Author's Note:
Standard disclaimers apply. All mistakes my own. Hope you enjoy.
Team Work
Forming
He wasn't scared, of course. He'd been born with a sword in his hand according to his father. Come out swinging and never stopped. His father had tutored him, and when d'Artagnan had surpassed his skill level, his father had found him someone better. The thought of his father brought a fresh blow of grief. Memories of the nights they would relax by fighting in the small courtyard at home still too raw; d'Artagnan ruthlessly pushed them aside, shut them down, concentrated once more on the man before him.
No, of course he wasn't scared. There was nothing to fear. He'd already fought the brooding man once and survived. A little humiliated perhaps, but that was another emotion he could easily push aside.
This was a training fight. He'd had hundreds, perhaps thousands before. The nasally voice of Monsieur Perobo still haunted his dreams at time. "Parry, Charles, parry!"
He could fight Athos, show him what he was made of. What he was really made of when he wasn't half blind with grief and rage.
Athos just stared dispassionately at him, waiting patiently for him to settle.
'Ok.'
Athos raised an eyebrow slowly at d'Artagnan's proclamation but didn't comment. D'Artagnan found he didn't like the silence, didn't like the trail his thoughts would take when left without direction. He whirled, sudden crackling energy fuelling the movement, adrenaline singing through muscles, movement blanking the thoughts more effectively than anything else he had tried. The sound of steel on steel echoed around the garrison, the beginnings of a harsh, brutal fight.
D'Artagnan emerged at the other end flat on his back but alive. Really alive.
His heart hammering, his breath a rush for fresh oxygen, his muscles aching from the intensity, a sword tip pressed to his throat. And a smile on his lips that he was surprised Athos returned.
Storming
'You have to learn to fight without emotion.'
It was, of course, an old argument by then, d'Artagnan's frustration at himself, at the situation but mostly at Athos coming out in force. 'How Athos? By turning stone-hearted like you?'
'You let your heart rule and this is where you end up.'
'Oh, so this is my fault now?' D'Artagnan all but snarled back. Facing away from the man was not helping him control his temper right now. Just because he couldn't currently see Athos, did not mean he didn't know the look on Athos's face.
'Maybe you two should be quiet.' Porthos's voice of reason went unheard or unheeded as he looked round at Athos on his right, d'Artagnan on his left. Manacled with their backs pressed against a support beam it was difficult to keep watching both of them without getting a crick in his neck.
'I never said it was your fault. We were outnumbered and we were all over powered.' Athos was trying to sound reasonable now. That also went unheard by the young Gascon.
'But maybe if I'd thought with my head-'
'You'd have had it knocked off instead.' Aramis interrupted, finally unable to contain his role to mere spectator. 'Athos, the boy did good.'
'The boy is going to get himself or us killed one of these days.'
'The boy is sat right here. And I'm not a boy!'
'Maybe you should have argued that first.' Aramis said, trying to be helpful. He looked away so d'Artagnan wouldn't see the smile when all he got was a snarl in response.
'Maybe instead of arguing whose fault this is, we should be thinking of ways to get out of here.' Porthos, again finding himself the voice of reason, was again mostly ignored.
'You are skilled with a sword' Athos said patiently.
'Why, thank you.' Was the instant sarcastic reply.
'But skill matters little when you cannot control your temper.' Athos carried on like he hadn't been interrupted. It had to be really important for their laconic de facto leader to be using so many words Aramis thought.
Athos's proclamation this time was met with silence.
'D'Artagnan, are you even listening to me?' Unable to crane his neck enough to see the boy behind him quickly got irritating. He caught Aramis's grin though and gave him a look. 'D'Artagnan!'
The only answer he got was a muffled grunt and a rattle of the chains that bound them. Then Porthos's exclamation 'how did you do that?' Still trying to crane his neck round, Athos was increasingly frustrated at not being able to see the fuss. 'D'Artagnan!' Porthos's voice was a mixture of horror and pride, and Athos near pulled his shoulder out of joint to see why.
'D'Artagnan, don't!' If even Aramis was trying to stop d'Artagnan, something had to be amiss.
'What? What is he doing?' Athos asked. Another muffled grunt, and the sound of Aramis's head hitting the support beam behind him. Athos could understand that frustration when it came to d'Artagnan.
Who suddenly appeared, walking free, to stand before him, massaging his hands. Athos, not normally at a loss for words could only gape for a second. 'How did you manage that?'
D'Artagnan let his hands drop when Athos's gaze dropped to them, grinning brightly instead. 'I used my head. Would you like to continue lecturing me, or should I free you too?'
Athos's dark look went, of course, completely over his head.
Norming
It had, of course, become a spectator sport before long. And where men gathered to watch a fight, there was going to be money changing hands on who would be the victor.
At first, only fools bet against Athos. The young upstart might have had skill, but they did not reach that of his mentor's. Of course, as with all skilled students, eventually there came a time when the student beat the master.
They made a lot of money that day.
