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It was two and a half hours into the team-bonding guided nature walk and sketching session that Pwyll’s employees snapped.

“This is so fucking boring,” said Gethin in English, nudging Heledd who was trudging along beside him in her impractically expensive Le Chameau wellies.

“I’d be more excited if I was doing the budgeting spreadsheets back at the office,” she muttered back, also in English. They both snickered.

Pwyll, who, as managing director, was naturally at the head of the group and guiding said team-bonding nature walk, had been trying not to listen too closely, but found that this was a step too far.

“Cymraeg, plîs,” he said. The whole point of this trip was to strengthen the company’s identity. What better way to do that than to take the team-bonding trip as an excuse to help the dysgwyr on his team to improve their (frankly shaky) language skills amidst the beautiful Welsh countryside?

“Sori, bos, mae’n ffycin ddiflas!” Gethin retorted.

“Is this all a joke to you?” said Pwyll, a sudden fury rearing its head from beneath the layers of professionalism he had sought to imbue in his team and himself. “I spent thousands on this weekend, fully comped for you to enjoy, and all you’ve done is drag your heels through everything and act ungrateful!”

“Maybe your thousands of pounds would have been better spent on advertising the business, then,” said Gethin. “Boss.”

He put his sketchbook under his armpit and folded both arms across his chest, taking a wide stance in the muddy field as he drew to a halt. The whole group of eight stopped with him, staring at him with various looks of disbelief, horror, and amusement.

And, in one case, utter incomprehension.

“I didn’t understand any of that apart from thousands of pounds, could you say it again?” said Bethan. In fairness, Pwyll had to remind himself, Bethan had gone to school just across the border in Oswestry, giving everyone else on the team a sixteen-year head start at the language. Some of Pwyll’s employees had made better use of those sixteen years of mandatory Welsh than others, he thought, glaring at Gethin and Heledd, who was hiding her laughter behind her hands.

“You know what? If you don’t want to be here, I’m not going to force you,” said Pwyll, throwing up his hands. It had the unfortunate effect of sending his sketchbook flying. It sailed through the air and came to rest, pages down, in the mud. He looked down at it and felt the sheer futility of the whole endeavour crash through him.

“You might as well all go to the pub,” he told them. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Boss…” said Bethan nervously, hovering by his shoulder as the others shrugged and turned around, beginning the slow drift back to the village.

“Go on,” said Pwyll, waving her away. “It’s fine, go with them. I just need to clear my head, that’s all.”

He listened until her squelching footsteps had caught up with the others, then rolled up the sleeves of his anorak and strode off in the direction of the nearby woods.

*

Less than an hour later, the sky was growing darker, and a drizzly rain had begun to trickle from the grey clouds overhead. Pwyll didn’t want to admit that he was lost, because that painted a somewhat negative picture he wasn’t entirely comfortable with – but he wasn’t quite certain that he could find his way out of the woods at this exact juncture.

He stumbled over an exposed tangle of roots from a gnarled oak just off the path, and swore as he staggered into the trunk of the tree. He fumbled in his coat pocket for his phone, but there was no signal. One distinct disadvantage of the rural Welsh experience was the constant “Emergency Call Only” message on his lockscreen.

He didn’t think he was quite at that stage. Not yet. Heaving a sigh, he pocketed his phone and tested his ankle. It didn’t seem sprained, so he continued on his way – wherever it might be leading him.

It wasn’t too long before he spotted a figure amidst the trees ahead. His first instinct was to clutch at his phone, but then he shook himself. This was probably just a local farmer or dog walker – perhaps they could give him directions home.

“Hey, there!” he called out. The figure stilled, its shadowed head turning slowly in his direction. A sudden white mist dropped over Pwyll’s shoulders like a cloak as the rain continued to drizzle down the back of his anorak.

He took a step closer, and so did the figure – a man, Pwyll could see now, tall and pale with hair the colour of jet. Then, out of nowhere, the man exclaimed in a loud, delighted voice:

“Pwyll! Is it really you?”

His voice was strange and melodic – it almost felt like it belonged to another world. The words were recognisably Welsh, but they sounded somehow ancient.

