Hey y'all,
So this is my very first FanFic (hurray!) set in Sydney, Australia in...an orchestra, of all places. The reason for this is pretty much because as a violinist and member of a couple of ensembles, I know a bit more about what I'm writing about then other settings. Furthermore, in my mind, Bradley James (let alone the rest of the cast of Merlin) playing musical instruments would either be very cute...or very hilarious (unless they actually know how to play, in which case that would be very cool).
Note: I do not own Merlin (if I did, there would be a helluva lot more kickass fighting from the females and maybe a couple more Arthur shirtless scenes...)
After zucchinis and cricket, Monday mornings had to be the worst thing ever invented.
Stifling a yawn, Guinevere Adama Wek slowly sat up from her comfortable nest of cushions and blankets that currently adorned her small single bed. 'Okay, there's probably a whole lotta stuff worse than Monday mornings, but still' she thought, as she looked somewhat dejectedly outside her window to the grey, winter landscape outside. Dark clouds hung low in the sky whilst a breeze blew bits of stray garbage and leaves down the street. A few business men and women were hurrying outside to catch trains and buses, their shoes clacking on the sidewalk as they passed below her window.
'Ah Sydney in June' Gwen thought, 'there's nothing like it'.
Although she had lived in Sydney her whole life, she had never totally gotten used to the weird weather, swinging from hot and humid in the summer months to wet and freezing in the winter.
As she continued to sit in bed, pondering whether or not to take her umbrella, Gwen suddenly became aware of the husky tone of Kurt Cobain's voice echoing from somewhere in her room.
"Oh shit my alarm" she said aloud, and she hurriedly began looking for her phone. She had previously set 'In Bloom' by her one of her favourite bands, Nirvana, as her wake up tone. In hindsight it was actually one of the best ideas she had ever had, as it was one of the only songs that managed to wake her up and not make her feel like throwing the device at a wall. Nope, she was not a morning person at all.
She found it hidden somewhere within the folds of her snuggie and promptly turned it off.
"Phew" she sighed in relief. 'And it's only 8:07'.
Hang on.
Orchestra starts at 8:30am. And it's 8:07.
Oh fuck. She was so going to be late.
She tumbled out of bed and immediately began changing out of her oversized t-shirt and boys pyjama pants and after a few short minutes spent rummaging through her chest of drawers she found a pair of skinny cargo jeans and a black long sleeve shirt. After pulling on said items of clothing and a pair of lace up boots she observed her reflection in the mirror.
In her olive cargo pants and boots she almost looked like an army recruit. Or a grunge-y nineties teenager, with really curly hair that was beginning to frizz. Turning around she grabbed a grey beenie and shoved on top of her head. 'Yeah it'll do' she thought and promptly sped out of her room, almost knocking into her father who sat in the adjoining dining room, calmly reading the newspaper at the table.
Turning around, he took in his daughter's wild disposition. "Somebody slept in did they?" he asked.
Gwen scoffed "Yeah, good morning to you too Dad" .
Giving a small humph, he turned back around to continue reading his newspaper, until Gwen walked up and planted a small kiss on his head. "Anything good in there?"
"No nothing important, just some silly political things" he said shaking his head. "There's some toast in the toaster still if you want some breakfast".
"No thanks" Gwen replied now making her way to their houses' only bathroom. "Can't be late to orchestra or Uther's going to have my head".
Her father clicked his tongue. "Guinevere…" he began.
"I know, I know Dad. My shift went till pretty late last night so I overslept my alarm this morning". Gwen reasoned from the bathroom. She grabbed her toothbrush, squirted some Colgate on the end and began brushing her teeth.
"They can't keep putting you on these late night shifts Guinevere, they're working you too hard" she could hear her father's voice drifting in from outside.
Gwen had worked at the MacDonald's down the road for the past four years since she turned sixteen. It certainly wasn't the best job in the world, with all the greasiness and mess in the kitchens and the occasional rude customer, but it helped pay their bills.
Gwen's father, Thomas Samir Wek, owned and worked in an auto repair shop that sat just next door to their modest single story house. Despite studying to become a mechanical engineer in Cairo (which he moved to from his native Juba in what is now South Sudan), he was unable to find a suitable job. Despite his obvious intelligence, multiple qualifications and strong work ethic , employers took one look at his photo and rejected his application. All alone at the young age of 23, with no friends or family, Thomas found himself working a range of low-wage, often menial jobs to support himself.
