Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing and no one except me – and my stuff. No monetary compensation of any kind is being made to me by anyone for anything related to this.

A/N: I promised my Welsh dragon friend I'd try to tackle a chapter on Wales, and here it is. I do hope it's enjoyable and lives up to expectations. I apologize to the Welsh populous because, well, I am sure I am going to mangle something within this. And now that I think about it, I should most likely apologize to the Brits again this chapter…and possibly the French – you'll understand later. And do remember to insert your own expletive of choice at the appropriate spot.


It's a lovely morning – for January. The sun is out, shockingly, and it seems the snow prediction was wrong. I creep downstairs after my shower to the kitchen – it's been unusually quiet today which sets me on edge. Surprisingly, the crew seems to be content milling around the kitchen. I get some coffee, some cookies and retreat to my office. Nobody follows. This is kind of creepy and makes me wonder what they're plotting and how long I'll have to wait until they spring whatever it is on me. As it turns out, it won't be long at all.

"So…" Bedwyr. Lovely – it's not lunch yet and the man already has a Smithwick's in his hand. Nice. Although, I guess when you're non-corporeal, the rule or whatever about drinking before Noon doesn't really apply.

"Yes…" I swear if he wants to know if I love him… Don't ask. Really. Just don't.

"What's with the dragon flag thingee?" He motions over my shoulder at the banner.

"It's the flag of Wales."

"Whales?"

"Yes…Wales." Oh no, I am not getting stuck in this stupid debate. "Wales as in the country. W-A-L-E-S. Wales." Oh good, I'm back in third grade again and competing in the spelling bee. I won that particular match pretty handily…wonder if I could be so lucky this time. Given that it's Beds, I have strong doubts.

"Ah. Was wondering why those great big swimming things needed a flag…"

I smile sweetly. "Anything else there, Beds?" I resist the urge to tell him he should go visit it since I have been reminded that he does have Celtic origins; my Welsh friend will kill me if he shows up on her doorstep.

"What're you two talking about?"

Oh great…here comes the cavalry charge.

"I was just asking about the flag thingee. Did you know it belongs to a country called Wales? And, well, I don't know what else…" Bedwyr's voice trails off.

Before anyone can say anything, I open up Wikipedia. Cause, honestly, it's been even longer since I've had a class in British history than my Irish history one. And I don't ever recall Wales being a major topic area.

"Wales. A country in the United Kingdom, located on a peninsula in central-west Great Britain. Two official languages – Welsh and English. Roughly three million people. And, yes, Arthur, before you even ask, the Romans did occupy it. Anything else?" I spin around and wish I hadn't. Hands shoot up everywhere. "What now?"

The questions come all at once and then stop instantly. They look at me expectantly, as if I am supposed to have heard and understood them all and now answer.

"Seriously…what the phruck was that? You know I didn't understand one question out of that entire…whatever that was…" As they get all wound up again, I hold my hand up. "Whoa. Let's do this in a…civilized manner and, tell you what, you appoint one spokesman for the group and figure out your question and I'll be right back after I go get…something…from somewhere…" I inch toward the door as they huddle together, trying to sort themselves out. Unfortunately, the twins have figured out my plan (probably because I stole it from their playbook) and have stepped in back of me, cutting off the exit route. Looking amused, they point at my desk chair and smile. Phruck. Double phruck considering the circumstances.

Blessed relief – they chose Dagonet as their spokesman and not, oh, say, Arthur – who actually looks rather wounded as Dag takes a step forward with the question. Oh well. Not my problem. Let them deal with the hurt feelings of their commander. No, seriously, Artie looks like he's about to burst into tears and all I know is I am not going to be his crying shoulder; as far as I know, that's what his two usual companions are for.

"What is the United Kingdom?"

"Great Britain, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. Thanks for making that one easy. Good day." I even manage a thumbs-up salute. That really was easy and now I've got the rest of my day to myself. How excellent is that?

"Ok. But what is it?"

"What do you mean, what is it? It's a…uh…hang on a sec." I turn to Wikipedia and quickly search "United Kingdom"; I need a better explanation than the obvious: a country comprised of four separate countries. Duh. What I need is an explanation that will solve this in ten words or less and let me go about my day. Please, if there is a god anywhere, let there be something simple…barring that, something at least concise…and I heave a sigh. "It is, and I quote, 'a constitutional monarchy and unitary state consisting of four countries: England, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales.'" I look around. Oh good, Uther is present. "And since I couldn't explain that if I tried, why don't you ask Mr. Monarch himself and I'll just…you know…do any clean-up work after he's done doing his political savvy schtick stuff…" I gesture toward Uther. "Take it away, Mr. Political Savvy Monarch Man."

Dagonet raises an eyebrow at me and the group turns toward Uther. I think I've caught my opening and slowly, nonchalantly begin making my way to the door.