“How do you know my name?” Pwyll demanded. “Who are you?”

The man looked shocked for a moment, drawing to a halt with a stunned expression. Then, the expression slid into some more guarded.

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Pwyll wracked his brain, trying to figure out where he might have met this strange man before. On his most recent Coaching and Mentoring course? Back when he was at business school getting his MBA? Or was it even further back?

The man seemed to take pity on him. “It was a long time ago,” he said wistfully. “Of course I shouldn’t expect you to remember.”

“I’m really sorry about this,” said Pwyll.

The man smiled. Wreathed in mists, his cheekbones hollowed by the shadows, he looked startling and unreal. “Among friends, there is no need for apologies.”

Pwyll wondered why that phrasing made it sound like he was the man’s closest friend. Shaking the oddness of the words away, he tried to redirect the conversation.

“I had a little tiff with my team earlier,” he said. “And now I’ve gone and got myself turned about in the woods – I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of the village again, could you?”

The man was quiet for a moment.

“A tiff?” he repeated, like he didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

“Yes,” said Pwyll, trying not to think too much of it. Perhaps if the man had grown up in this village and never spent any time further east, he hadn’t picked up some of the Wenglish slang that peppered Pwyll’s own speech. “An argument,” he clarified.

“Oh, I see,” said the man. “You must have a brave and bold contingent, for them to choose a fight with you.”

Pwyll pulled a face. “A bit too bold, if you ask me. Who exactly are you, again?”

“My name is Arawn,” said the man.

Pwyll felt that the name was vaguely familiar to him. Perhaps they had met before. It felt like the memory was brushing the surface of his mind now, almost coming into view, but still obscured by the mists of time.

“No, sorry,” he said after a moment. “The name rings a bell, but I still can’t quite place you.”

“We met once, long ago,” said Arawn. “Many hundreds of years ago, in fact.”

Pwyll blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“We met, on this very day, many years ago.” Arawn smiled, and Pwyll felt a dizzy kind of heat rising in his blood, warming him despite the chill of the mist that surrounded them both.

“If you could just point me back to the village…” he began, then faltered as Arawn’s face fell.

“Can you really not remember anything at all?” Arawn asked. When Pwyll shook his head in numb disbelief, Arawn’s lips pressed together in sorrow. “You were the mighty Prince of Dyfed,” he said. “I lived in Annwn, you in Dyfed. Once, when the veil between our worlds was thinnest, I met you in a wood much like this, and we agreed to sample one another’s lands for a while.”

“Wait…” Pwyll felt like that story was a little too familiar, and not for the reasons Arawn clearly wanted him to believe. “If this is your idea of a funny joke, it’s a bloody poor one. You’re just telling me the first branch of the Mabinogi.”

“The what?” Arawn seemed to be sincerely confused.

“I have to go." Pwyll took a slow step back.

“I can prove to you it’s true,” said Arawn, reaching out to grab him by the arm and thereby preventing him from plunging back into the woods and away from nonsensical fairy tales and strangers who claimed to have known him since the dawn of time.

“Really?” Pwyll laughed, a little nervous at the intensity etched into Arawn’s face. “There’s no need, mate, it’s okay.”

“No,” said Arawn. “It’s been so many years, I can’t bear for you to stand here and disbelieve me.”

“I don’t… disbelieve…” Pwyll trailed off as Arawn waved one hand in the air and the mist began to swirl around them. Everything was taking on the quality of a strange dream, his eyes and limbs growing heavy as he struggled to make out Arawn’s face through the fog. He heard quiet voices in the distance, ancient songs in the air. He whirled around, but the only thing that achieved was for his wallet to go flying from his pocket, striking the ground with a dull thud. Pwyll looked down, but he couldn't see his feet through the thick whirl of mist.

“What's going on? Wait a minute, I need -”

“It won’t be for long,” said Arawn in that musical, ancient voice. “Just enjoy the change of scenery for a while. I’m sure I will!”

The earth seemed to shift beneath Pwyll’s feet. He stumbled forward without sight, arms out – and barrelled right into something hard and tough. It grunted, and he stilled, listening in horror. Was it breathing? What could it be?

