Disclaimer & Spoilers: See Chapter One.
A/N: I almost feel like I should be apologizing to William Goldman for this chapter; you'll see why if you keep reading. I will say that I used some dialogue and situations from his wonderful book/screenplay – guess which one! – but have changed the details, meanings, and intent of several famous lines. You may also recognize some dialogue from Friends and Enemies (1.01), written by Adrian Hodges.
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Timeline: Prequel. Post It's About Time (Chapter Nineteen).
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"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person. They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood…"
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Chapter Twenty-one: That Special Something
"It had been a good feeling and one that Athos had not experienced for many years, not since his beloved brother had been so cruelly taken from him and he'd had no one left to teach. There had been other recruits, of course, but none of them had that special something that d'Artagnan did – passion, courage, dedication, loyalty."
~~~~~~~ Chapter 21 of "Family" by Celticgal1041.
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Athos entered the office only after he was given permission. Captain Tréville was writing…something; he couldn't quite tell what the content was, but from other clues he was able to discern that it was a reply to a missive from the King.
He stood ramrod straight in front of his captain's desk, hand almost too-tightly gripping his sword's hilt and not daring to speak while he was still angry and fed up, knowing it wouldn't help the situation at all.
Suddenly, Tréville cursed and forcefully put his quill pen back into its simply yet beautifully-designed holder. The captain set aside the paper, placing it atop a pile of others that were littered with large ink blots marring the page. Athos knew that Tréville would have the paper cut so that the clean pieces would become notepaper and the soiled pieces would become kindling, not wasting a single scrap of the expensive material.
The Captain sighed in frustration and retrieved a clean sheet of paper. Instead of taking up his quill once more, Tréville looked up at him.
"Well, what was it this time?"
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When he'd reported in from his latest mission, Tréville had given Athos the task of assessing Cavil, who was the second son of some noble from the southern part of the country. The young man's father was equipped with only a minor title and a mere fraction of the land that Athos's family had ever maintained.
The Captain revealed to him how, the minute the new Musketeer had walked into the garrison, Cavil had acted as if owned the place. It was as if the younger man didn't realize that there were many second and third sons who also served in the regiment. The only real difference between Cavil and some of the others was that the man's father had been able to afford to purchase the commission for his son, while the rest had had to work hard for theirs.
By this time, Athos was beginning to very much despise his unasked-for role in the training of other Musketeers. Very few had the talent to live up to his exacting standards, and even fewer had ever not been a burden to teach. The only person who had never been a burden, and had instead been a joy to teach, was dead and buried for more than four years now. Thomas had never had the same talent as him, and his own sword master had refused to teach Thomas, but Athos had loved passing on his knowledge to his younger brother.
Athos had been assigned other recruits in the past in order to test their skills with a blade. He was one of the garrison's weapons masters; therefore it was logical that he should be given this duty. Unfortunately, all too often he would become disappointed with the men he'd been assigned to assess for one reason or another.
Other than assessing their skills, Athos could do nothing much about those men, like Cavil, who had bought their commissions unless they were willing to learn from him or the other master swordsmen. However, it was often his testimony of their attitude and progress – or lack thereof – that was used to help decide a recruit's placement and assigned missions.
Of those recruits who had been handed over to him for more personalized training, a fair number of them had shown some amount of promise in the beginning. That promise too often faded, exposing something lacking in some part of the man's true character or abilities. Too often their passion would be extinguished, they would find their courage failing, see their dedication waning, and have their loyalties tested beyond what they could endure. None of them had ever lived up to their initial promise or hype.
He was beginning to lose all hope of ever finding someone who had the skills, that special something which would make passing on his knowledge the least bit enjoyable once again. After having Tréville attempt and fail – sometimes spectacularly – to make him a mentor to several of the more skilled sword fighters, he was at the point where he just might show the next upstart exactly how capable he was with a blade.
Normally, he had to hold back in order to not injure the men he fought against, making sure to closely match the skill of his opponent but maintaining one or two levels above the other man's abilities. Athos found that if he let the other man dictate the fight – at least at first – then he would be shown what would otherwise be hidden by his opponent. He never sought to humiliate or demean anyone – at least not on purpose – but he simply allowed them to fall into a trap of their own making. Once the men did that, it was only another moment before he disarmed them. How each man responded after they had lost told him the rest of what he needed to know.
