Rain pelted the bus windows, drumming a relentless rhythm that seeped into socks and jackets alike. I found Alwenna sitting on the curb outside the 24-hour Tesco, a carrier bag at her feet containing all the things she still owned. Her eyes were wild, pupils wide, lips twitching from the edge of laughter that was too sharp, too loud, to be comforting. She reeked faintly of perfume and something sharper, the high making her jittery, her words spilling too fast.
She was soaked through, wearing nothing but a ripped "Bullet for My Valentine" tee—the Poison album print, washed out and fraying at the collar—and torn fishnets that had seen better days. Her wild eyes shone through the rain, pupils wide, lips twitching from the edge of laughter that was too sharp, too loud, to be comforting. Her spiked bracelets hung on her wrists fiercely, like a sign of defiance.
"I… I just need to move," she said, voice trembling yet fierce, as she kicked at the puddles with too much energy. Her makeup was smudged, mascara streaking down her cheeks, but her chin stayed stubbornly up. Defiance burned brighter than the tears she couldn't stop.
I wrapped my jacket around her shoulders, shivering in the cold, and whispered, "You can't stay out here. My parents… they'll…" I trailed off. My words were weak against her storm.
Alwenna laughed, brittle, a little manic. "They don't care. I don't care. I'm fine. I always am."
She wasn't fine. I could see it in the way her hands trembled, in the way she tried to straighten her jacket over her knees. When I reached for her hand, she grabbed mine with a grip that was equal parts panic and trust. I tugged her inside, shivering and jittery, and closed the door behind us. My room glowed soft purple from LED strips, the lavender scent comforting, almost alien to the rain outside. A Bluetooth speaker hummed with my comfort playlist — a haze of Lorde, London Grammar, Halsey.
Alwenna didn't even pause. She snatched my phone, thumb skittering over the screen, and swapped it out. Suddenly, the speakers were spilling a wall of guitars I couldn't name, drums thrashing against the walls. She threw herself into it, headbanging with her upper body, hair sticking wet to her cheeks. The motion was relentless, almost mechanical, like a record stuck in the same groove. Within minutes, she was clutching her stomach, nausea setting in, but she kept moving — as if stopping would mean breaking.
She collapsed onto my bed, shirt soaked through, fishnets torn at the knees, spiked bracelets clinking as she covered her face with her hands. Leaning against my photo wall, she looked like a storm had crawled into suburbia. She was breathing hard, twitchy from the high.
"I… I can't… I don't have anywhere," she muttered, pacing in a small circle.
I grabbed my phone, heart pounding. "I'll call my parents," I said. "They'll let you stay, just… you need to calm down first."
Her head snapped toward me, pupils dilated. "No! They'll judge me. You'll have to explain why I'm like… this." She gestured vaguely at herself, at the buzzing energy around her.
"You're my friend," I said firmly. "I'll tell them. They'll understand. Trust me."
Her eyes softened for a moment, the storm in them dimming slightly. "Would you… would you do that for me? For real?"
I nodded, voice steady. "Always. You don't have to be alone tonight."
I made the call, my hands trembling, explaining quickly that Alwenna needed a safe place. By the time my parents agreed, she had begun pacing again, jittering with energy, pulling at her hair.
Back at my desk, the rain dripping off the windowpane, she bent over it, powder lined up like miniature barricades, her fingers trembling as she snorted one line. I could feel my stomach tighten.
"Alwenna… you should quit this," I said quietly, voice taut with worry. "It's… not safe. Not for you."
She snorted again, smirking at me, wild-eyed. "Safe is boring."
I couldn't let it go. I crossed the room and pulled her into a hug, careful but firm, letting her weight press against me. She stiffened for a moment, then melted slightly into the embrace. My arms wrapped around her, holding her close, feeling the frantic pulse of her energy against my chest.
She pressed her face into my shoulder, her hands loosening their frantic grip. I whispered against her hair, trying to anchor both of us. "You're stronger than this. I've got you. Always."
Cardiff (present day)
The glass and slate of the Senedd gleamed in the late afternoon light, Cardiff Bay glimmering beyond the windows. The tide lapped softly against the embankment outside, but inside the chamber the air was taut, heavy with calculation.
Six MPs sat across from me, their expressions guarded. Men and women who had worn Labour rosettes for decades, or climbed the Tory ladder, or clung to the Liberal Democrat benches despite dwindling returns. All of them knew the ground beneath their feet was shifting. My task was simple: make them jump before it collapsed.