Slowly, the mist began to clear, and Pwyll looked up, bleary eyes trailing up a scaled, silvery body until he met yellow, snake-like eyes.

The creature let out a shriek at the exact moment Pwyll did the same – only the creature’s shriek was accompanied by a bolt of fire. Pwyll ducked to the left instinctively, diving to the floor of the clearing… but when he hit the ground, he saw that the grass was on fire beside him. Frantically stamping it out, he spun his head around in search of something, anything, that could provide some defence against this creature.

As it advanced on him, gnashing its jaws and spitting sparks, Pwyll closed his eyes and heard nothing but the sound of his wild, pounding heart – or just perhaps, he dreamed desperately, it was the thundering hoofbeats of his valiant rescuer.

*

“Not again,” was the first thing the woman said when she rode her horse up to the scaly, dragon-like creature and valiantly rescued him by frightened it away with a mere wave of her silver staff. It hissed, its long, black tongue slithering out as it locked eyes with Pwyll for a last, brief moment of menace – before it turned tail, quite literally, and trotted off into the forest.

Pwyll stared up at her from the spot of charred grass he was lying on. She glanced down at him as her horse pawed the ground near his head – and then she gasped, her eyes widening.

“Pwyll!”

“What the hell is going on?” he mumbled.

She dismounted the horse and offered him a hand. “You are Pwyll, aren’t you?” she said.

He nodded, unable to think of a word to say as she pulled him to his feet. She studied him carefully, muddied anorak and all.

“You dress a lot different that you used to,” she said, then took her horse by the reins and began to lead him away in the direction she had appeared. “Come on, let’s get back to the palace.”

Pwyll stared after her for a long moment, trying to decide if he was hallucinating or dreaming. It didn’t feel like it, now that strange white mist had cleared… but it couldn’t be real, could it?

The woman glanced over her shoulder with an annoyed look, and he hurried to catch up.

“You have me at a complete disadvantage,” he said. “I have no idea what your name is.”

“Eluned,” she said. “Wife of Arawn, ruler of the land of Annwn.” She paused, not looking at him. “You really don’t remember anything from the last time?”

“I really don’t,” Pwyll promised her. “What was that thing you just frightened off?”

“A wyvern,” said Eluned. “Harmless things, really. You just need to know how to handle them.”

“Really,” said Pwyll. “I’d rather not need to learn, to be honest."

He looked around as they emerged from the forest. They were walking alongside a fast-flowing river, surrounded on all sides by green fields dotted with sheep and yellow fields stiff with corn and maize. A little further in the distance, beyond the gentle slopes and rolling hills nearby, rose mountain peaks studded with evergreens, their branches glistening with bright snow. A wild, rushing stream of white water ran from the face of one of the mountains, a majestic waterfall that reminded him of the falls at Llanrhaeadr. The whole setting looked almost exactly like Wales, but there was something glittering and unreal that lay thick and heavy in the air, making it feel different.

"What sort of a place is this?”

She smirked at him. “It’s Annwn,” she said. “You were much more polite about it all last time. Although, back then, I suppose you were pretending to be my husband.”

“Oh.” It had been a while since Pwyll had read the tales of the Mabinogi, but that did ring a bell. But thinking of himself potentially being that very same Prince of Dyfed from the old stories was a step too far.

“I’ll warn you now,” Eluned added, “don’t think you’ll be sleeping in my bed this time.”

Pwyll spluttered, almost choking in shock. “What?”

She laughed, and even her horse seemed to snicker at him as it blew air from its nostrils. “Don’t worry, you were the perfect gentleman,” Eluned assured him. “I didn’t half have a few words for Arawn when he finally returned from your world, though!”

“I can imagine,” said Pwyll, faintly. “Look, this is all very strange for me, so could you please cut me some slack?”

Although she had seemed to understand him perfectly up to that point, now she only gave him a blank look.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” she said. “Now, hush your mouth and hurry your pace. Court petitions start at noon, and someone will have to stand in for me as advisor, if I’m to play my husband’s role!”

*

“How long will it take for your husband to return?” Pwyll asked, a growing sense of dread blooming in his chest as the final petitioner left the room with a dejected sigh, having been refused the additional lands he was claiming belonged not to his troublesome neighbour, but in fact to him.