Most recruits and newly commissioned Musketeers did not last long in a fight against him. In the months since Trévlle had begun ordering him to take on the assessment or mentorship of the newer Musketeers, the time those men had been under his tutelage had steadily decreased. The first had lasted barely a month; now they lasted only a few days at best.
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By the time Athos had exited Captain Tréville's office, holding his weapons belt in his right hand, he was wistfully thinking of his bed and a bottle or two of wine, though not necessarily in that order. Directly in his path, there was a young man striding over-confidently towards him, who was wearing his scabbard on his right side, indicating he was left-hand dominant.
From the younger man's clothes, it was obvious this rude new Musketeer was from a noble family. Aside from him, there was currently no one else born of a noble family in the garrison who wasn't a second or third son – or even a fourth son, in one instance.
Without any introductions on the young Musketeer's part, the man immediately challenged Athos to a match. Athos had been out on the road all day traveling back to Paris in the hot sun, and this…this pompous stranger – who he assumed was his new assignment, Cavil – expected him to cross swords directly upon the younger man's say so. It was incredibly bad form and even a second – or was it third? – son should know better.
"I am sorry, but I have just returned from a mission and am quite fatigued. Perhaps we could spar at another time," Athos said, hoping the young Musketeer would see reason.
"Are you such a coward that you would refuse me?"
This was not a very auspicious start to his new assignment. Athos rubbed a hand over his face, feeling irritation quickly replacing his exhaustion even as he heard several of his brothers-in-arms take umbrage to the accusation of cowardice on his behalf, most notably Porthos.
Apparently, the young man's arrogance was of too significant a size to maneuver around for Cavil to catch sight of the reason Athos had been hoping for.
"I am not refusing; I am postponing our match for another time."
Cavil must have noticed that he had an audience, because Athos would swear that the arrogant fool had just puffed out his chest in an attempt to look bigger. He would've rolled his eyes at the action if he'd had the energy – or cared.
"A true Musketeer would not let fatigue defeat them!" Cavil said, nearly shouting his words to the assembled crowd, many of whom were looking towards him as if he were about to lose his nearly-impeccable control.
His fellow Musketeers would have a very long wait before that would ever happen.
"As you wish."—Athos bowed his head slightly in acquiescence—"We can begin now if you like."
"No, no," Cavil says, throwing a hand into the air, a careless gesture at best. "We will wait until you are ready. Five minutes."
The younger man, a smug smile on his face and sounding as if he has just granted an enormous favor, walked away towards the practice area. It was obvious to Athos that Cavil did not even recognize just how badly he has handled the situation or how insulting he was being.
Less than five minutes later, Cavil was insisting that they start, rudely asking if he was ready.
"Whether I am or not, you have been more than generous."
Athos's sword barely clears its scabbard before Cavil launches his attack. He can tell right away that Cavil is not left-hand dominant and wonders why the young man insisted on fighting as if he were.
Not many were able to fight with their non-dominant hand, but when he had been young, he had broken his right arm falling off his horse after it had been frightened by a snake. Sainct, his sword master had not allowed him any time off from his studies to heal nor would he allow his pupil's skills to grow rusty, his teachings to become stagnant. Athos had taken up his sword with his left hand and forced himself to become proficient during those weeks his right arm had needed to properly heal.
Ever since then, he'd made sure to keep up the skill, mostly in private and as far as he was aware, no one had seen him fight left-handed in more than five years, though the whole garrison was currently getting an eyeful. He wonders why Cavil thought it necessary to try and best him in this way, but Athos knew he was more than worthy to meet the younger man's challenge even while fighting left-handed.
Was Cavil hoping to put him off balance by fighting left-handed when that was not the norm for the vast majority of swordsmen? Was the newly-commissioned Musketeer thinking to use what would normally be considered a weakness against him? Was he wrong in his observations and Cavil was actually a master with his left hand?
He was almost certain this was not the case. This was just another show of arrogance, an attempt by the younger man to make himself feel superior over a person he more than likely considered inferior. It was also an insult. Cavil must think that, if he bests one of the Musketeers' sword masters with his non-dominant hand, then it would be a greater victory, a way to gain popularity, influence, or respect.