I leaned forward across the polished oak table.
"Plaid Cymru can give you a voice," I said, steady and deliberate. "And not just a voice—a seat in the new Welsh administration. Your constituents will finally be represented by a government that puts Wales first."
Their eyes flickered. Some with curiosity, some with hunger. Others with fear.
"Let's be honest," I continued, my tone sharpening, "staying loyal to Labour, Tory, or Liberal Democrat leadership in Westminster will get you nothing. You've seen how they treat Wales—votes when they need them, silence when they don't. That ends now. A vote for Elen is a vote for Wales' future. For your future."
One of the Labour MPs—Evans, heavyset, scarlet tie knotted too tightly—shifted in his seat. "And what happens when Westminster comes calling? They'll call us traitors. They'll throw us out of our party."
I didn't flinch. "They already treat you like backbench furniture. At least with Plaid, you'll be at the table shaping Wales' government."
A Lib Dem, sharp-nosed and ambitious, leaned forward. "And if Elen falls?"
"She won't," I shot back, faster than I meant to. Then I softened. "Because you won't let her. Because you'll stand with her when it matters."
Silence pressed in. For a moment, only the faint echo of waves outside filled the room. Then, one by one, heads began to nod. Some with hesitation, some with grim determination, some with the spark of ambition at last set free.
By the end of the hour, I had them. Sixteen Labour MPs, plus a scattering of Lib Dems and Tories ready to defect when the time came. Enough to tip the balance. Enough to change everything.
I stepped into the corridor, phone already in hand. My thumbs flew across the screen.
To Elen: Cardiff secured. 16 MPs on board. This changes everything.
I slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket, heart thundering. For the first time in weeks, I felt the tide shift beneath us.
Westminster
Fairfax paced the length of the ornate office, polished shoes striking the marble in sharp rhythm. The portraits of past leaders glared down at him, as though mocking his unease. He flicked through the list again and again, numbers etched in his mind like scripture. Fifty Reform dissenters. Add Labour's block. Tories desperate for relevance. Lib Dems clutching at scraps.
"The motion will pass," he murmured, jaw tightening. "It has to pass."
His reflection in the gilt-framed mirror looked gaunt, restless. He straightened his tie and turned away, muttering the arithmetic like a prayer.
What he didn't see—or refused to see—were the subtle shifts just outside his field of vision. Wales, where disillusioned Labour MPs were drifting toward Plaid. Scotland, where the SNP closed ranks with military discipline. Northern Ireland, where quiet negotiations had already hardened alliances.
Fairfax felt momentum—he clung to it, convinced it was real. But the numbers were already slipping like sand through his fingers.
Westminster: Elen's office
I tapped my fingers against the desk, the rhythm fast, impatient, alive with calculation. Numbers sprawled across the page in front of me, neat columns of certainty carved out of chaos.
Reform had the majority. Fairfax's dissenters were loud, but they were a minority—fifty, maybe fewer. Most of my party stayed with me. Northern Ireland MPs were locked in. Fiona had Scotland in hand. And now, thanks to Carys, Welsh Labour and Lib Dem defectors were folding into Plaid's orbit. Piece by piece, the board was tilting.
I dialed Fiona in Edinburgh. She answered on the second ring.
"We hold," I said, voice clipped, steady.
"Every Scottish MP votes with me. No surprises."
Her reply came cool and assured, steel wrapped in velvet. "Understood. The SNP is united. We know what's at stake."
I exhaled, tension loosening just enough to let a flicker of relief through. For weeks it had felt like holding back a tide with my bare hands. But now the tide was turning with me.
I allowed myself a small, private smile, unseen by anyone.
If every piece fell where it should, we wouldn't just survive. We'd win.
The Motion
The chamber buzzed with anticipation, a low hum of footsteps, whispers, and rustling papers. Fairfax strode to the dispatch desk, dissenters flanking him like soldiers confident of victory. He held the motion of no confidence high, eyes sharp, every movement radiating certainty. Every calculation, every whispered deal, every promise he had made in private was meant to topple Elen's government.
He didn't notice the subtle smirks in the back rows, the almost imperceptible nods between MPs in the galleries, or the quiet confidence in those who had shifted their loyalty without him realizing. To him, victory was inevitable. But beneath the polished floors and gilded walls, a storm was gathering—one he hadn't seen coming.
