!” she shouted through her bedroom door, determined to be away from everyone. 

“Heat up some milk for your father!” 

“Can’t you do that? I’m busy!” 

“With what?” 

“Not heating up milk, that’s for sure!” 

“Come out here this instant and heat up some milk for your sick parents! I mean it!” she said even sterner, scowling now. 

“You two are always sick,” Buttercup countered, but she opened the door anyway. She met his eyes but once before jerking her gaze away, determined to ignore him like her mother did. Westley didn’t look away from her though, feeling something melt in his chest at seeing her. “But fine, since you’re obsessed with it.” She went on with her task, grumbling about being forced to work, and Westley’s attention turned back to his game. Trying to win it as slowly as possible so he could see how Buttercup scowled into the fire, also more domestic than usual. Hair wild and free, not plaited or tied up like it usually was in winter. Eyes more beautiful than any poet could describe. 

Drawn into the game again, it took until she was standing right next to him before he realized that she was done. “Here, Father.” She handed him a cup, one of the wooden ones, and he took it easily. 

“Thank you, my girl.” 

“And for you, Mother, since you insisted.” Cup handed with an annoyed look, and accepted with an equal one. 

And there was a third cup. He just realized that, now that it was her father’s turn. She looked down at him, enshrined by firelight, and Westley looked back. Face hot despite the chill in the house, feeling his heart beat fast as it always did around her. She was paying attention to him, him, him. Would she really give him something? She had never done that before. It was just a cup, but Westley now wanted it more than anything in his life. Needing Buttercup to recognize that maybe he wanted things too. 

“This milk is for sick people,” Buttercup said carefully before pointing to the cup. She spoke like he was dumb but Westley didn’t care. Because she was about to offer him something. “I never get sick, so I don’t need it.” True, surprisingly. No matter how much her parents or the village coughed, Buttercup never did. Something else that was supernatural about her. Maybe she made a deal with the evils of the world in exchange for spreading chaos and discord. Maybe she was just that perfect. “So that leaves one cup available, provided you’re sick.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her, wondering when she would get to the point. As if this condescending act hid the fact that she poured him a drink in the first place, an act so polite as to be alien. (Did she care if he was sick? Did she look out in the fields and worry? Did she care at all?) 

“So are you? Sick I mean.” 

Westley nodded. 

“You don’t look sick,” said her mother, squinting at him. 

He just shrugged. Lying, “I am. Felt horrible this morning.” It was much easier to talk to her than to Buttercup. He looked back at the girl who grumbled a bit, ever annoyed. She then handed the cup to him, scowling as if the very act was beneath her. 

He took the cup from her, making sure not to touch her fingers at all. Nodding his thanks, he quickly turned away and looked back at the game, but he could see from the corner of his eyes how Buttercup was still looking at him, wings imposing and moving slightly. Watching him hold onto his cup like it could save his immortal soul. 

The adults looked at each other and back again in a kind of squinting way. Not that Westley paid much attention to that, since he was currently trying to pretend he hadn’t just received something from her, that this had to mean something, that she cared if he was sick, that she had felt something, that he could have grazed her fingers if he dared too, that she almost looked kind when she—

Damn it, her father had seen his attack coming! Very important. He focused on the game, only removing his attention once the air in the house was the same as before. Buttercup was now complaining to her mother, who was complaining back, and her father was grumbling to himself about the game. His milk was still untouched in front of him since Westley was a bit afraid of drinking it in a superstitious type way. 

The girl sat near to her father to inspect the game, looking completely bored. He snuck looks at her, trying to memorize the sight. Relaxed, curious, hair wild in the light. Human and real. His eyes went to her neck and suddenly, without warning, he imagined a necklace there. He imagined a necklace of brown and black, a warm house of their own, conversation in the room next door, curses against northern winds, cups in winter, board games and victories, worry about coughing and sniffles, smiles and laughter, touches of wings and finger tips—

“How do you even play this? Doesn’t look like checkers,” Buttercup asked, her head to the side so her autumn curls moved with the motion, and Westley crashed back into reality. He ducked his head down to try and hide his face, pretending he was inspecting his milk quite intensively. Her father’s response faded into the background. 