After his theories of what Cavil was trying to accomplish quickly flashed through his mind, Athos decided that they didn't matter. Soon enough Cavil would be quite disappointed in the outcome of their match.
His opponent was a man who obviously had no true passion for the art of the sword, no true loyalty to the group of men he had sworn his allegiance to. In Athos's mind, had this been a recruit, this boy would already be one foot out the door.
"Your sword is quite a work of craftsmanship," he said, breaking his normal silence as he countered another of Cavil's parries.
"My father purchased it for me. It was made by a six-fingered man named Montoya."—The boy surged forward to attack—"Enough talk. Fight me!"
Athos mentally shrugged and did as the upstart asked, and fought the other man while analyzing every move.
Cavil was very clearly using Bonetti's defense, something much better suited to a rocky terrain, which very clearly the practice yard was not.
If it had been a rocky terrain, then Cavil would naturally expect him to counter with Capo Ferro. However, he had always found that Thibault cancelled out Capo Ferro, which this young man obviously did not seem to know anything about. It was too bad really, since he had studied his Agrippa at Sainct's insistence, and would've enjoyed countering Thibault with it.
"You are wonderful," Cavil says, a tiny bit of condescension-laced awe creeping into his voice.
Athos was certain that the younger man did not mean a single word, and made a counter move, surprising the boy by meeting his challenge in such a fashion.
"I do believe you are better than me," Cavil said with a smug grin on his face.
"If that is true, then why do you look so happy?"
Cavil shrugged, not seeming to care that his movements were becoming sloppier or that he was losing ground. Athos was having a difficult time keeping his skill level the same in order to not give his true mastery with a blade away, even though he was tempted to end this ridiculous fight as soon as possible.
For Cavil, this challenge was a means to an end, a way to gain status among his fellow Musketeers. For Athos, all this idiotic posturing was doing was making him more and more annoyed the longer he had to deal with the younger man.
This boy was not worth his time, not worth mentoring as Tréville had ordered. This boy could not learn nor would he ever be willing to learn anything from him. Athos just hoped to God the boy would at least learn how to follow orders or Cavil would get his fellow Musketeers killed somewhere down the line.
"I believe that I know something you do not," Cavil finally replied, beginning to sound winded.
"Really? Enlighten me," Athos said, getting the feeling that the tide was about to change.
Cavil disengaged from the fight, taking a couple of steps backward.
"I am not left handed," he said, tossing his sword up into air and catching it in his right hand, flourishing the blade a couple of times before re-engaging in the fight using McBone.
Finally, the insolent boy had become a challenge to his ability to fight left handed. For the first time, Athos was actually enjoying himself. Alas, he was not fighting to enjoy the dance of blades, but instead to teach a lesson he hoped Cavil would never forget.
"You are truly amazing," Athos said, deciding that flattery was what was expected in such an instance.
Cavil pushed him back a few steps then mockingly bowed towards him. "I ought to be after so many years of practice."
Athos could not have wished for a more perfect segue way to the lesson he wished to give Cavil.
"Then there is something you should know," he said as he allowed the boy to drive him back into a corner using Fabris.
"Well, what is it?" Cavil asked, sounding impatient and very self-assured of his impending victory.
Athos countered with a move that brought him bursting forth out of the corner the boy thought his opponent had been trapped in.
"I"— Athos switches to fighting with his right hand in the middle of a countermove—"am not left-handed either."
Cavil's eyes open wide as saucers as he suddenly found himself on the defensive after dominating – or so he thought – the fight for so long.
"Who are you really? Because you sure as hell did not learn those moves at some military academy or out on the streets!"
"I am no one of consequence," Athos calmly replied.
"I must know," the boy said through clenched teeth.
As calmly and a blandly as he could, Athos replied, "Get used to disappointment."
Cavil growled in frustration, muttered several curse words, including one about Athos's mother, and recklessly attacked anew.
More than ready for this farce to be at an end, Athos does something he would not normally do: he set an obvious – to him at least – trap. When Cavil narrowly avoided falling for it, Athos springs the real trap, one Sainct would have been proud of. He quickly disarmed the boy, grabbing hold of the other man's sword arm, tripping him, and pointing both swords at particularly sensitive areas on the upstart Musketeer's body.