It was only during a fateful Saturday night when he was a pizza delivery boy, that he was sent to deliver an exceptional order of fifteen large pizzas to a house in a more affluent suburb. After driving down leafy streets lined with large, fairy tale-like houses he found the address and rang the doorbell. The door soon opened to reveal a young woman, who was short in stature, with a crop of curly brown hair and a pair of big caramel coloured eyes that brightened as she gave him a grin and yelled out "Oi you lot! Pizza's here!" When a collective shout of excitement came from inside the house, the woman turned back to face him and whispered in a fake secretive manner "we're having a bit of a hen's night". Tom merely nodded and attempted to swallow the lump in his throat that had formed as soon as she had appeared. Although she was by no means the conventional type of beauty, with her wide jaw and prominent nose, she had an air of confidence and cheekiness that seemed to captivate his attention. To him, she was absolutely beautiful.
Those sentiments were cemented when they began to talk, asking him if he was a student (no, he couldn't afford it), if she was working (yep, waitressing at their family owned Italian restaurant that she lived above with her family), what she liked to do ("reading, reading and singing…and perhaps more reading") and whether he missed home (always). Despite his broken English and her heavy slang, they immediately felt comfortable around each other. As Gwen had heard her mother phrase it many years ago before her death, "you're father was one of the sweetest people I had ever met, very quiet and a little awkward, but obviously smart, hardworking and strong, not just physically but emotionally too. As soon as I heard him speak, I thought "This is the man I want to be with"".
It was only when a young blonde woman came from inside the house asking "Hey Isabella, are you getting the pizzas or are you making them?" that they realised they had been talking for almost fifteen minutes. When the woman attempted to hand over a wad of cash to Thomas, Isabella grabbed her wrist and said "Hey, let me pay". When she attempted to voice her concerns, Isabella raised a hand and said "Nope, as your friend, let me pay for the food on your last night of freedom".
"Besides", she continued as she counted her money, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "you'll need those to tuck into the pants of the uh, 'special guest', coming tonight Ygraine".
As her friend giggled and turned an embarrassed shade of red, Isabella handed the pizzas to her friend and handed him the cash.
Before closing the door, she gave him a small smile and said "It was nice meeting you Thomas".
"You too" he replied earnestly, wishing that he didn't have to leave so soon. "Have a good night Isabella".
She walked back inside, but before she closed the door, she leant over and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek. As she did so, Thomas felt a piece of paper slide into his hand.
"If you can, you should come and visit me some time" she whispered softly into his ear, before running back inside and quietly shutting the door.
After a few seconds of shocked silence as Thomas struggled to control his wildly beating heart, he walked back to his motorbike and looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.
A brochure, for 'Leo's Italian Restaurant'. The address was at the bottom.
Within the span of a year, after many secret dates and midnight trysts, Isabella and Thomas would find themselves married much to the chagrin of the former's family who refused to believe that their daughter would marry a black man and subsequently disowned her. However despite the ensuing familial and financial hardships that arose, together they established 'Wek's Auto Repair Shop' which became well-known for its friendly and reliable service, good results and affordable prices. Within the same year, the pair welcomed the first of their two children into the world, a young boy with his father's face and mother's eyes, and two years later, a girl with her mother's wild curls and her father's gaze. Life was good.
So when Isabella died from breast cancer at the tender age of 34, Thomas was never able to fully recover. How could he, when the woman he had woken up next to for the past 11 years of his life, the first person to ever show him a shred of kindness in an alien country and see past the colour of his skin, had been ripped from his life? As a result, he became more withdrawn and sober. Although he was always there for his children and made sure that they knew of his constant love and support, he smiled rarely, and his laugh was as uncommon as snow.
Gwen checked her watch. 8:15. Shit, she had to run.
Running now, she rushed into her room and gathered the rest of her necessities for the day.
"Business textbooks, check. Phone, check. Jacket, check'" she muttered to herself as she shoved each item into a large canvas bag. 'Hang on, I'm forgetting something' she clicked her fingers in annoyance, a habit that she had developed during childhood.
"Ahah!" she exclaimed and she grabbed her violin case standing against the wall.
She ran back outside and gave her Dad a quick kiss on the cheek before saying "Have a good day".
Her father was now dressed in his standard work gear, overalls and t-shirt, and was about to make his way to the garage. He gave her a wave before asking "Have you got a coat?"
"Yup" she yelled out before shutting the door, missing her father's small shake of his head and quiet laugh, as he observed his wonderful, hardworking daughter, with her hat was sitting comically atop her corkscrew curls, attempt in vain to make it to school on time.