Goddammit, he wasn’t supposed to—that wouldn’t ever happen. With her or anyone. And it wasn’t what Westley wanted—it wasn’t in the cards at all! Westley wanted freedom, a life alone and unburdened. Just because this family was nice didn’t make him…he didn’t want that again. 

And he knew why, down deep down. He knew the danger of loving and caring and—

Screaming, hurting, bleeding, watching—

No. He didn’t want that. It wouldn’t happen. He was going to survive. He was going to be safe. His neck would be choked by no one. 

His breathing returned to normal, and he noticed that the farmer was talking to him. “Did you hear me? I said it was your move.” 

“Yes, I know.” Looking at the board again, he said, “I’m thinking.” And he stared at the board some more, the family continuing their life around him. Wishing and wanting.  

Winter passed by faster than autumn did, and his hovel began to be a bit crowded. He had books, herbs, some tools, the preener, blankets that her father insisted he take, pretty rocks he found outside, trinkets given in return for favors in town—more than anything he had in one place before. He had never stayed in one place this long, had his own privacy like he did in that hovel. And her father was nice and her mother was tolerable and the village was accepting and Buttercup was a girl. Human and real. It all was. 

Somehow, season by season, that tiny, infuriating dairy farm began to feel like a home. And Westley hadn’t had a home in a long, long time. 

It didn’t seem fair then, that he finally felt in place right before he had to leave. He was tracking the days now, counting each sunrise until he never saw the farm again. The subject irritated him, and so he avoided the farmer’s questions whenever he inquired about the future. 

The most they ever talked about it was when they were walking back from town, Horse pulling the milk cart as the sun set behind the mountainside. “Time passes quickly, doesn’t it?” the farmer remarked with an eye on the sun. The colors danced in his sparse hair in a similar way that it did in his daughter’s—a reminder that they were indeed related, as different as they appeared.

“Yes, it does,” Westley responded, looking at the same sunset. The response came easily, since they talked so much. He probably talked more to the farmer than anyone in years. 

“Seems like just yesterday I saw you walk into that tavern, angry at the world. I’m glad that has changed.” Smiling with nostalgia, although something about his words pricked the boy. 

“Who says I’m not angry anymore?” Westley said back, gripping Horse’s reins. “The world hasn’t changed.” 

“I suppose so.” The farmer looked back to the sunset. “Do you know what you’ll do after your time is up, once spring is in full force? Anywhere exciting you want to go?” 

Westley looked away but answered honestly. “No. I’ll just try to find new work. Maybe go to Germany.” 

“Germany! A fine place, a fine place indeed. And after?” 

The boy looked back in surprise, eyebrows up. “After?” 

“After you go to Germany. After you find your new work in the hills somewhere. What will you make of yourself? You’re bound to become something, so what is it you want to do after you find work?” 

He blinked slowly, not really understanding. The concept seemed too foreign to answer. After? There was no after. The plan didn’t include an after. It just was. When you’re focused on staying alive, you don’t think about what happens after. There wasn’t anything next for him that he could see, just scrambling to stay alive and finding new shoes. After was a privilege for those who didn’t live in a world that wanted them gone. 

He didn’t have enough to afford an after. Didn’t the farmer know that? 

Whispered trickled in, the past year showing its influence. Reading and writing could be it, couldn’t it? Being a scholar couldn’t be too hard, or even just a bookkeeper. Or working with livestock—he had a particular knack for that. Maybe exploring new countries like he explored the forests on Sundays, or arguing with people in a marketplace.  

And then, quietly—maybe a house. A farm of his own, smoke coming from the chimney. Loud shouts from kids with blond hair, arguing and laundry drying in the wind. Feathers all along the floors, too many to bother cleaning. Feathers a million colors strong. 

“I don’t know, sir,” the boy said suddenly, cold and distant. Looking everywhere but to the man next to him. “But I’ll find something. I always do.” 