"How—?" Cavil asked from his supine position on the ground, sounding nearly breathless and more than a little angry.
Athos hated to be right about one of assigned recruits. This one would never learn, but he would give it one last shot.
"You dare ask 'how' after your insolence and rudeness in challenging a fellow Musketeer who has just returned from a mission."—Athos removes the swords, tossing the boy's down to the ground behind him and out of Cavil's reach—"You dare to ask 'how' after attempting to fight left-handed as though you were a true master."—He switches his sword back and forth between his left and right hands a couple of times—"You dare ask 'how' when I matched you move for move and hand to hand, controlling the fight the entire time even as you thought you were going to be victorious."—He crouches slightly and lowers his voice even more than it already was—"How do you think, boy?"
Cavil's eyes narrow in anger as if he could not believe anyone would dare to speak to him thusly.
And with that reaction, even after everything Athos has done to prove to the boy that he still had much to learn, after everything Athos had just said to try to get through to the idiot, it was obvious that the boy had not learned anything.
Athos stood and without another word, turned to retrieve his weapons belt, which Aramis had recovered and was holding out to him. He nodded his thanks and made his way through the crowd, parting the men as if he were parting the Red Sea and ignoring their murmurs as he made his way towards Captain Tréville's office.
He was beyond done.
He was done with insolent, arrogant boys who didn't know any better.
He was done assessing recruits who didn't know which end of the sword was the dangerous one.
He was done being assigned young men for him to mentor until they received their commission.
He was done with Captain Tréville trying to add a fourth to their team as most of the other Musketeers were grouped, knowing Athos would be the main obstacle preventing that from happening.
He was well and truly done being disappointed, and despaired of ever finding someone with that special something worth cultivating.
He did not care if his Captain ordered him to assess another recruit or take on another young Musketeer to mentor, because he would refuse. He would rather take 100 lashes of the whip to his back than follow such an order ever again.
Reaching the Captain's office, Athos knocked and waited to be bid to enter.
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Captain Tréville held his gaze for he knew not how long after he'd finished his account of what had recently happened down in the practice yard.
"How many does this make?" Tréville asked.
Athos looked down, refusing to answer and suddenly realizing that Cavil had been assigned to him barely an hour ago. It was a new record, and he recognized that the two of them had been in this situation one too many times in the past.
The Captain sighed; it was a heavily weighted sound, full of frustration, annoyance, and more than a little understanding.
"Fine."
Athos's head snapped up at the word, and he couldn't help but stare at his mentor.
"Really?" he blurted, not daring to believe the older man would relent.
The Captain rolled his eyes and replied, "Yes."
"Thank you, Sir. I—"
"You are dismissed," Tréville said. "Maybe someday, you'll accept the fact that you, Porthos, and Aramis need a fourth."
Athos in no way, shape, or form agreed with his Captain about needing a fourth man to round out their team. He was more than content having only his two best friends by his side, the men he trusted with his life and knew better than himself. However, he felt it would be impolitic to disagree with the Captain at this time.
"Perhaps."
Tréville gave him a look telling him exactly what the older man thought of his attempt to smooth over their perpetual disagreement over numbers.
As he opened the office door and stepped out onto the balcony, Athos breathed in a dose of fresh air, content to finally be free of ever again having to assess, train, or mentor anymore young recruits.
Athos was dead set against it, but still couldn't help wondering if Captain Tréville might one day be right about needing a fourth. As he made his way towards his room, he shook his head in denial of such a ludicrous concept, and reminded himself that that day, if it ever happened, was a long ways away.
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Five months later:
Athos was just about to set foot on the staircase leading up to the Captain's office, when from behind, he hears, "I'm looking for Athos!"
He turns around to see a pistol pointed towards him and his friends by a tall, young man with dark hair and eyes. Athos does not ever remember meeting this young man before and wonders what the grievance with him was.
"You've found him," he calmly says.
"My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac, in Gascony. Prepare to fight. One of us dies here."
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The end.
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A/N: LadyCavil was the first to correctly guess the source of the story's overall quote way back in Chapter Two. Because I was in the process of finishing this incredibly stubborn chapter at the time, I decided to rename the main OC in this chapter "Cavil" in recognition. Congrats LadyCavil! :o)
Next time: Chapter Twenty-two: The Sign
Thanks for reading!