Chapter Text
Gwen stretched luxuriously. Saturday morning, and she didn't have to be anywhere at all. The Rift had been quiet for several days, and Jack had given them the weekend off while he and Ianto took care of the quarterly reports and kept an eye on the monitors. Gwen snickered. If past incidents were any guide to future events, report writing was the least of the things that would be going on in the Hub while those two were alone.
She kicked off the duvet and salsa'ed into the bathroom. Rhys was already up and about; she could smell coffee. That usually meant Aine was up too. The little one seemed to have built-in radar where her Tad was concerned. Truth be told, she had been a little worried about caring for a faerie child. They had no control over their magic and could wreck havoc if not controlled by an adult. Her godmother had even made arrangements for one of her attendants to step in as nursemaid, just in case, but soon it became clear that when Aine was around Rhys she behaved like a perfectly normal child.
The discovery had led to two weeks of intensive testing for poor Rhys, while both Pagan and Christian experts stared at the results, shook their heads, and retired to consult heavy tomes. It turned out Rhys's talent was a very rare one, one that most people could go through life not knowing they had. Totally instinctively, he could boost, suppress, or sometimes even re-channel other people's talents to best advantage. These days, faerie ladies were offering him bloody fortunes for his help. When Jack had teased him about it, Rhys had grumbled that when he had fantasized about women fighting over his services, it had never included being a nanny!
She stepped out of the shower, dried herself, and pulled on the caftan Ianto had given her for her birthday. It was so unlike anything she would ever buy for herself, red-and-gold silk with a poppy pattern and a sprinkling of crystals at the throat and sleeves, and had to be taken out to the cleaners rather than washed at home. Stop being so bloody Welsh, Ianto had told her with an expressive eye roll when she had mentioned it. Every woman deserves something utterly and completely impractical.
She added a bit of lipstick and mascara, and felt utterly and completely feminine. Ready for my closeup, Mr. Williams, she giggled as she twirled in front of the mirror. You ready for me?
She found Rhys and Aine sprawled in front of the TV, Aine asleep on Rhys’s chest. The talking heads on the screen were speaking in hushed tones while behind them a live view of Buckingham Palace showed a crowd already forming around the Bouddica fountain. Rhys had turned the sound down so it wouldn't disturb the baby, but she didn't need to hear them to know what they were talking about.
The Queen was dying.
As a priestess-in-training Gwen understood the magickal ramifications of the passing of an anointed representative of the Land, especially one who had reigned for so long. Elizabeth Blanchefleur Mary, Queen of the United Kingdoms of England, Wales, and Scotland, Protector of the Faiths, Sister to the Kings of the Faerie, Lady of the Outer Islands, Constitutional Sovereign of the North American Union, champion horse breeder, and reputed Pagan – how could they not suspect, descended from both macEanraigs and Stiùbhairts on the Scottish side and the Lords of Gwynedd and Powys on the Welsh, and with a middle name such as that? -- was the only monarch most of the nation could remember, Queen for going on sixty years. She had sons and grandsons, daughters and granddaughters, and thank the Great Mother for that, but it was still going to be a wrench. Gwen was sure hers wasn’t the only Circle preparing for the Interregnum between her death and her son’s Coronation.
“What are they saying?’ She whispered to Rhys as she leaned over the back of the sofa to press a kiss on his temple.
“She’s in a coma, slipping away peacefully.” He shifted the sleeping Aine so he could pull her down into a more satisfactory exchange. “Ah, that’s better. Good morning. There’s fresh coffee and Aine and I went down to the new pastry place and got us all croissants. Good?”
“Marvelous.”
She helped herself and took her plate and mug to the small dining table. She sighed. Rhys was right, they would have to move soon. Even with two bedrooms, the flat was too small for a family. Once Aine started to really move around, their cozy little place would become a dangerous obstacle course. Maybe that afternoon they could stroll around the neighbourhood and see what was available. The new row houses off Rawden Place looked pretty decent, and they had enough put away to make a dent on the mortgage. The fronts could do with a little cheering up, but a couple of big tubs full of seasonal flowers and a little stone table and chairs for the good weather and they would look very pretty…
She was so deep into the fantasy that she jumped when the phone rang. She looked at the screen and sighed. She should have known that getting an uninterrupted Saturday was the stuff of wishful thinking. She shook her head at Rhys, who was frowning at her.
“Give me fifteen to get into jeans and trainers,” she said, not even saying hello.
“I don’t think you’d feel comfortable in jeans and trainers at Dinas Bran,” Ianto said, and the tone of his voice stopped her cold. “And Gwen, family is included. We'll be by in a half hour. All right?”
“All right.”
She hung up the phone. “Rhys, is your dark suit back from the cleaners?”
He sat up, holding a suddenly alert Aine against his chest. “Yeah. Gwen, what’s wrong?”
“Torchwood has been summoned to Dinas Bran, family included.” She put the plate and mug back in the sink. “I think my navy suit with the white and blue jumper and godmother’s pearls. Thank the Mother Toshiko talked me into a new pair of navy high heels.”
Rhys stared at her for a second then turned to the television set. “She’s dead, then.”