"Stay with us, dearest. You can learn all about it just like the rest of the group. Education is a wondrous thing." To emphasize his point, Uther gives me a one-armed hug while steering me back toward my chair. It's a new chapter so have I mentioned how much I hate, despise and loathe this man? Good. Feel better now that I've gotten that out in the open. I resist elbowing him since I'm pretty sure the whole non-corporeal thing would come into play and, well, it would be a waste of effort.

"A constitutional monarchy, unlike when I ruled, is where the monarch only has power and authority as granted by a constitution or a document…really rather ineffective for ruling, and just about anything else important, if you ask me. They are, for the most part, really only figureheads. A unitary state is one in which there is a central government that runs everything and the…provinces or states only have the authority as granted by that central government. Make sense?" He smiles broadly and I want to punch him. He did it. Holy schnikes I cannot believe he explained it clearly and logically. I am astonished and a bit thankful…but I still want to punch him.

"So..uh…there's no real monarchs there?"

"No, Bors, no real monarchs. Just figureheads." Uther holds his hand up to stop the follow-on. "However, there are still royal arse kissers – those people never go away...so it is quite the secure career choice through the ages."

Dagonet narrows his eyes and, wisely, Bors lets whatever comment he was going to make die and instead simply clears his throat.

"I don't get it. So they're British but they're not?" Bedwyr looks thoroughly confused.

"Ummm…kinda. As we established, they are part of the United Kingdom, but Wales is its own country. And it kind of runs itself. For the most part."

"Like Ireland?" Dagonet. I swear I could kiss the man sometimes…have thought about it long before now, if I'm honest. Just something about that rugged handsomeness…

"Precisely. Now, if I may…I have a few things I would like to do today, so if it really isn't too much trouble…" I point toward the door, which deep inside I know is useless and I don't actually expect them to leave – it's just a hopeful thought, my own private "happy place", if you will.

"Dragons?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Yet again I wonder just how they manage to travel through time, endure for centuries yet not be able to fathom the simplest things. Taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, I count to twenty. Funny – used to be I only needed to count to ten…these conversations have definitely taken a toll.

"I am positive, beyond a doubt, that there are absolutely, positively no dragons in Wales. At least not the kind you are thinking of. Besides, you all ought to know since most of you are of Welsh origin anyway." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I can almost see the confusion spreading like a wildfire.

"Am not a…kilt… I'm a Sarmatian." Oh Gareth. Definitely not the brainiac of the twins. We love him regardless.

"Not kilt, you dumb arse…Celt. Celt. You really are the dumb twin. Kilt is what the Pupster wears." Mordred shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Well he's right regardless. We're Sarmatian. Not Celt." Bedwyr crosses his arms firmly, stares hard at me and repeats himself slowly, in case I didn't understand, have gone deaf…whatever. "Sar-ma-tian. Not Celt. Not Welsh."

"No, you're wrong. You're predominantly Welsh. And the Welsh are Celts. Therefore…" I smile and nod my head, hoping they can follow the logic. "You were Sarmatian in the movie, but that's about it. If you read and examine Arthurian mythology..." I stop as I feel every eye focus on me. Phruck I cannot believe I used the 'M' word. This crew hates that word. Passionately. Sighing, I continue. "If you read Arthurian legend," I smile sweetly since I know they fully endorse the use of that word, "you will find that, overwhelmingly, the characters in it – all of you," I gesture around the room, "seem to have some basis in Welsh or Celt folklore." Oh great. Now I used the 'F' word. Could the ground just open and Hades swallow me now? Really. Because in the span of about two-minutes I've managed to utilize two of the most offensive words this crew knows – at least in reference to them. First mythology and now folklore.

"We are neither mythology nor folklore, you know…" Agravaine's eyes narrow and I know he won't hesitate to prove it to me, should I choose to dispute – which, I might add, will not be my choice.

"I know. I'm just saying is all. Hell, even most of the locations mentioned are claimed to be in Wales. So it only goes to reason that most of you can trace your roots back into Welsh…uh…legend. Except you, Lancelot. You seem to be an entirely French addition to the…epic…series…legend…whatever." I smile, hoping this tidbit distracts them a bit and allows me to gather my thoughts. Alas, it does not seem to be in the cards.

"Well that gets rid of him," Bedwyr moves forward and shoves Lancelot out of the room. "Knew he didn't matter anyway. I'm just… Are you sure about this? Cause why would they tell us we're Sarmatian and we're actually Welsh – doesn't make any sense."

I shrug. "It was a movie. M – O – V – I – E. Movie." Again, I demonstrate just why I won the third-grade spelling bee so handily. "Not at all historically accurate…not even mostly legend accurate. So get over it. You're Welsh – there's much worse things to be." And, yes, it does become silent as they are actually pondering this suggestion.