Eluned shrugged with a small yawn. “He was away for a year, last time.”

“A year?” Pwyll leapt to his feet at this alarming news, starting to pace back and forth between the high arches of the doorway out into the palace courtyard. “I can’t stay here for an entire year – what will my team do?”

Eluned blinked at him. “Your team? You mean your subjects?”

“Uh…” Pwyll shook his head, then decided his time was better spent fighting other battles. “Sort of, yes. They won’t know what to do without me!”

“Then you can’t be a very good ruler, can you?” said Eluned.

“Excuse me?” Pwyll stopped pacing abruptly. If he’d known he was only going to be made temporary king of a shadowy mythical underworld in order to be undermined and belittled at every turn – well, he might as well have stayed in his own world.

“You can’t be a very good ruler,” Eluned repeated, “if your men have no idea how to keep things running smoothly in your absence.”

“People,” said Pwyll automatically.

“What?”

“My people. I have both men and women on my staff. And one person who’s neither, actually.”

Eluned’s brow furrowed, mouth opening as if to begin asking a question. Before he could find himself bogged down in attempting to explain twenty-first century concepts of gender to a woman who had been alive since pre-Roman times, Pwyll changed the subject.

“Anyway, that’s beside the point. The issue is…”

What was the issue? What was it, really, that had him simultaneously desperate to get back to make sure his employees hadn’t tanked his company, and also dreading his return to the daily grind?

“…Maybe you’re right,” he said, finally, with a sigh. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this whole leadership thing.”

Eluned raised an eyebrow. “Really, do you think?”

“You don’t have to sound so self-satisfied about it,” Pwyll muttered, but it did feel like a relief to finally say out loud everything he had been fearing for months and months. Maybe he was a bad manager. Maybe his team were doomed, and it would be better if he saved them all the hassle of watching the company go under by making them all redundant now!

“Sit down,” said Eluned, her voice breaking through his racing thoughts. When he didn’t move, she waved an impatient hand at the gilded chair at the head of the table. “Sit down, you ridiculous man.”

Pwyll spent a brief moment fighting the urge to sprint out of the door and hide in the woods to avoid her until her husband finally dragged himself home from his no doubt enthralling adventures in Wales.

Just one look at her stern expression told him that she would only hunt him down if he tried to run. He dropped into the chair with a sigh, shoulders slumping.

“What?” he said.

Eluned didn’t seem to notice the edge to his tone – or, knowing her, she noticed but didn’t care at all. She leaned forward across the table, tapping the grain of the wood with two fingers.

“Listen carefully, and I’ll tell you a secret about leadership.”

*

It took Arawn a while to observe the people at the tavern ordering their drinks. Finally, having watched at least five interactions, he stood and strode over to the bar.

“What’ll it be, then?” said the landlady of the tavern. This was her standard opening line, so Arawn knew the standard answer.

“Peint, plîs,” he said.

“Of course,” said the landlady of the tavern. “Which one?” She shot him a cheerful grin and gestured at the selection. Various brightly coloured signs blinked back at him, promising ales the like of which he’d never tasted before.

Arawn pointed at one of the plaques at random, and she began to pull on some strange contraption that seemed to produce the ale from thin air. He watched it pour into the strangely shaped glass flagon with fascination.

“What have you been up to today?” the woman asked. “You’re covered in mud to the knees!”

Arawn didn’t quite catch the meaning of the entire question, but he supposed she was referring to the state of his boots after his sojourn through the woods.

“I did clean the soles before I came inside your establishment,” he said.

There was a short pause.

“What was that, cariad?” The landlady squinted at Arawn. “Sorry, but we don’t get many dysgwyr round here, so I’m not used to it. We can speak English, if you like?”

Arawn was taken aback by the assumption – and not quite certain what English might be. Perhaps it was similar one of the languages spoken across the border the last time he ventured into Pwyll’s lands. Not that he had ever known how to speak that, either.

“I am not a learner,” Arawn said, doing his best to enunciate his words clearly. “This is the only language I have ever spoken.”

“Oh,” said the landlady, after a moment of bafflement. “Sorry! Let me guess, then… you must be from Rhos?”