“Ianto didn't come out and say so, but there's no other reason we would all be required to attend the Prince. I was helping Ianto clean up in the Archives one day and we came across some photographs taken after the old King died. She was in Africa, remember, or on the way back. The Queen Mother brought the little prince down to take the Welsh Oath. There's this picture of Jack kneeling in front of Charles Macsen, and they both look so serious.”
“Well, it was serious business, wasn't it? Here, hold Aine while I get her things out. The white dress Mam bought her from Spain, I think. And the ballet slippers from Jack. Socks, here we are... Give her here and get started on yourself. But why Torchwood?”
It took her a minute to switch gears back to the larger matter at hand. “The way Ianto explained, Torchwood personnel are considered the Sovereign's personal vassals. We and our families pay homage to the new Sovereign and in return the Crown undertakes certain obligations towards us.” She stepped into the high heels. “Things like our children's educations are taken care of, there's a tidy pension for a surviving spouse, that sort of thing.”
“I didn't know that.”
“Neither did I, until Ianto explained. Here, give me Aine and get yourself ready. They'll be here soon.”
They had been downstairs only a few minutes when both of Torchwood's SUVs drove up. Jack, Ianto, and Ianto's sister Rhiannon were on the first one. Tosh, Owen, Andy, and Rhiannon's children Mica and Daffyd were on the second one. Ianto jumped out and opened the door to the back seat. Gwen slid in, smiling at Rhiannon.
“You too, Rhi?”
“I am told that, although I'm not Ianto's spouse or child and therefore not required to accept vassalage, I am strongly encouraged to consider it.” She shook her head. “It all sounds so bloody medieval.”
“It's older,” Jack said, looking back over his shoulder briefly. Gwen noticed his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. “And it's real. Think about it before you accept, Rhi, because once you speak the words, you are Bound by them and Power is not a forgiving judge.”
“I know, Jack,” she answered gently. “I don't think I'm ready to decide yet, but I will be. Don't worry.”
As they reached Llangollen they found themselves in the middle of a traffic jam as cars streamed slowly towards the esplanade at the base of the castle complex. The sides of the roads were filled with people carrying armfuls of flowers and Welsh flags and singing Ar lan y môr, the Queen's favorite traditional Welsh tune. Gwen found herself singing along, and then Rhys, Ianto, and Rhiannon picked it up.
“The news must be out,” Jack whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears.
“Jack...” Gwen started to say something, but found she couldn't find anything to say that didn't sound trite and mawkish.
“She was my goddaughter, Gwen,” he said.
Suddenly everything Jack was came crashing down on her. Gwen knew he wasn't talking about anything so simple as a Christian baptism. This beautiful man who looked no more than thirty had held the woman who had just passed away after a long and illustrious life as a newborn and promised the Land and the Elements that he would care for her; and now he mourned her death. Probably, she realized, as Jack would hold the children of her body, and as he would mourn them when they passed.
She had once asked Owen how long Jack would live, and he had shrugged. Nobody knows. There's never been anyone like him.
The guards at the gatehouse of the lower curtain wall took one look at Jack and waved them through, saluting as the SUV passed. They climbed up Crow's Hill Road until they reached the postern gate, where they followed the instructions of a guardsman and parked in a cordoned -off area in one corner of the wide courtyard.
“The ceremonies are held in the Welsh Tower,” Jack said.
He led them across to the two-story building with its wide double doors thrown open. Guards in full dress uniform with black armbands presented arms as they passed through the doors and into a small receiving room with a staircase at one end. Beyond, another door also stood open. They followed Jack through it and found themselves in a rectangular hall with a high ceiling and tall, narrow windows. Welsh battle flags hung between them. At the far end, a portrait of the Queen hung above a fireplace large enough to roast an ox.
A small group of people were gathered around a tall, blond young man in the uniform of a Captain in the Welsh Guard. Gwyllym Arthur Philip Somerled, as of a couple of hours before Prince of Wales and Heir Apparent to the Throne of the United Kingdoms, detached himself from the others and came to meet them. Jack stopped, and they ranged themselves around him in their usual formation, almost like a bodyguard, while Rhys, Rhiannon and the children waited behind. As the prince reached them Jack bowed his head.
“Your Royal Highness.”
“That's for later, uncle Jack.” Prince Gwyllym stepped closer and hugged Jack tightly. “Now it's for family.”
They hung on to each other for a moment, then Jack stepped back. “Are the others on their way?”
“Everyone should be here by four. We have scheduled the ceremony for five and dinner right after. You will be staying the night, of course. Rooms have been arranged upstairs. Tomorrow afternoon we head for London for the funeral, and no, you can't get out of it. Now, introduce me. Ianto I know, of course, but the others I've only heard about.”
“Yes, sir. This is doctor Owen Harper and...”
“Your highness!” A middle-aged gentleman in formal mourning clothes ran in, gasping for air. “Your highness!”
The only sign of surprise in the Prince's face was a raised eyebrow. “My dear Jonathan, take a deep breath first. That's it. Now, tell us.”
The man's eyes went to Jack. “Thank God you're here, Captain. Father Caradog from Valle Crucis just called. He said to tell you... he said to tell you the King had awakened.”