“Of course,” the farmer said with some disappointment in his voice. But Westley didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. 

They walked back to the farmhouse in silence, Westley looking at the ground all the while. And days passed even quicker after that. He watched scenes he had taken for granted—happy cows, frivolous Horse, flighty Buttercup, kind farmers, annoyed wives—and tried to memorize them all. Stashed it away for when he needed to reflect on better times. The year he grew and felt like throwing snowballs at girls who passed by. 

The month came when he was expected to leave. Her father came up to him to talk about it, looking a bit sad. It was a conversation that was long overdue, a proper one. The sight of the man with such an expression pulled at the boy, somehow. 

“Westley,” the milkman said, touching his hat as he sat down on a haystack, “the year is almost up.” 

The boy nodded knowingly, as he had been keeping track of every day that passed by like a man possessed. Westley put the rake he was holding against the barn wall and faced him, knowing he needed to pay attention.

“My wife is very insistent I have this talk with you,” the farmer started again. “But she’s not the boss of you. Of anyone, really.” Westley squinted at the man—those two were beyond him. “I’m going to be honest with you, Westley. I had my reservations when you came here, but you’ve proven yourself a hard worker and a dedicated farm hand. Why, I have never been the best dairy farmer and my cows must be the worst in the entire province, have been for years. If there was a single other dairy farm nearby, I’d be out of business.” The farmer put his hands on his jeans, shaking his head a little. “But ever since you’ve been here the milk has never been better and the cows never so healthy and happy. I even get compliments in the village sometimes, and that’s never happened before. The village likes you, the cows adore you, and my daughter actually tolerates you, somehow. You’re clearly a boy worth keeping around, especially since I don’t want to have the baker glaring at me again.” 

Something was starting to catch in Westley’s throat, and he blinked heavily to steady himself. This man really thought he was that good of a worker, worth that much. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but Westley couldn’t help feeling strange about it. About the man who never took a hint, who never gave up on him. “So?” was all he said, making sure his voice was steady and clear. 

“So I want you to stay.” Westley stilled in place, quiet as stone. “Another year, if you’d like, two if you’re willing. Hell, until my wife chases you out with a broom. You’re a good farm boy and I want you here.” 

Wanted. He was wanted. Since when had that happened? What moment was it? Talking to the farmer in the fields, putting blankets on a sleeping demon, listening to reading lessons, playing games safe inside as a storm raged out in the world. When, when, when? 

It didn’t matter, he knew that. “I don’t stay in places long, sir,” Westley managed to say, looking to the ground. The plan. 

Think of Germany. Think of staying safe. Being free. Nothing else mattered. 

He was all the mattered. 

“I remember you telling me that, yes. But I ask that you think about it.”

“Are you willing to pay me more?” Westley asked quickly, his mind working now. 

“Will that make you want to stay so I don’t have to hire another drunk from Sweden?” 

“Possibly.” 

“Then yes. But the exact amount we will have to negotiate.” The farmer was poor at negotiating, however, so that would quickly go his way. More pay and wanted. At home and near the girl with the beautiful wings. It was a tempting offer. 

But Westley had his survival to think of. 

“I’ll let you know, sir,” he said, and picked up the rake again. “Wouldn’t want to get between you and your wife.” 

“Yes, yes,” the farmer said, sighing a little. But he seemed satisfied that Westley would think about it and walked out of the barn. Leaving him alone in there, trying to clear his mind. Staring at straw and feeling his wings move a little. 

Two more weeks went by while he debated staying. In the meantime, he had to clean up his hovel and buy a sack to carry things in, though he was putting off buying new shoes. He put the rocks he liked to collect outside, the herbs in the forest, and the books in stacks near his cot while he debated which few to take with him. He didn’t know whether to take the preener, so he set it aside. It was useful, yes, and it helped diminish the soreness and rare infection that had become too familiar, but there were too many memories attached to it. Knowing what he did to earn it. 