It took Arawn a few moments to puzzle it out. He wasn’t entirely sure which Rhos she was referring to, but it seemed best to accept her judgement rather than argue it. He nodded.

“That’s right.”

She beamed at him, pushing his flagon of ale across the bar to him. He handed her a wad of the notes from the strange detached metal pocket Pwyll had dropped in the woods. Her forehead creased, lips tilting up in amusement as she took one and handed the rest back to him without comment.

“I knew it,” she said. “You had to be from Rhos, talking like that! What are you doing all the way out here, then?”

Arawn was beginning to wonder that himself. Unlike the last time he and Pwyll had switched places, this time he had no kingdom to rule and no power to speak of – and it turned out that he could barely speak the modern tongue at all.

“Just a short break,” he told her. “I shall be home soon.”

She nodded, already turning her attention to her next customer. “Well, you have a lovely weekend, cariad!”

A little unsure what a weekend might be, but reluctant to question it, Arawn took his strange glass flagon to a quiet table in the corner of the pub and resumed his observations.

There were a few elderly gentlemen with lined faces and flat grey hats, sitting close enough that they seemed to be together, but barely exchanging words. They appeared to communicate mainly in grunts, which they all seemed to understand perfectly without further elaboration. Just opposite them was a young woman sitting alone, reading a book in a language whose words Arawn couldn’t recognise at all. Perhaps it was written in that English the landlady had assumed he spoke.

In the corner, a young man with long hair tunelessly strummed a guitar and sang too fast for Arawn to understand the lyrics. It was nowhere near the kind of bardic performance he was used to in his own court – but then, this was a small tavern and not a fine palace.

The music wasn’t so bad, if you lowered your standards somewhat. Arawn leaned back in his seat, gaze falling on the group of eight sitting in the corner. They must be Pwyll’s subjects. They all seemed a little downcast, glum faces staring moodily into their pint flagons.

“Call him again,” one of the group said, a man around Arawn’s age with a ruddy red face. His bushy beard and bushier eyebrows twitched as he spoke. “He’s bound to pick up when he stops being mad at us.”

“What if something’s happened to him?” said a young woman with dark skin and long braids, her concern evident in her plaintive voice.

“He’s only been gone an hour,” another woman argued, flipping her fair hair over her shoulders. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Two hours,” another person interjected from the back of the booth, checking their watch. “Almost two and a half, now.”

“He could have fallen and broken a leg!” the first woman argued. “What if he’s hurt, and he’s got no phone signal?”

Arawn didn’t know what that was, but he understood well enough that Pwyll’s subjects wanted to know his whereabouts to ascertain his safety. He took a last, long swig of his ale and rose from his seat. When he went over to them, the whole group fell into an uneasy silence before, finally, the bearded man spoke.

“You alright, mate?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about your leader,” said Arawn, suddenly extremely aware of their eyes all focused on him, strained frowns on their faces as they struggled to make out his words.

“You mean Pwyll?” said the fair-haired woman after a moment.

“You’ve seen him?” the bearded man said. “Where was he, do you know?”

“We’re old friends,” said Arawn. It was true enough, even if this modern Pwyll didn’t remember their first meeting. The table began to mutter to one another, uncertain. “I met him in the woods, and he told me there had been an… altercation.”

“A what?” said the girl with the braids.

“A bust-up, Bethan!” someone snapped.

“What?”

“Anyway!” Arawn cut across their bickering with his well-honed I am your king and you will obey me voice (as Eluned called it). It seemed to have the desired effect, as they all shut their mouths and stared up at him in stunned silence. “Anyway, Pwyll and I were talking, and I told him he could stay at my home this evening. I said I would come to let you all know he’s safe and well, since there’s no… phone signal… at my house.”

The group were beginning to look a little less wary now, relaxing as they considered the plausible explanation. Apparently, phone signal, whatever it may be, was a great excuse for absence of communication.

“Oh, well, I told you he’d be fine, didn’t I?” said the fair-haired woman. “And you fussing over him like that!”

“You needn’t be so smug, Heledd,” said another woman with greying hair. “Bethan was right, he might very well have been injured or lost.”