The walk to the train station was hell. If hell was actually a frozen nightmare as opposed to the fiery chasm that was described to her in Catholic primary school. However within a mere two minutes she was at the station waiting for the next train to the CBD. As she boarded the close to empty carriage she thought 'that's the good thing about living in Western Sydney. Don't have to fight as much for leg room, but its further away from everything'.
Within twenty minutes though she found herself sprinting out of the station up to the imposing set of wrought iron gates that marked the University's entrance. Camelot University was an old university, incredibly old, which over the years had established itself as the leading tertiary education institution in the nation. Sprawling over a massive piece of land in the heart of Sydney's inner city area, it was so large that it had its own train station. It was an incredibly affluent university, so much so, that only the best and the brightest were able to get in, and even then, you had to have the cash to secure a place (or trust that your HECs fund could cover it).
Thankfully in Gwen's case, she was able to get in thanks to bonus points (she knew getting a top band in business studies and maths would come in handy someday) and scholarships based on her living location (another good thing about living in the Western suburbs).
However none of that mattered now, as it was now 8:35am she was pretty sure that she was going to be ripped to shreds by her conductor, the painfully strict and fearsome Uther Pendragon; longtime conductor of the University's orchestra and all-round meanie who was unafraid to give tough love to those who did not obey his rules.
Soon, a panting and slightly sweaty Gwen found her way to the hall where practices where held three times a week.
'Okay Gwen, just open the door, nice and easy, than quietly make you way into the orchestra and sit down. It'll be like you weren't even there'
She tentatively opened the door.
'Oh shit they're already in' she thought nervously, as she caught a glimpse of them already sitting down, their instruments in rest position, as they listened to Uther speak, his deep voice booming around the large auditorium.
'Come on Gwen', she mentally chided herself, 'woman up, and get in there. It's your own fault that you're late anyways'. She hated saying man up; in her perspective it was like saying one needed to be like a man to be strong. In addition to hating Mondays and being incredibly sarcastic, she was a staunch feminist.
She pushed open the door and walked inside.
'See Gwen, this isn't so bad' she thought as no one turned around. 'Just keep walk-'
"And what do you think you're doing?"
Oh fuck fuckity fuck fuck, Fuck.
Slowly, Gwen turned around to face her conductor, who was standing with his arms crossed, a seemingly patient look on his face as he awaited her answer. At over six foot tall with granite facial features, he reminded Gwen of an angry Easter Island statue.
"Sorry I'm late, it won't happen again" she said in what she hoped was a confident voice.
Uther merely stood there and tapped his foot. A few painful seconds edged by. Gwen was unsure of what to do 'Do I continue to look at him, do I walk over…' She looked over to the rest of the orchestra. Her desk partner gave her a slight wave and an apologetic look, to which Gwen gave a small, hesitant smile.
Another few seconds dragged by before Uther replied "Disrupt my rehearsal again and you'll be seated at the back for the rest of the semester, is that understood?"
Gwen nodded quickly. "Yes"
Uther gave a curt nod and looked back to his music stand. "Good, now unpack before I change my mind".
Gwen didn't need to be told twice. Although she had never been late before, she had witnessed Uther's temper before, once displayed a year ago when he told a trombonist to leave after he was unlucky enough to turn up late twice in a row.
Putting on her shoulder rest and grabbing her bow, Gwen quickly made her way to her seat where she sat on the inside of the second desk of the first violins. Her partner immediately stood to let her in and whispered "Hey, sorry bout that".
"No worries" Gwen whispered back. "I accidentally slept in".
"Oh, late night at Maccas again?"
"Yup" Gwen confirmed. Her friend patted her arm and gave her a small, understanding smile.
Gwen had only really known her, Morgana Pendragon, for the past two years since she arrived at Camelot Uni, but since then they had become close friends. At a glance they appeared to be opposites in every way; Morgana had lived a privileged life, living in England before moving to Sydney to be with her rich Uncle (who also happened to be the conductor) and cousin after her parent's death in a tragic house fire. Gwen came from a working class background, who lived with her tight knit family in a less than affluent Sydney suburb. Morgana had a generally happy disposition, with a romantic streak and a heavy dash of charisma that allowed her to make friends easily. Gwen was more pragmatic and introverted, preferring to spend a night in eating ice cream and pizza whilst watching internet TV series over nights out. Morgana was more of an open book, unafraid to show her joy or sadness, anger or contempt. Gwen was incredibly passive aggressive; preferring to use sarcasm and heavy swearing to vent her frustrations.
