Chapter Text
The Revenge sailed under a sky still bruised from the previous night’s castle raid. Below deck, the four heroes had a tense, final meeting, accompanied by first mate Silas - who, by all rights, should now have been taking command, but had expressed a great reluctance about the pointier aspects of the pirating life. Booty division and port fees, yes; rapiers, no.
Westley had retrieved the black mask and the crew manifest.
“The problem is logistics,” Westley stated, not gently. “The Dread Pirate Roberts is a myth. A myth does not keep the same crew. When the identity is passed, the old crew is discharged, and a new one is hired—men who believe they are serving the terrifying, original figure.”
Fezzik frowned. “Your loyal men… you must replace them?” That sat badly with his values.
“It is doctrine. They are all made wealthy and set ashore." Fezzik nodded. That was fair. "That is how the secret remains absolute. The new crew will be men of ambition, chosen from ports far to the south, who have never seen the Dread Pirate Roberts unmasked.” He looked between Silas, anxious and sweating, and Inigo, hopeful and excited.
“A new crew will believe Inigo is the one true terror, a silent ghost who has captained the Revenge for decades.”
He turned to, Silas, who was clutching his ledger. He was indeed the sharpest of the crew. But his heart lay elsewhere.
“Silas, you are discharged. You are now the Chief of Logistics for the Florin ex-Mariners Royal Charity, reporting to Princess Buttercup. You have a new ship, a full set of unsoiled ledgers, and a destiny free of nautical violence. Go, be happy.”
Silas's face lit up with radiant joy. “I am released to a life of perpetual financial reconciliation! Thank you, Captain! I have already drafted a detailed, seven-page inventory of my replacement’s necessary supplies, which does not include any high-grade linen paper, as that is reserved for Florin state correspondence.” Silas gathered his quills and was gone in a rush of delighted efficiency.
Westley turned back to the remaining men. “Buttercup and Fezzik will leave on the sloop for the mainland. I will, as tradition dictates, stay on as first mate during the handover period.
Inigo, you must understand: to your new men, you are a ghost. You are terrifying, silent, and without humor. We will have some," and his eyes locked with Buttercup's, "LIMITED time for the lessons.”
Inigo frowned, adjusting the mask. “A ghost who gives tactical advice? How will they ever trust a silent instructor?”
“They won't,” Westley said simply. “You do not need to instruct. They will be too terrified to breathe. That is the Dread.”