“Well, since he’s fine, let’s all stop worrying and enjoy ourselves,” said the bearded man. “I’m Gethin, mate. You are?”

“Arawn.”

“Unusual name,” Heledd commented.

Gethin pointed to a free chair. “Can we get you a drink by way of thanks, mate?”

Arawn considered his options. Refuse, and wander out into the frosty night with nothing gained and nowhere to lay his head – or agree, and stay in the roaring warmth of the tavern with a group of Pwyll’s close associates and few good ales?

He took the offered seat.

*

“The truth is,” said Eluned, “that no one is a good leader. Not at first, anyway.”

“Is that it?” said Pwyll. “Your big secret?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What I’m saying is that even when you were a prince of Dyfed, you still had a lot to learn. You didn’t like to listen to people at first. You always wanted things your own way, without compromises. That’s what switching places with my husband taught you – how to rule. And you did a good job, too, in the end… with a little help from me, of course.”

“Of course,” said Pwyll, somewhat drily. “How did your husband do with my… realm?” It felt weird to talk about himself like he really was the Pwyll of legend, but Eluned and Arawn truly seemed to believe he was one and the same.

“Oh, fine,” Eluned assured him. “You were lifelong friends, after that. Used to meet up every year to discuss how things were going in your kingdoms.”

“And then I… died.”

“Yes,” she said. “Eventually, you did. He was devastated about it for a long time, you know. He has always honoured you on the anniversary of the day you switched places.”

“And you?” Pwyll watched her face for any sign of old grief – after all, according to the legend, she was the one who spent a year getting to know him while her husband played at being Prince of Dyfed.

Her eyes slid away from his. “What about me?”

He sighed. “Nothing.”

She reached out as if to pat his hand, then changed her mind partway through and slapped the tabletop instead.

“That’s enough of that maudlin nonsense,” she told him. “I know you want to go back to your team and your own world, but you can learn a lot here, too.”

“This isn’t like the old days,” Pwyll protested. “Things are different in Wales now. Arawn isn’t from my world; there’s no way he’ll be able to pretend to be me for a year!”

“Probably not,” said Eluned. “And so, he’ll probably be home before you know it.”

As she spoke, there was a sharp rap on the door. There was a small commotion of voices and laughter before the guards hauled it open to reveal Arawn standing on the threshold. He looked, Pwyll thought, a little worse for wear. It was confirmed when the great king of Annwn stumbled drunkenly into the throne room, slurring his words as he called out for his wife.

“Eluned!” he said, grabbing her by the hands as she rose to greet him and twirling her in a messy circle. “I’ve returned!”

She began to laugh, then stopped herself and shook her head, shoving at his shoulder.

“What’s got into you, you old sot?”

He only chuckled and whirled her around again, humming a tune it took Pwyll a moment to place as I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight by Cutting Crew.

“Why, my dear,” said Arawn, swaying gently from side to side, “I’m just full of the joys of a different world!”

“Certainly full of something.” Eluned shared a wry glance with Pwyll as she steered her husband to a seat. It was only as he sat down opposite him that Arawn seemed to remember Pwyll.

“Pwyll!” he exclaimed, launching himself halfway across the table to clasp Pwyll by the arm. Eluned rolled her eyes and tugged him back into his seat. He settled back in the chair with a drunken smile. “Pwyll, I must say, your men know how to have fun!”

Pwyll opened his mouth to remind Arawn that his team also contained women and non-binary people, because it was based in twenty-first century Wales and not a mythical feudal otherworld – but before he could Arawn added: “And your women. And Morgan.”

“You could have fooled me,” Pwyll muttered. “That lot, having fun?”

“What was that?” Arawn said.

Pwyll shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. "You didn't happen to pick up my wallet, did you?"

Arawn frowned, puzzled for a moment, before his glazed eyes lit up. "Ah!" He reached into his black cloak and tossed Pwyll's wallet across the table to him. When Pwyll picked it up, it felt quite a bit lighter. It seemed Arawn had managed to figure out modern money, then.

“Look," said Pwyll as he pocketed his wallet, not in any rush to challenge Arawn about his losses. "I’m glad you had a good night out, truly, I am. But can I go back, now?”

