Author's Note: I have now dived headfirst into this fandom and I suspect that I've banged my head on the bottom of the pool. At any rate, this is my first crack at these lovely fellows so, erm, go easy? As always, I love and adore you all.

Porthos, a reasonably tall and even more reasonably rotund gentleman, pushed his way through the crowds of France, knocking over several unfortunately placed bystanders like so many bowling pins. Well, if they had had bowling in the 1800s.

At any rate, he was going at an extremely fast speed. Suddenly, he stopped. Before him, his goal sat, bathed in all it's glory; the buffet table of the King and Queen's wedding anniversary festival. He was about to dive into the food when a hand darted up to his shoulder.

"If you could restrain yourself until grace has been said I'm sure you'd be none the worse," a sardonic voice said from a place far south of Porthos' elbow.
Porthos glared down at the man, who he had just realized was a priest.
"Are you implying something about my physique, sir?"
The shorter man (his name was Aramis), a reasonably sensible fellow, had just realized that he had angered the veritable Goliath who now looked about ready to make some lovely priest stew. However, Aramis had had the dubious good fortune to have a musketeer's upbringing. It could be said that pride was, well, a matter of pride to him. Naturally, he drew himself up to his full height (which was still much shorter than the gargantuan man before him) and did his best to glare up at the other man.

Now, duelling would've been a bad idea. An extremely, terribly, extravagantly, terrifically bad idea. Firstly, it was the King and Queen's anniversary and no fighting was allowed. Secondly, upbringings aside, neither man was a musketeer and therefore had no excuse to fight. Thirdly, neither one had fought for some months; they were both rather rusty. Therefore, if conclusions be as kisses, you're four negatives make two affirmatives, fighting would be bad.

Fortunately for the musketeers, but unfortunately for the historical accuracy of this tale, the French court had created a convenient solution to their current scenario. This solution came in the form of a contest known as 'swords-shields-axes'. The concept was simple: using a variety of hand signals, the two opposing fighters would determine which weapon they had chosen to use in that round. Axes beat shields, shields beat swords and, for whatever reason, swords beat axes. Any resemblance this bears to any other game is obviously purely coincidental.

So Porthos and Aramis introduced themselves to each other and prepared to "duel". A reasonably drunk man (who will be brought up later) eyed them from his spot at one of the many cafe tables which had been laid out for the festival.

Round One

Porthos and Aramis bespoke the name of their duel and so set forth the weapon that they had chosen. Porthos, predictably, chose axes and Aramis chose swords. Aramis won. Porthos used a rather rude hand signal not affiliated with the game.

Round Two

They once more spoke the name of the game and did so set forth the weapons that each had chosen. Stupidly, Aramis underestimated (overestimated?) his opponent and assumed that Porthos would change his weapon. He didn't. Aramis chose shields and Porthos remained with axes. Aramis lost. He repeated Porthos' hand gesture from before and Porthos grinned. Had Aramis not prevented his supper earlier, however briefly, they might've been friends.
The drunk man mentioned earlier had taken an interest in the match and was beginning to make his way over.

Round Three

Porthos: Axes. Aramis: Axes.

Round Four

Round Four was interrupted by the drunk fellow. He tapped the both of them on the shoulders and pointed over to a group of priests and a few of the Cardinal's men who appeared to be harassing some poor young woman. The two men immediately shook off their quarrel in favour of saving her. From the look of Aramis' face, he'd seen this sort of thing before. All three readied to fight, rules aside.

Porthos sauntered forward first, faking geniality, "These gentlemen bothering you?" he asked the girl. She nodded. Porthos grinned wolfishly and turned to the men. Athos (for so the drunk fellow was named) and Aramis joined Porthos.
"Well, we can't have that," said Porthos.

The following few minutes consisted of much violence and little intellectual interest. They will be removed from this tale. Suffice to say that many men were deservedly knocked upside the head with various pieces of food originating from the well-stocked buffet table.

Following that ordeal, the heroes of this tale could be found making merry as if they'd known each other for years. Athos had introduced himself to Porthos and Aramis and they were all getting on splendidly. All had quite forgotten that fighting was not allowed on that day.

The Bastille reminded them.

The trio found themselves released from the prison come morning. They soon found themselves strolling down a street, speaking freely and without thought of propriety. They were unfortunately stopped by a messenger of the King, come to bid them see His Grace that afternoon.

...

The three men found themselves on their knees before the King, heads bowed, as the Cardinal watched on exasperatedly.
"Who are these three then," said the King disinterestedly, glancing down at his newly manicured nails.

"These are the men who had the gall to fight my men yesterday on your anniversary," the Cardinal replied with a hint of annoyance in his usually collected demeanour.

"Who won?"

"They did, Your Grace,"

"The odds?"

"Three against twenty," the Cardinal said, the annoyance becoming more apparent. The King's lips twitched visibly as he barely contained his laughter.

"Interesting,"

"May I suggest a punishment which might be suitable-"

"No, that's alright. You three may go,"

If it weren't impossible, it might've been said that the Cardinal had smoke pouring from his ears. He was truly a sight to behold. Porthos snickered at the sight before stifling his mirth.

So they were sent on their way, only to find that the King had decreed that they should become part of his musketeers. The three men thought it over.

"I hear it pays well," was Porthos' contribution.

"I've had just about enough of my less than holy brethren," came from Aramis.

"I've run out of wine," was Athos' noble thought.

So concluding, they agreed that becoming musketeers would be an excellent idea. In celebration, they hired a servant (a down trodden kind of fellow by the name of Planchet, which is ironic because it originates from the word 'plaunche' meaning plank. Get it? Down trodden? Okay, never mind) and set about drinking.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Aramis asked worriedly.

"Don't be such a worrywart," Porthos grunted.

"Of course it's a good idea. Fame, glory, all for one and one for all? They'll write songs about us long after we're dead. This is the greatest idea any of us have ever had," said Athos, "we will go wherever they send us, do whatever France needs,"