The hovel was already kept very clean, but he made sure to make it even more so. For the next person who slept on that cot. With whatever books he left behind, like he left everything behind. 

It made him angry then, packing his things, glaring at the sack he held in his hands. Leaving, leaving, leaving. 

One day, close to when he was supposed to leave, some boys came by the farm to talk to Buttercup, which happened occasionally. Her mother forced her outside and he saw her talking with them politely, her large wings dwarfing their small fluttering ones. Her polite look, the way she nodded her head at their attempts at small talk—they were not new. Westley had seen them before. But somehow, knowing he was about to leave, knowing she would be talking to those boys even after he was gone, knowing how much they longed for her, the sight of it made his body hot and angry, jittery with emotion. He gritted his teeth and made sure to stay away from the farm house, heading to the barn to take care of stupid, horrible, cranky Horse. There was something green and horrible in his veins, and it made him scowl and glare and stare down Horse even worse than he usually did. 

Because Westley hated Buttercup, he did. And something akin to hate was definitely in his veins right now. Something that was becoming too familiar, ingrained in him.

He started brushing Horse, making sure to get all the tangled knots out so Buttercup wouldn’t complain about it later—because that’s all she cared about. Just whether he got things done. She didn’t care about him or anything related to him, she made that perfectly clear. And she was talking with boys, village boys, when she only ever talked with him! She was awful. He hated her, he really did. 

As if summoned by his obsession, Buttercup appeared in the barn without a care in the world. Well, that wasn’t true. Buttercup looked irritated, more annoyed than she ever did, but boys always put her in the worst moods. Put her back to where they had been at the start of the year, all the changes scrubbed away.

Once she caught sight of him, she began her taunting in earnest. Fifteen and beautiful, calling him an idiot and worthless and never able to amount to anything and what in the world would she know about any of that? Her words, always able to bounce off, began to rot inside him in a way they never had. Festering, evil, infuriating. Hurting. 

And Westley was done being hurt. Had been his entire life. 

Buttercup left after a few minutes, saying goodbye to Horse but not to him, and once she was gone he let his facade of stoicism break. He threw the brush onto the ground, seething and angry and festering with rage. Who did she think she was? She had even talked about how she could have any boy in the village, how wanted she was. And Westley was so fucking sick of wanting. 

That evening, he made up his mind. He was leaving. No more Farm Boy, he seethed, grabbing the sack he carried by the door. No more anything! He had stayed too long and look where that had gotten him. The plan was all that mattered, he was all that mattered. Not smiles, not the sky, not stories, not homes, not cows, not festivals, not farmers, not girls, not anything! Westley picked a book at random and left behind the preener in his anger. He didn’t need it anyway.

None of this mattered, he reminded himself. None of it made a difference. This farm was just another place to leave behind. It was just something to remember in passing. There was nothing special about it. Nothing worth staying for. 

With that in mind, he shut his hovel door behind him, walking to the gate. 

Every step that brought him towards the gate, seething and scowling, he had to push away thoughts of the dairy farm and the past year. Ones that came into his mind and sunk hooks there, demanding he listen. 

Step. Horse, the worst creature in the world. No more sugar snacks for him, not one. Good riddance. 

Step. The cows, friendly and dumb. No more petting them or seeing new calves. Whatever. There were lots of cows in the world. (He was slower now.)

Step. The farmer’s wife, a complete pain and nag. No more extra meat put into his stew because she knew how fast he was growing. He’d find meat somewhere else. (Why was he slower?)

Step. His hovel. No more privacy or rocks or books or places to keep clean. He’d find a new place to sleep, and he never needed privacy anyway. (He moved as if his feet were clogged by honey, stuck to the ground beneath him.)

Step. The villagers. No more smiles in the morning from old ladies or relaxed wings as he walked by. He’d find a new way to earn extra money, and he never cared about people anyway. (Move, move! Why was he so slow?)

Step. His wings. No more aching in the middle of the night and subtle growth over the course of months, finally healing and beginning to press at his shirt. Whatever, whatever! He didn’t care if his wings became smaller once he left. He never did. (A snail’s pace now.)

