England expects

Author: Pythia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None
Feedback: Will be appreciated
e-mail: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
Summary: A little incident at the palace.

The ceremony had been planned as a grandly formal affair. A gaggle of celebrities and famous faces were on the invitation list, along with a number of far more humble citizens, invited to honour their contribution to the welfare and well-being of the country. Fund raisers, charity workers, and leaders of the community rubbed shoulders with actors and generals, with politicians and with princes. Glittering figures of note moved among the crowd, outfitted in a variety of designer dresses, dress uniforms and gray formal morning suits. Top hats were an essential accessory, as were medal ribbons, elaborate corsages and decorative embroidered sashes.

The audience hummed with anticipation as the notables took their seats. Some of those gathered to be honoured turned and waved excitedly at the various friends and family members sitting in among the crowd. The ones better acquainted with public appearance and formal occasion shared smiles at the very human display of emotion from their fellow honorees, and joined in shushing them, in bringing them back to the attention and solemnity needed for the occasion. A rather well known actor – being honoured as much for his charity work as for his performances - was seen to lean sideways to share a knowing comment with the man sitting at the very end of the row. The man concerned – a tall, dignified figure in his perfectly fitted tailcoat – smiled and nodded in return, carefully placing his top hat under his seat and briefly taking off his glasses to give them one last minute polish. A small group of young people sitting near the back of the audience grinned and elbowed each other as he did so, earning themselves disapproving looks from several of the somewhat older members of their party.

A hush fell over the room.

The Queen and her entourage entered in style, her majesty flanked by her Master of Ceremonies on one side, and her youngest grandson on the other. He looked a little uncomfortable, but quickly fell into the required expression, treating the occasion with the reverence it demanded.

Everyone rose to their feet, the women dropping a curtsey as the pageant passed, while the men offered respectful bows. The honour guard took up places along the podium while the Queen swept up the steps and settled herself regally in the throne. The silence could have been cut by a knife as the Master of Ceremonies carefully placed the box he’d been carrying on the plinth provided and opened it, extracting the ceremonial sword to hand it – equally ceremonially – to the Queen. She nodded and laid its weight across her lap, sharing a quick and warm smile with her grandchild, who had taken up a place at her left shoulder. He grinned back, clearly acknowledging some private joke between them.

The master of ceremonies turned and began his speech, welcoming all to the gathering and expressing the gratitude of the nation for the hard work and many contributions that those assembled had given to the country over the years.

It was a long speech. Several people in the audience were fighting down yawns before it was over. So was the Queen, although that was forgivable, since she’d undoubtedly heard it and others like it, many times before. Eventually though, the speaker finished with a suitable flourish and earned himself a polite round of applause. He nodded, beginning to turn to bow to her Majesty so that she could begin her part of the ceremony –

Just as a demon appeared, right at the foot of the steps.

The creature emerged from a sudden dark billow of smoke, its wings opening with a clap of thunder and its clawed feet digging deep gouges into the marbled floor. It came with a swirl of bitter brimstone, and a sense of chill that shivered across the entire room. Chaos erupted – just as the amused summoner of the beast had intended. He’d been sitting quietly at the very back of the very back row in the audience, muttering his incantation under his breath, the arcane words backing each word of the interminable speech. As people leapt to the feet in horror and alarm, as the security forces surged forwards – only to be impeded by the desperate panic of the crowd – he slid quietly to his feet and made his exit, walking with a light step and a jaunty whistle.

He wasn’t above throwing a couple of entanglement spells after himself though – the small band of Slayers were one target and some of the burly security men another. His parting gifts added to the turmoil within the room, impeding the efforts of both security and representative Slayers to get through the fleeing crowd.

Back at the front of the hall, the demon was busy shrugging off the hail of gunfire that had greeted its roar of challenge. Several of the honour guard were sent flying by a sweep of wings and a slash of taloned claws. The gathered notables had joined the general panic – with one exception. The quietly dignified figure at the end of the row had looked – first startled, then puzzled, and finally furious. He rose to his feet, shook his head at the futile efforts of the brave policemen trying to hold back the creature with a barrage of bullets and made his way around the edge of the room, up behind the panicking honor guard and arrived at the Queen’s side just as her grandson boldly and determinedly stepped in front of her.

"What is it?" he demanded of the man, who seemed to be – other than the small group of althletic young ladies trying to fight through the crowd, and his grandmother, who appeared to be rather amused by the whole event – the only one not panicked by the situation.

"Velithikar demon," the man informed him, bowing briefly to the Queen. "May I, your Majesty?" He held out his hand and she smiled, calmly offering him the hilt of the sword she’d been holding on her lap.

He took the weapon, bowed – nodded to the bemused and anxious prince – and then charged down the steps, taking them two at a time.

The security detail had given up firing at the thing. The bullets were having no effect and most of them were already out of ammunition. They took a step back to regroup, a few of them having the sense to draw the swords they were wearing and using them to defend wounded comrades as the demon snarled and lashed out at their retreat.

Steel flashed behind it. A wing strut buckled under the attack and it turned with howl of pain. The man was standing there, a glint in his eye and a look of determination written across his face. "Caro putridas es!" he declared, the gesture from his right hand ripping away the layers of magical protection that had enwrapped the beast. It howled again and leapt to the attack, claws extended and saliva dripping from its fangs.

The fight was short, but sweet. The man countered every slash of claws, sidestepped every lunge and avoided every furious strike. Within moments the demon was bleeding in a dozen places, the fabric of its wings ripped to shreds and one arm hanging loosely at its side. Slayers and their associates scrambled to the front of the rows of chairs, finally having fought free of the enchantment cast over them – and were just in time to witness the final blow, the firm sweep of the blade that lifted the beast’s head cleanly from its shoulders.

The body remained standing for a second or two, then slumped to the decorated floor, where it dissolved into a rather dark and unpleasant mess.

"Oh yes!" the prince exclaimed delightedly. Several of the honour guard offered a spontaneous round of applause – and the Slayers all cheered, sharing immensely relieved grins. One or two of their Watchers were seen to heave huge sighs of relief, and then joined in the approbation with genuine pleasure.

The blonde haired Slayer at the head of charge was grinning fit to bust. She and the man exchanged a look, a nod of acknowledgement, and then shared a smile of their own. He took a moment to compose himself and then turned to walk back up the steps.

"Are we done, Sir Rupert?" the Queen asked, getting to her feet and putting out her hand for the sword. He nodded, wiping the blade clean on his coat tails before turning it to offer back, hilt first.

"I believe so, your Majesty. I must apologise most sincerely for the interruption – and I – uh – I’m afraid I’m not entitled …"

"The apology is entirely unnecessary," she interrupted firmly. "And the rest ," she announced, raising her hand, "can be immediately remedied. Please - kneel."

And that friends is the true story of how Rupert Giles went to the palace to collect an OBE and walked away with a knighthood.

Don’t let anyone tell you any differently …