Now the fights were more even, the audience larger, the betting fiercer. Some would never bet against Athos. The older generation who despised d'Artagnan, more so since he became a full recruit. They saw a young upstart, wet behind the ears, trailing along behind The Inseparables like a puppy.
The Inseparables, of course, knew differently. D'Artagnan would never blindly follow anyone. And whilst he was young, he brought something that had perhaps been lacking for some time. Vigour. Life. Energy. Passion. Argument. A challenge to the norm.
New recruits liked d'Artagnan and rarely bet against him. Of course, Aramis didn't make much off them as most of them were as broke as d'Artagnan too. But he also didn't mind parting with their winnings when d'Artagnan won. Well, not as much, anyway.
Porthos begrudged handing over every penny. And could scare most of the recruits away before they even dared ask. Aramis tried to not let him be in charge of the purse too often.
Aramis would never bet against either of them. He didn't need to, of course. And they were too closely matched in skill now.
Athos had the years of experience, the undeniable talent and ability, the coldness that directed every movement with a single minded purpose to win.
D'Artagnan though had an energy that Athos struggled to contain at times. He had raw skill that Athos had slowly bettered. He had the dirty tricks that Porthos had imparted, and the grace and flexibility of movement that Aramis had worked on with him.
Cultivated by all of them, but he was still d'Artagnan. Loyal and honourable. Too stubborn to give up. Too impatient to simply wait for the next move. Too defiant to ever believe he was losing.
And he had fire. Athos had done his best to temper it, but it still raged. Sometimes it lost him the fight. Often, though, as much as Athos would argue against, it pulled him through against impossible odds.
Aramis watched closely as Athos gained the upper hand, pushing back against d'Artagnan though he valiantly continued to fight. They both appeared oblivious to their audience, even of Treville standing on the balcony by his office door. D'Artagnan was cornered against the table, surely defeated now, and Aramis began to calculate the winnings in his head.
Too soon, though.
D'Artagnan, Aramis quickly figured out though his mouth remained open at the audacity of the movement, had let himself be cornered. He'd then simply bounded up onto the table (the boy had far too much energy after such a draining fight) and leapt over Athos who, whilst never letting himself be distracted by such an outrageous move, couldn't turn quickly enough to counter the next strike.
The instant clamber of recruits blocked Aramis's view of the handshake between friends, as they all celebrated their winnings like they had been the victors of the fight. They cleared quickly as Athos and d'Artagnan walked over, taking seats either side of Aramis. Porthos finished celebrating (and rubbing the old elite's nose into it) and came over.
'Well, gentlemen?' Athos asked, his voice calm though his face was red and his breathing still quick. 'Enough for dinner?'
'Enough for a few good bottles of wine even.' Aramis said with a grin.
'Next time, you and Aramis can fight.' Athos said, stretching and arching his back.
'Ah, but me and Aramis isn't so pretty to watch.' Porthos said with a shake of his head and a grin.
'Hey! I'm very pretty.'
'Not with a sword. You two fight. We collect the money. We all get to celebrate.' Porthos summarised. 'Only you two would fight for real to fleece money.' He added.
'It's got to look real.' Athos stated.
'It definitely does.' Porthos agreed.
'Then our work here is done.' D'Artagnan said with a grin, springing up again and making Athos moan in jealousy of his youth. 'Let's go enjoy our winnings.'
The others couldn't help but smile as they followed him out of the garrison.
Performing
The four stood, side by side, sword arms raised, facing their enemy. 'I get the ugly one.' Aramis spoke from next to Porthos.
'You're gonna have to be a little more specific.' D'Artagnan said from Porthos's other side, sounding as casual as if they were sharing a drink in a tavern rather than about to engage in a last stand with a noble man's own privately funded, fully trained army. 'They're all pretty ugly.'
Porthos, eyeing the men in front of him, couldn't disagree with the assessment.
'Men, please.' Athos spoke up. 'Focus. We are expected for an audience with his Majesty in five hours to report the latest challenge to his throne has been thwarted. And we're four hours from Paris.'
'And I have a date with young Abigail.' Aramis couldn't help but add.
'I'm sure there will be more Abigails.' D'Artagnan said, deftly leaning away as Aramis tried to clip him on the ear. 'And more card games.' He couldn't help but add to Porthos, who could reach him for a deserved slap. 'Of course, I'm more worried Athos has been without wine for at least a day.'
'It's not you who should be worried.' Aramis observed. 'It is them.' He said with a nod at the advancing force.
D'Artagnan thought about these wise words and nodded in agreement.
'Anyway,' Athos continued, hoping that ignoring them would make them stop, knowing full well it wouldn't. 'Fight well, my brothers. Fight with your head, and your heart.'
'All for one.' Aramis said with flourish
'And one for all.' They all completed, the vow uniting them and strengthening them as they stepped once again into the battle.
Authors note:
Thank you for reading. This is my first Musketeer fanfiction- thought I'd try dipping my toe in! Reviews are always appreciated.
The four headings come from one of the theories of how teams are formed by Bruce Tuckman. They proved useful prompts.