Truro, Cornwall
The civil parish of Truro carried its own distinct scent — a mixture of sea salt, petrol, fried fish, and the metallic tang of wet iron. The cathedral's twin spires rose through the mist like sentinels, their bells remained silent amid the din of sirens and distant shouting. Smoke drifted along Lemon Quay, where overturned bins and shattered glass reflected the red pulse of emergency lights. Through it all, the black-and-white flag of St Piran fluttered above the crowd — soaked, tattered, but unbroken — as Cornwall's capital stood between ruin and rebirth. At the outskirts, cranes loomed over half-finished construction sites, six-storey blocks rising from the mud — a quiet reminder that even in turmoil, Truro was still reaching upward.
Inside the Hall for Cornwall, Thomas Penrose, president of Mebyon Kernow and the newly appointed mayor of Truro, convened with the gathered Celtic leaders, the weight of a nation's reckoning pressing against the glass.
Elen Ross's presence anchored the room. Prime Minister of the British Republic — the architect of the coup that ended the monarchy — she carried herself with the same unflinching poise that had come to define her rule. No one but the people present in the room knew the truth, Elen Ross was Welsh— her real name? Alwenna Rhys.
Beside her, Carys Morgan, leader of Plaid Cymru and First Minister of Wales, seemed both her shadow and her equal — the kind of woman who mirrored power not through imitation, but through shared conviction. Penrose caught the glances they traded when they thought no one was watching: small, silent exchanges edged with something far more personal. The kind of look reserved for a lover. How entertaining.
Across the table, Fiona MacLeod, First Minister of Scotland and president of the SNP, met Elen's gaze with measured intensity. Next to her sat Moira Callow, newly sworn Lady of Mann — proud, severe, and still adjusting to her sudden ascent. Elen's decision to preserve the island's ancient title had been shrewd. With the King gone, the Lordship of Mann had reverted to the people, and the snap elections that followed gave Moira's Mac Vennin movement a sweeping victory. Now, she stood as both symbol and complication — a republican lord in open conflict with the pro-English Chief Minister who refused to acknowledge her authority.
Áine, leader of Sinn Féin's Northern branch, attended only ceremonially. Her mind was elsewhere — on Belfast, on Dublin, on a border that existed more in memory than geography. For her, the Republic of Britain was a stepping stone, not a destination.
Penrose's eyes drifted back to Elen, whose calm silence drew the others into orbit. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the low steadiness of inevitability.
"The next step in building a republic," Elen began, "is unity."
They all listened attentively, no one daring to break the silence. Through her actions, Elen had earned not just their trust, but something rarer — their belief.
Áine's gaze flicked toward Moira for a fleeting second. The Manxwoman sat poised, the light from the rain-streaked window gleaming off the signet ring that marked her new office. The Lady of Mann. Her very title was living proof that Elen Ross kept her promises. The Isle had demanded autonomy — and Elen had given it, not as concession, but as precedent.
Elen let the silence breathe before continuing, her voice low, deliberate.
"There will be elections — for both President and Parliament," she said. "The Republic must speak with a single voice, or risk crumbling into factions before it even matures. We've seen what happens when the Isles pull in opposite directions. If this new Britain is to endure, then we must contest the elections as one alliance — one bloc. A Gaelic front."
Carys Morgan nodded slowly, the faint trace of a smile curling at her lips. "You're proposing a coalition ticket?"
"More than that," Elen replied. "A shared mandate. We present the people with a vision they can't dismiss as separatist or radical. We show them that unity no longer means submission."
Penrose leaned forward, elbows on the table. "A single presidential candidate, then?"
Elen inclined her head. "A common candidate — one who represents all nations, not just one. The Republic must be more than my government. It must outlive me."
That last line unsettled them. A brief silence rippled through the room, until Moira Callow broke it, her voice crisp and faintly amused.
"So who'll carry that banner, then?" she asked. "Surely you, Prime Minister? The people already see you as the Republic itself. You've the loyalty, the infrastructure, the symbolism. Why pretend otherwise?"
Elen didn't answer at once. Instead, she rose and walked toward the window, her reflection merging with the stormlight outside. When she finally turned back, her eyes were calm, almost weary.
"Not necessarily," she said. "The Republic cannot rely on one name forever. A revolution that depends on its architect dies with her. If there's someone among us who believes they can lead this alliance — and lead Britain — then speak."