“If you want,” said Arawn, jovial, although his expression soon grew more serious. “You’ve got a loyal team there, Pwyll. You have to appreciate that when you find it. They didn’t say a bad word about you all night!”

“Even Gethin?” Pwyll had to admit he was surprised. He’d expected Gethin wouldn’t waste an opportunity to lay into him after this morning’s debacle with the sketching in the field.

Arawn tilted his head. “Especially Gethin,” he said. “Heledd, on the other hand… she does have an odd sense of humour.”

“You could call it that,” said Pwyll, but he was smiling in spite of himself. He wanted to see them all again, he realised, and apologise for forcing them to give up their weekend for this travesty of a team-bonding exercise.

But there was one slight issue.

“How… how exactly do I get back?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Arawn. “That’s simple!” He waved his hand, and a thick white mist descended over the room, blurring Eluned and Arawn from view. Pwyll began to feel that odd, dreamlike sensation again. His body became heavy, his hands weighted down to the table as his legs turned to lead.

“It was nice… meeting you both,” he managed to say, his tongue clumsy and imprecise. He heard Eluned laugh in reply.

“Until next time,” she said.

“Until next time!” Arawn echoed – and then, the ground shifted beneath Pwyll, and he was stumbling back out onto the gravel road from the field back into the village with his head reeling.

The mist cleared abruptly, leaving him wreathed in darkness. He glanced up at the bright stars above him, coating the night sky with pinpricks of sparkling light. He took in a lungful of cold mountain air and shivered. His anorak was too thin for the nighttime temperatures in north-west Wales.

As he wandered towards the crossroads that led back towards the campsite chalet they were all holed up in for the weekend, he spotted a torchlight from a phone in the distance. It was making its way from the dimmed lights of the village’s only pub. As he drew closer, several figures began to emerge from the dark, and he recognised first Heledd, then Bethan, then Morgan, Gethin, and the others.

“Pwyll!” Bethan was the first to call out.

“You’re back,” said Heledd, surprised.

“Your mate told us you’d be staying the night at his,” Morgan added.

“Well, I was thinking about it,” said Pwyll as they all came face-to-face. “And it all seemed to point to the fact that I’ve been a pretty bad team leader. It wasn’t fair of me, really, to make you all give up your weekend for this disaster. If we do anything else like this, it'll be during the work week, I swear. So... I came back to say that I’m sorry.”

“I was meant to go to the Welsh Mountain Zoo with my sister and her kids,” said Heledd, a little bitterly. “I could have seen a sealion.” Morgan elbowed her in the ribs, and they scowled at each other before Heledd finally relented. “Okay, fine. I mean, thanks for the apology, boss. We had a decent time tonight, as it happens.”

“Yeah,” said Gethin. “All that earlier on... sorry, boss.”

Pwyll nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It's all water under the bridge. Let's just start over again tomorrow.”

"I heard there's a llama sanctuary in Porthmadog," said Heledd. "Perhaps that could be the next work trip."

"Maybe," said Pwyll, trying not to mentally calculate the costs. "We'll talk about it when we get back to the office."

They all fell back into amused chatter as they wound their way back to their chalet, regaling Pwyll with tales about his weird friend and leaving him fending off questions about how exactly they knew each other. Despite the chill in the air, there was a growing warmth in Pwyll’s chest even before Morgan began to lead an astonishingly off-key rendition of Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau.

Even if he took modern team-bonding exercises and grumpy employees who couldn't sing into consideration, Pwyll thought, it really was good to be back.

*

In the royal chambers of the palace in Annwn, Arawn sighed and rolled over to face his wife in their bed as daylight trickled in slowly through their stained glass window in flecks of red and gold.

"Remind me not to leave Annwn again for another eight hundred years or so," he mumbled, rubbing at his temples. "I'm getting too old for this sort of thing."

Eluned gave him an unsympathetic smirk. "Perhaps, next time, I could be the one to go," she suggested.

Arawn hummed, considering it. "You know... that might be a good idea."

Eluned's smirk shifted to a wide, toothy grin. "Well, dear, perhaps you should listen to me more often, then. You know I'm full of those. "