From my seat, I watched every detail. The polished wood of the benches gleamed under the lights, MPs' shoes tapping against it with impatient energy. My heart pounded, a rapid drum echoing my thoughts. Every step of each MP carried weight, every shuffle of paper could betray an allegiance. The numbers spun through my mind, a mental map of survival: Reform majority loyal, dissenters fifty-strong, Northern Ireland and Scottish MPs locked in, Welsh defectors now swaying sixteen votes toward us. Fairfax's carefully constructed plan had already begun to fracture.
I clenched my hands in my lap, nails biting into my palms as the speaker's voice cut through the murmur.
"Members of Parliament, the motion of no confidence in the government will now be voted upon."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Every breath in the chamber felt magnified. The electronic counters blinked on, red and green digits, each one a heartbeat.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, focus sharpening. Each tally clicked upward. Reform majority with me—solid. Dissenters—fifty, faltering. Northern Ireland MPs—locked in. Scottish MPs—steady. Welsh MPs—sixteen, smiling inwardly as they pressed the buttons in unison. I could almost feel the tension vibrating through the room.
"No confidence… fails by five votes."
A quiet, incredulous laugh escaped me. Relief washed through me like cold water, sharp and startling. But I stayed poised, forcing my shoulders back, voice steady, posture controlled. Surviving wasn't victory—it was breathing space, a pause in a war that would never truly end. Every glance in the chamber, every whisper in the corridors, every shadow of doubt would still matter tomorrow, and the day after.
Across the room, Fairfax froze. The motion he had believed unassailable had crumbled before him. His dissenters whispered among themselves, disbelief etched into their faces. Slowly, he realized the truth he had been blind to: the alliances he had dismissed, the subtle shifts he hadn't noticed, had been enough to overturn him. Cold clarity settled over him, heavy and sharp—he had miscalculated, and the game had changed.
And standing at the center of it, aware of every heartbeat, every possible betrayal, I knew one thing with utter certainty: I was still here. I had survived.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Fairfax stood frozen near the dispatch desk, the motion of no confidence clutched loosely in one hand. The chamber had shifted under him like quicksand, but he hadn't felt it until the last vote flashed on the screen. His jaw tightened; the electronic tally glowed, a brutal, unambiguous verdict. The motion had failed. By five votes.
He tried to recalibrate, to find the mistake. Fifty dissenters—his core group—had voted as he expected. But the rest… the rest had not. The Welsh MPs. Sixteen, a sudden surge he hadn't foreseen, defecting from Labour, Tory, and Liberal Democrat ranks, voting for Elen as if a single signal had rippled through Cardiff and commanded loyalty.
Fairfax's eyes flicked toward the galleries. The Scottish MPs had voted en bloc. The SNP, locked, unified, every vote echoing through the chamber like a silent drumbeat against him. Sinn Féin—he had assumed absenteeism, disruption, confusion—but they had shown up, deliberate and precise, each vote a small dagger. And the Northern Ireland MPs… the shadows of doubt he had carefully nurtured now gnawed at him.
Had they all been present? Had someone slipped him a false count, given him the impression of wavering support? His pulse quickened as suspicion and paranoia intertwined. Every absent nod, every whisper he hadn't noticed, every minor gesture now felt like a trap.
He turned his gaze back to Elen, poised in her seat, serene but alert. Her face betrayed nothing, yet he could sense the calculation in her eyes, the quiet awareness of every allegiance she had secured. Fairfax's stomach churned. Every assumption he had built his plan upon—the wavering loyalty of Reform, the hesitation of Labour, the Tories, the Lib Dems—had collapsed in the face of her alliances with the Celtic nations.
Cold clarity settled over him. He had underestimated her reach, misread the subtle signals, ignored the possibility that Plaid Cymru, SNP, and Sinn Féin could act with unified intent. His plan had failed not because of weakness among his dissenters, but because he had failed to see the full network of loyalty she had built behind the scenes.
He clenched his fists, white-knuckled, the motion of no confidence trembling in his hand. The chamber hummed around him, oblivious to the shock rippling through the Essex MP.
And in that instant, Fairfax understood something bitter and undeniable: the game had changed. Elen was still standing, and he was forced to reckon with the fact that she had already won the battle he had thought certain.