Her words hung in the air like a challenge.
No one spoke.
Fiona exchanged a look with Carys; both shook their heads faintly.
"Scotland needs its own stewardship," Fiona said. "We're rebuilding our industries, rewriting our constitution. That's where my duty lies."
Carys followed, firm but respectful. "Wales is still healing from the fire and the riots. I'd rather lead it well than stretch myself thin."
Penrose gave a small shrug. "Cornwall's parliament can barely agree on postcodes, let alone presidency. You'd get no unity from us."
Moira's smile softened. "Mann's autonomy was hard-won. The island looks to me now — not to London. I'll serve, but not rule beyond the sea."
Finally, Áine spoke. Her tone was measured, but her eyes were bright with conviction.
"You know my path, Elen. The reunification referendum in Ireland is all that matters to my people. Until the North and the South are whole, I can't sit in any presidency — not even yours."
Elen regarded them quietly, taking in the sincerity that masked a deeper truth: each of them wanted to lead their own, not all.
"Then so be it," she said finally. "You rule your nations, and I'll see that you have nations to rule. But remember — our strength lies in what binds us, not in what separates us. When election day comes, our voters must see that we stand together, even if we stand behind different banners."
She returned to her seat, folding her hands atop the table.
"We are the architects of this Republic," she said softly. "Let's make sure we survive long enough to see it built."
Elen rose from her seat, the faint rustle of papers breaking the stillness.
"Then it's settled," she said, her tone firm but measured. "From this day forward, our cooperation will have a name — The Gaelic National Alliance. A pact between the Celtic nations, sworn to safeguard our sovereignty, our cultures, and our shared future within the Republic."
One by one, the leaders stepped forward to sign the charter. Penrose's pen scratched first, steady and deliberate; Fiona followed, her signature bold, almost defiant. Carys pressed her name with quiet conviction, and Moira added hers with the faintest smile of pride. Áine watched from her seat, the ink glinting under the lamplight, unreadable as ever.
When the final pen was set down, Elen folded the document carefully, the seal of the Republic gleaming crimson and gold across the parchment. The room exhaled as one — history had just found its shape.
Outside, thunder rolled over Truro — distant but certain, like applause from the gods of old Britain.
Westminster, London
BBC cameras circled Westminster like flies around a wound, capturing every angle of history being rewritten. The House of Commons, once the citadel of monarchy's loyalists, now bore the quiet tension of an occupied cathedral.
I stood beneath the floodlights, the press gallery bristling with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of polished oak and old defiance. Britain had waited for this address — I had promised them a solution to the separatist crisis after meeting with each of the nationalist leaders. What they did not know was that those "rivals" were my allies. Together, we were remaking the Isles — not tearing them apart, but reshaping them after centuries of English dominance.
Unity, yes. But not under London.
When my heels reached the podium, the chamber fell into a taut silence. The microphones crackled. My reflection stared back from the brass of the dispatch box — calm, deliberate, inevitable.
"People of Britain," I began, my voice steady, carrying through the vaulted chamber and across the BBC airwaves, "we stand at the crossroads of history. For centuries, we have called ourselves one nation — bound by the same Crown, the same wars, the same myths of unity. But unity without equality is only submission by another name."
A low murmur swept the benches. The Speaker's gavel struck once, to no avail. I continued.
"My government's priority has always been to preserve this unity — but not at the expense of our nations' dignity. Britain is not an English nation. It never was. It is Welsh, Scottish, Cornish, Manx, Irish — and yes, English too. All bound together, not by conquest, but by choice. And so, in light of this new era, we have agreed to form a transitional government of national unity."
The silence cracked.
From the Tory benches, an explosion: Treason!", "You've sold Britain to the Celts!", "This isn't unity, it's partition!"
Another voice bellowed, "You'll answer for this, Ross — history won't forget!"
Laughter — sharp and defiant — rose from the other side. A Plaid Cymru MP shouted back.
"History's already forgotten you!"
From the SNP ranks:
"You call it treason because you've never lived under your own rule!"
A Cornish delegate slammed a palm against the bench. "England's reign is over! You had your centuries — now it's our turn to lead!"
The Speaker barked into his microphone, voice cracking under the noise:
"Order! Order in the House! The Prime Minister will be heard!"