Step. The farmer. No more conversations about work or smiles about jobs well done or visits to town. That was fine. There were lots of farmers. He’d find another one, he would. (He was still moving, clogged down and with the heart of a snail, but he was moving. He had to keep moving, always.)

Westley was close to the gate now, able to reach out and touch it—

Step. 

Her. 

And there Westley stopped. 

Buttercup. No more taunting or cruelty or days by the fence spent calling him a worthless moron. No more laughing when he hit himself with a rake or staring at him when he did something ridiculous because she was nearby. No more being struck completely dumb whenever she was nearby so he couldn’t speak, couldn’t say a word in rebuttal to anything she said. No more seeing her sleep in the barn and making sure she wasn’t cold. No more accidental grazes, wings or hands. No more trusting her with that scarred part of himself, knowing she would never jeer or cut. No more touching the same brush, rough skin on soft. No more envy from the village boys because he was the only boy she wanted to talk to. No more moments where the sun was in her hair and in her wings and in her eyes and she looked up at the sky, so completely happy. No more thoughts about poetry and demons and angels and how they all centered around her eyes. No more cowardice  about asking her to dance at the festivals, even though he didn’t know how and she hated dancing. No more surprise at how fast he was learning to read. No more snowballs that hit his shoulder. No more cups of milk in blizzard storms. No more dreams of kissing her, wondering if she would ever kiss him back. No more looking at her window, which was what he was doing right now, and wishing she would peek out and see him. 

No more Buttercup, plain and simple. No more farmer’s daughter once he left the farm. 

Westley took a deep breath, looking away from her window and back to the gate. He tried to summon his earlier anger. 

So what if there would be no more Buttercup? Westley hated that girl. He was utterly sick of her. Sick of being treated like garbage, sick of not being wanted. She thought he was worthless, but he would prove her wrong, he would! Because he was going to go to Germany or London or Asia and find his own fortune and become somebody worth noticing. Someone she could actually…it didn’t matter.

Westley took another step. He was finally going to leave and make something of himself. Take that step that had always seemed so daunting and prove her wrong, once and for all. That demon he hated. That girl who pet cows in green pastures. And then one day, after he had accomplished all of that, she would smile and realize what she had driven away. 

He stopped again, right in front of the gate. His heart was pounding fast, his grip tight on his knapsack so he wouldn’t drop it. Yet his eyes went back to her window, barely able to breathe as boxes became undone. The ones he had suppressed all year were now released with a vengeance. 

What if she smiled because of him after he left? What would he do then? How could he live with himself if he missed what he wanted most in the world? 

Didn’t matter, didn’t matter. It was unconvincing, because she was radiant when she smiled. He took another step, but stopped again. One foot off the farm, and one foot in.

Because what if she smiled tomorrow and he wasn’t there to see it? 

His knapsack fell to the ground. His eyes widened, his quick brain finally making the logical connection. 

Oh.

Fuck.

That was not hatred, was it? 

His heart beating fast, he realized that he had grown too much. Because he didn’t want Germany anymore, did he? 

He wanted something more. Something real and human. Without him realizing it, he had become secure and attached and looking for a new future. And he had only realized it once he had been about to go back to what had kept him so miserable. 

Westley realized then that he didn’t want to just survive anymore. He wanted an after, a future with the skills he was cultivating here. And to feed Horse treats and pet the cows and eat the wife’s stew and have his own privacy and talk with villagers and grow his wings and care about the farmer, and, and, and—

 Staring out, his heart beat fast as he finally realized the answer to the question he had been asking all year. All centered around a girl who had affected him like no one ever did. The one he wanted, wanted, wanted. That he cared about so deeply it burned him, took over his mind, changed him, made him younger than he thought he could be. 

As you wish. 

I love you.

Westley, never looking away from her window, picked his knapsack off the ground. And he stepped away from the fence, boxes reforming.

The next day, Westley told the farmer that he was willing to stay another year, two if he would have him. 

It was time for a new plan.