And it wasn't just in personality; in looks they were completely different. Morgana was all height and gangly limbs, whereas Gwen was somewhat lacking in a few vertical centimetres and curvy. Morgana was ethereal and striking, with her mane of silky straight dark brown hair that looked almost black, and a pair of vivid, expressive green eyes. All Gwen had was an annoying head of curly dark brown locks, her mother's narrow nose, milky brown skin and nondescript, dark brown eyes. Although she definitely looked 'exotic' in that sense, she knew she wasn't necessarily pretty.
And yet, somehow, their friendship just seemed to work.
Both were incredibly hardworking, compassionate and empathetic, as evidenced in the amount of social justice rallies and petitions they were involved in, on and off campus. Both appreciated the value of reading a book on a rainy day and understood the satisfaction that can only be had after consuming a tub of chocolate ice cream whilst watching re-runs of Daria and The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl on Gwen's couch. They had spent many a summer day walking around the streets of Newtown and Chinatown, hunting for boutique outfits and ending up spending their money all on food (that tended to happen a lot), and had wasted free afternoons listening to nineties music and singing along into their hairbrushes or steeringwheels like the kids they were inside. Both had experienced loss, and were familiar with the subsequent waves of isolation, sorrow and anger that threatened to overtake them on their bad days.
They respected each other and were loyal to each other, not just despite their dissimilarities, but because of them. (Plus, Morgana's cheeky sense of humour combined with Gwen's ability to spout the odd sarcastic, witty comeback on the spot only added to their awesomeness. No one could defeat them when it came to verbal swordplay.)
Gwen looked at her bow then turned to Morgana. "Psst, you got any rosin?"
Morgana shook her head. "Nup, but hang on, I''l ask"
"Wait wait wait, its ok-"
But before Gwen could stop her, Morgana tapped the back of the person in front.
"Hey Arthur" she hissed.
A pair of annoyed sky blue eyes turned to face his cousin.
'Oh God' Gwen thought, desperately trying to look nonchalant. 'Why oh why did she have to ask him?'
The 'him' of course, could only refer to one person.
Arthur Pendragon.
Cousin to Morgana, violin extraordinaire and leader of the orchestra. 'With the face and body of a God' Gwen silently added.
With his mop of slightly tousled blonde hair, cheekbones and jawline that you could literally cut yourself on, and bright blue eyes, he was incredibly good looking indeed. That, paired with his obviously amazing violin skills, easy confidence and athletic physique made for one attractive mo-fo. Guys wanted to be him, and girls wanted to date him. And as much as she would try to deny it, Gwen was one of the many girls who found themselves crushing on him. She didn't want to like him, its not as if anything could come from it. 'I mean come on' Gwen thought, 'I've been sitting here for the past two years and the most he's said to me is "can I have an A?"'. Besides they were just too…different.
"What d'you want?" Arthur asked.
Oh yeah, and he was a little bit of a jerk.
"You got any rosin?" Morgana asked.
"No" Arthur scoffed, "why didn't you get some before rehearsal?"
Ok, maybe a major jerk.
"It's not for me, its for Gwen".
Arthur turned his gaze towards Gwen, who promptly felt herself turning pink. 'Fantastic' she thought. 'Not only do I have to suffer public humiliation, I now look like a bloody tomato'.
He regarded her apathetically for a brief moment before saying "Sorry, don't have any on me now" and turning back to his music.
Gwen let out a breath she didn't realise she had been holding.
"Sorry Gwen, Arthur can be a complete ass sometimes" Morgana said forcefully, addressing the second half of her sentence to the back of Arthur's head, who chose to ignore her.
"No worries, it's fine" Gwen replied.
At that moment Uther rolled up his sleeves and tapped his baton, grabbing the attention of the orchestra once more.
"Okay ladies, grab the Schubert out, let's see how you go for sight reading".
Cringing at the sexist comment, she immediately assumed the proper position.
'Here we go' she thought, as the opening cello solo of Schubert's 'Unfinished Symphony' began to play.
P.S. Rosin is a resin is a type of solid resin that string players apply to their bows to help it stick better and create more sound as it rubs against the string.
P.P.S. Don't worry, other characters will be introduced soon in later chapters.
P.P.P.S. (Does P.P.P.S even exist? Can I write that?) Please read and review-I LIVE OFF CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK