Westminster
When you're walking at the edge of a knife, you're bound to get stabbed. That's what my good-for-nothing father once told me and, to this day, it's the only wise thing to ever leave his mouth. Dripping in its marble coldness, the Westminster was particularly restless today. The rumbling began not with thunder, but with the kind of subtle, persistent tremor you only notice when the glass in your hand vibrates against the wood. A glance across the chamber. A muttered aside in the corridors. The faint shuffle of folded notes passed hand to hand, like schoolboys conspiring in the back of class.
I caught them sometimes—Reform MPs lowering their voices when I walked past, the way their eyes slid away too quickly, like children caught with jam on their fingers. The whispers had changed tenor. Not the usual mutterings about donor dinners, or who'd been seen with whose aide in Soho. No. This was sharper. Less gossip, more verdict.
"She's clever, yes… but unpredictable. Too soft on the Celts. Talks of unity, but whose unity?"
I'd catch fragments, thrown off casually as though the words wouldn't cut. Tolerant. Dangerous. One of them.
They weren't wrong. My speeches were clever. My policies were tolerant. And yes, I was unpredictable—because I refused to read from the script Essex handed down like tablets from Sinai. But Reform had always prided itself on discipline. On marching as one line of blue across the Commons benches. Now that line wavered, just slightly—but enough to show the cracks.
And I could feel it. That pause in the hush after I spoke, a silence not of respect but of doubt. The narrowed eyes of Essex, measuring me the way a butcher measures a joint before laying the blade. He fancied himself inevitable, inevitable as winter. I'd laughed at that once. But winter, too, comes whether you laugh or not. And winter is coming, whether you like it or not.
In such conditions, a new parliamentary session began. The chamber smelled of blood before the first question was even put to me.
"Madam Prime Minister," the Labour leader began, voice polished and pious, "your so-called 'strategic dialogue' with Moscow is reckless. Our allies impose sanctions, you ease them. Europe isolates, you… fraternise. Tell us—are you Britain's leader, or the Kremlin's envoy?"
Applause rippled across the benches, even from some of my own.
A Tory shouted, "She's undermining NATO!" Another, "A danger to the realm!"
The Speaker's gavel cracked against the chaos, but I let it wash over me, standing only when the noise peaked. I wanted them to feel the silence when it fell.
"You mistake dialogue for betrayal," I said, voice calm but carrying. "As though diplomacy itself were treason. Britain spoke to Moscow even at the height of the Cold War. Churchill spoke to Khrushchev. Thatcher to Gorbachev. Were they traitors too? Or were they statesmen who understood that refusing to talk is how wars begin?"
A few murmurs of assent fluttered through the chamber, but the opposition pounced.
"So you side with Russia?" a Labour backbencher jeered.
"No," I answered, letting the pause linger, "I side with sovereignty. I will not have Britain reduced to an echo of Washington, or a pawn of Brussels. We will speak with Moscow, with Beijing, with Washington, with Brussels—on our own terms. That is sovereignty. That is independence."
The benches erupted again—half outrage, half disbelief. The Speaker's voice thundered for order. But I wasn't finished.
"And since this House insists on lecturing me about freedom and moral consistency—let us apply it consistently. We speak of Ukraine's right to sovereignty, of their right to resist occupation. I agree. But does Palestine not deserve the same? Are its people not entitled to the same dignity, the same right to self-determination, as any European nation?"
Gasps. Outrage. A Tory MP shot to his feet, spitting words across the chamber: "How dare you!" Another shouted, "Disgrace!"
The Labour leader seized on it instantly. "The Prime Minister aligns herself with terrorists!"
I leaned forward, eyes narrowing, voice slicing through the storm.
"No. I align myself with justice. With the simple principle that freedom cannot be conditional, that sovereignty cannot be cherry-picked. Ukraine. Palestine. Wales. Scotland. Nations must decide their own future. If that frightens you, perhaps it is because you have grown used to kneeling."
For a heartbeat, the House was stunned into silence. Then the roar returned—anger, disbelief, fury. But beneath it all, I saw a flicker of something else in the public gallery and among a few scattered MPs: recognition. They sensed the danger. It was almost laughable.
A thought, serene, echoed in the depths of my mind, as I toyed with the idea of verbalizing it: Let them howl. The real verdict would not be spoken in this chamber, but shouted in the streets.
Cardiff Bay
And the streets spoke. Far from the chaos of London and it's colonial machine, my city of birth, by contrast, was alive. Plaid Cymru has won the Senedd elections for the first time, securing 58% of the vote across key constituencies, a decisive lead over Welsh Labour, the Conservatives, and the Liberal Democrats. But to me, the numbers weren't just news. They were a map of possibility. 48 seats? 58 percent of the vote in the valleys? It wasn't just a victory. It was leverage. Momentum. Evidence that the people were ready to break free from centuries of Westminster complacency.
Fifty thousand voices filled the Bay, flooding the steps of the Senedd in a tide of red, white, and green. Fireworks burst over the water, reflecting in the glass walls of the parliament building. Drums pounded, choirs sang, and above it all the chant rolled like thunder. Flags snapped in the March wind, sharp as sails on a storm sea. Banners of Cymru Rydd lifted above the crowd, painted in hand strokes and marker pen, the words urgent and uneven, but fierce.
"Plaid! Plaid! Annibyniaeth nawr!" Independence now. The chant rolled like waves, breaking against the glass face of the government buildings, rebounding louder with every cry.
Police lines stood tense, shields glinting in the pale sunlight, loudspeakers barking orders no one obeyed. But the square belonged to the people that day. Old men in caps, teenagers in hoodies, mothers hoisting children on their shoulders, students with painted cheeks, pensioners with hand-sewn flags. All fused into one body, a living tide.
And in the middle of the chaos— me, searching for a familiar face.
Carys appeared, curls damp, scarf flapping in the wind, eyes alight with triumph. We pressed close together, bodies jostled by the tide.
"They've done it," she shouted over the roar, laughing. "We've actually done it."
I nodded, heart pounding. Welsh Labour — untouchable for decades — had fallen. For a century, they had ruled as though by divine right, the old machine grinding out majorities even when the rest of the country shifted rightward. They told themselves they were eternal — guardians of the valleys, champions of the miners. But coal was gone. Industry was gone. All that was left was memory, and memory doesn't win elections. Plaid didn't just beat Labour. They crushed them. Cardiff constituencies that had been red since the Great War turned green overnight. The valleys roared back into life not for Labour's faded promises, but for the word nation. Even rural seats long dismissed as unwinnable bent to the tide.
With a grin, I turned to her. "Congrats, Madam First Minister," I said, letting the title hang in the air, heavy and playful all at once.
Carys froze mid-laugh, then spun to face me, eyes narrowing with mischief. "Alwenna—don't—"
"Do what? Call it like it is?" I smirked. "You've earned it. Fifty-eight percent. Senedd seats across the board. You're officially running the show."
I squeezed her hand. And, for a fleeting moment, there was no strategy, no plotting — only noise and joy, voices belting Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau ragged but unstoppable. I felt the anthem settle in my chest, heavy and intoxicating. Carys laughed, leaning her head close.
"Remember this," she whispered. "We'll never see a night like it again."
The crowd surged around us. I could feel history in my bones — the old parties had underestimated the Welsh voice for too long. Labour had clung to tradition. Reform had clung to procedure. Plaid had clung to nothing but belief, and belief had won.
I glanced at Carys, flushed and triumphant. "This is only the beginning," I said quietly.
Her hand tightened around mine. "We know," she whispered.
A flash from a BBC camera swept across the crowd. I froze, heart tightening. If they caught me here — cheering with Plaid, in the streets — Reform's dissenters would take action. A non-confidence vote, possibly. The image of me smiling, immersed in the victory, would travel across television screens and newsfeeds, a signal louder than any speech.
I inhaled, steadying myself, and pressed closer to Carys.
"Something wrong?", she asked, following my gaze. I pointed toward the camera.
"They're filming," I said.
Carys's eyes widened. "We should—maybe we need to move—"
I gripped her hand, stopping her mid-step. "No. Let them film. One picture doesn't change what's happening."
She hesitated, lips parted, then laughed nervously, leaning in closer. "You're impossible."
"And you love it," I whispered. After a moment of pause, I added: "Don't worry about me. You're the star today. So go out there and shine, First Minister"
"Stop calling me that!!", she said, her lips forming into a pout. Cute.
Carys stepped forward as the crowd parted slightly, climbing onto the makeshift stage at the center of the Bay. Microphone in hand, she scanned the sea of waving flags. Then she raised her voice, bold and unflinching:
"Heddiw rydym yn dathlu buddugoliaeth Plaid Cymru! Ond hwn — hwn yw'r dechrau yn unig! Ein hiaith, ein diwylliant, ein cenedl — ein ninnau ydy hi, ac mae'n bryd i ni ei hawlio'n llawn!"
For a moment, politics, strategy, and danger melted away, leaving just us, tangled in the triumphant roar of the city.
And yet—I sat in my car that night, staring at the reflection of my own tired face in the windscreen. Was I midwife to freedom, or to disunion? That thought gnawed, heavy as stone.
Glasgow
Across the border in Scotland, the echo of our movement had already found a mirror. Blue and white banners swelled in George Square, voices rising until even the mournful skirl of the bagpipes could not pierce them. The momentum we had sparked in Wales was catching fire elsewhere—unstoppable, untamed. Two hundred and fifty thousand strong beneath the banners of the saltire, their voices were so fierce that I could almost feel them raining through London like missiles, shattering Westminster's windows. I chuckled at the thought.
"Saorsa!" Freedom.
It wasn't a rally so much as a referendum, enacted in flesh and sound. Every chant was a ballot. Every lifted fist, a mark on paper. Posters scrawled with fury read: Second Vote Now. End the Union. Our Future, Not London's. Support for independence was steadily growing ever since Reform's win in the elections, but no one would have seen this scale—no one but me. Light a match, and see fire spread through. Fiona had laid the groundwork well, but my plan reached far beyond hers. I had used the Scottish cause to amplify the Welsh one, and the results spoke for themselves.
From the steps of the city chambers, SNP organizers raised fists, voices cracked from shouting, eyes glittering with fervor. Drone cameras buzzed above, whirring like wasps, sending the images into every living room from Inverness to Dover.
I watched the broadcast in Downing Street, the crowd a living sea across my screen. Something about their faces—tough, exultant, desperate—stung me with recognition. I'd seen those same expressions once at a miners' strike in my youth, when men with soot on their brows had demanded more than wages: they demanded dignity.
In a quiet corner of the square, two Reform MPs stood apart, collars turned up against the wind. One typed a message into his phone and slid it to the other. We're losing the streets.
He wasn't wrong.
London - Elen'sFlat
That night, I sat in my flat, a mug of tea cooling on the desk, the television's dim glow bleeding against the curtains. The Commons replay flickered on screen: Plaid Cymru's young firebrand at the despatch box, voice rising like flame as he delivered a line in Welsh.
The Speaker's gavel cracked down like a whip. "This chamber conducts business in English."
Laughter rippled. A Tory shouted "Hear, hear!" as though wit had just been born. The camera lingered on the young man's face—stubborn, proud, but pinched tight with humiliation.
The porcelain trembled in my hand. I knew that look. I had worn it myself, once, when Essex leaned across the table in some late-night strategy meeting and muttered, Translator, as if I were nothing more than a bridge between civilized men and their tribal others.
Different words, same sneer.
I switched off the television. Silence settled thick as wool. And I whispered, barely moving my lips: They don't even see what they've already lost.
I was shaken out of my stupor by the sound of the phone, buzzing softly against the tabletop. Carys. Her name alone made the chill of Westminster fade. I opened the message: "I'm coming over. Now. We need to talk… and celebrate."
Forty minutes later, she was here. Damp curls pressed against her cheek, coat tossed carelessly onto the chair. The city lights painted streaks of amber across her face as she stepped inside.
I closed the door, heart quickening. "You saw it too," I murmured.
Her laugh was soft, conspiratorial. "Saw what?"
I gestured at the blank TV screen. "They think they can silence us. But they can't even hear what's coming."
She stepped closer. The air between us shrank, electric and warm. I reached out, fingers brushing the edge of her scarf, slowly pulling it down. Her coat slipped from her shoulders, falling to the floor, revealing the soft curve of her neck and the damp fabric of her sweater clinging to her.
"You're reckless," she whispered, eyes bright.
"So are you," I countered.
And then, without thinking, we leaned into each other. Lips met in a slow, deliberate kiss that left the room spinning. Hands lingered, exploring, teasing—but I paused at the edge, leaving the rest to imagination, the moment stretching taut and intimate.
Her leggings clung to her legs, wet from the rain. I noticed a flash of deep green, almost matching her eyes, peeking through the fabric and my gaze lingered for a moment, the thought flaring through me briefly before the kiss reclaimed every sense.
We broke apart, breathless, smiling in the hush of the London night. Outside, the city slept, but inside, we had our own small revolution.
The Reform Meeting - Westminster, London
Behind oak doors in Westminster, the party leaders gathered without Elen. Whiskey glowed in tumblers, cigar smoke curled against the lampshades, the room stinking of leather and old ambitions.
Colin Fairfax, Reform MP for Essex, sat at the head, tie loosened, cheeks flushed red. His voice cut through the low buzz of the room. "She's gone too far. Defending Welsh. Defending Gaelic. Flirting with separatists. If she keeps this up, Reform goes down with her."
Murmurs rippled. Some nodded eagerly, the smell of blood in their nostrils. Others looked away, unwilling to catch another man's eye and commit.
A whip spoke softly, a dagger disguised as a whisper. "We test loyalty. Sound out the caucus. If enough are with us, a no-confidence vote may be… inevitable."
An older voice, hesitant, almost weary: "But she's the Prime Minister. And popular. The press still calls her untouchable."
Fairfax smirked, lifting his glass high so the firelight burned in the whiskey. "No one's untouchable. Not in this House."
The fire hissed in the grate. Beyond the thick walls, Westminster slept—or pretended to. But in the streets of Cardiff and Glasgow, the chants still carried, rolling on the wind.
And Elen—though not in that room, not among the tumblers and the smoke—felt the blade being sharpened for her, and wondered whether she was forging a new Britain, or standing at the edge of its funeral pyre.