The gavel struck again, hollow against the roar. I waited, letting the chaos crest and fade, my hands resting lightly on the podium.
When I spoke again, my voice cut clean through the remaining noise.
"This is a government of survival before ceremony," I said. "Reform, Labour, Tories, Conservatives, SNP, Plaid, Mebyon Kernow, Mac Vennin — every parliamentary force and regional party will sit together in this chamber, not as enemies, but as custodians of a republic reborn. No one faction will rise above another. Not anymore."
A wave of muttering followed — scribbling pens, exchanged glances, half-whispered calculations. Ambition shimmered in the air like heat over tarmac. Some faces glowed with conviction, others with fury. But beneath it all, comprehension had begun to dawn.
They were witnessing not the death of a parliament, but its transformation.
I allowed myself a small smile — the kind reserved not for triumph, but for inevitability.
The machinery had started turning.
Buckingham Palace, London
Collin Fairfax stood in the courtyard outside the Buckingham Palace, sunlight bouncing off his perfectly pressed suit. As Interim President, the residence once belonging to the monarchy was now his to inhabit. Cameras swiveled, microphones jostled, and the murmurs of the gathered reporters grew louder as he adjusted his tie and squared his shoulders.
He cleared his throat. "Today, I announce the formation of the United Reform Party. A party committed to preserving democratic principles, to defending Parliament, and to offering Britain a choice."
His words carried conviction, but behind the polished delivery, there was unease. He had just been expelled from the only political home he had ever known, cast out for challenging the very Prime Minister he once supported. Yet the cameras didn't see that. They only saw a man standing tall, determined to fight.
Fairfax's eyes flicked briefly to the building behind him. Inside, he imagined the corridors of power already slipping through Elen Ross's fingers, the republic she claimed to lead quietly bending to her will.
He straightened, voice sharper. "Britain faces a turning point. We cannot allow one person to dictate the future of our nation, especially if that person threatens to sell our country to separatist factions. We will offer accountability. We will offer transparency. And we will offer the people a voice."
As he spoke, reporters scribbled, cameras clicked, and somewhere in the back, aides whispered notes to one another. Fairfax knew he was starting from scratch, but the fire in him burned. Opposition was needed. He would be that opposition.
Cardiff, Wales
The city outside had quieted to a drizzle, streetlights smeared into gold ribbons through the rain. She'd already kicked off her heels, hair falling loose over her shoulders, and the Penderyn bottle on the table had lost half its contents.
"Alwenna," she slurred slightly, wobbling a bit as she sat on the sofa, "you know… you're insane."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, sliding my jacket off and perching on the armrest.
"Insanely good," she corrected, leaning forward so her elbow rested on my knee, "and terrifying, and… and brilliant."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "You've had enough to drink, Carys."
"Enough to tell you the truth," she said, her eyes softening, glassy. Before I could answer, she shifted closer, resting her head lightly against my shoulder. "You've done all this… and I swear, I don't even care about the politics right now. I just… need to be near you."
I froze for a second, then let myself relax. Her warmth and weight were comforting, grounding after months of upheaval. "You're drunk," I said softly, trying not to smile.
"Come on," she pouted, a teasing laugh slipping out. "It's safer than sniffing lines, you know."
The words hit harder than she meant them to. My smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. She didn't know, of course — not really. But the sting was there all the same, sharp and familiar.
I let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah," I said quietly. "Guess I learned that one the hard way."
For a second, I wasn't the Prime Minister anymore. Just a kid again — sprinting through wet backstreets with a siren wailing somewhere behind me, speeding towards Carys' place on my roller skates.
"I trust you. I don't… I don't have to understand it all. Just—just don't let it go wrong, yeah?", she broke the silence before I could reminisce further.
"I won't," I said. My fingers brushed hers lightly as she readjusted against me. "We'll make it work. One step at a time."
She hummed, tilting her head to glance up at me with a tired, wobbly smile. "Good. Good. Then… then I'm staying here."
And she did — curled up in my lap, murmuring, half-asleep, words spilling out between soft sighs and laughter. For a while, the politics faded, and the storm outside was just rain. Just Carys, just quiet, and the small, warm bubble we made in the heart of a fractured republic.
I let her stay, my arm resting lightly around her shoulders. Safe. Simple. Terrifyingly ordinary, in the best possible way.