"Now…wait…" Bedwyr again. I swear the old man needs a hobby – well a hobby other than the two he currently seems to enjoy: annoying me or picking on Galahad. "We're Welsh – got that and, well, that's fine…" He shushes the group as they begin to protest the seemingly arbitrary nationality switch. "Just hear me out…so if we want to go home, it doesn't matter that Sarmatia doesn't exist anymore because, technically, we're from Wales, which does still exist. Well, all of us except Lancelot being as he's apparently French anyway."

Phruck. I am so dead.

"Uh…yes…technically that would be correct…"

The group seems to consider this as they again huddle up, talking hurriedly amongst themselves. I know better than to try to leave. I'll only end up dragged back so I might as well just get all comfy in my chair. And figure out how to head this off before I end up with a pissed off Welsh dragon on my doorstep.

"Question – do we have to take Arthur?"

"Have to? No. But, if you are all Welsh, then guess what – so is he."

More mumbling ensues among the assembly.

"Question – do we have to take the blue meanie – we mean Guinevere?"

"Again, it isn't a have to, but being as she is part of the…legend…then, well…" I shrug and incline my head. "And I guess I ought to tell you right now that you, Mouse," I motion toward him as he gives me a bewildered look, "you are not, well, technically, anything. I created you. You've got no roots in any folk – I mean legend." Whew, that was close. With breaking that news and almost using the 'F' word, I could've been in some serious trouble…

"Well if Mouse isn't going, I'm not going." Agravaine folds his arms across his chest. I note that both Gaheris and Gareth do the same. Even Mordred seems a bit uncertain, given this turn of events. If his baby brother isn't going, he's got no one to storm castles with…

"Don't be an idiot, you...idiot. We can go home. Home! The Welsh people are undoubtedly awaiting my glorious return as well…we'll be welcomed and embraced. We can fight against evil and tyranny. Restore the empire…" Arthur is gesturing grandly to a crowd that, unfortunately for him, doesn't seem to be buying what he's selling, if you get my drift.

"Wait…wait…" Oh good, now Bors is going to get involved. This ought to be just grand. "So what'chre sayin' is that we're from this li'l part of this li'l island that we couldn't wait to get our arses off…an' now we're supposed ta' be thinkin' bout goin' back? With him leadin'?" Words fail me to describe the rude gesture Bors makes in Arthur's direction. Suffice to say that it shuts Arthur up hastily and makes everyone else burst into laughter.

"Yes. But that was when we were…are…I don't even bloody well know anymore what the phrug we are…" Gawain looks completely confused.

"We're Welsh, damnit. So that stupid, blasted, bloody little island place is where we're from. All of us. Well, except you, Lancelot. You have to go back to…wherever French people call home. Have a nice trip." Beds gestures toward the doorway where Lancelot is leaning against the frame.

Apparently, in all this debate, it did not sink in to Arthur's mind that Lancelot was not Welsh. The commanding officer looks stricken at the mention that his best friend and second-in-command will not be returning to Wales with them.

"But…but…" Arthur moves to the doorway and puts his arm around Lancelot's shoulder. "That's it. If Lancelot isn't going to Wales, then, well, then neither am I."

Honestly, I don't know why Arthur thought any of them would care. He should know better by now. The Knights wave and shout farewell as well as various other colourful phrases of send-off, telling them to enjoy going to wherever it is Lancelot is from, pretty well without missing a beat in the, uh, we'll call them discussions around going to Wales.

Arthur and Lancelot shrug at each other and I hear Arthur suggest going to find Guinevere, while Lancelot nods enthusiastically; I decide I am so much better off for not hearing any more of that conversation.

"So…you're sure there are no dragons?" Galahad is pretty cute sometimes.

"Why, did you want hug one and keep it for a pet and perhaps call it Gallyhad…?" Mordred's penchant for Pup terrorizing rears its head.

"I think we might have some trouble stuffing it, you know, for the holidays…" Gaheris snickers and high-fives his twin. They really did enjoy watching me stuff the Thanksgiving turkey; me, I didn't enjoy the company nearly as much. Somewhere they learned what sound turkeys make and so every time I jammed a handful of stuffing in…yeah...I was treated to crude comments and turkey sounds.

"Maybe we could stuff Gallyhad with Galahad…" Mordred nods his approval at Agravaine and mutters about the good thinking and questions why they are the only two who think of these things.

"Stop. Just stop." Bedwyr looks pissed. "First of all, if anyone's gonna terrorize the Pup, it's going to be me. Second, this isn't getting us any damn closer to home."

You know, I am torn at this point. While I would love to see them out of my house, I wouldn't wish them on the Welsh. Really. The Welsh people I've met are lovely and it just seems really…horrible to inflict this sort of punishment on them. Fine. Fine. I'll do it. Don't push. Fine. Just back off.

Clearing my throat, I take a deep breath. This better erase every debt I have with whatever cosmic being or force or whatever controls this universe and any other universe… "Figured out where you're going to sleep while in Wales? Flannel sheets aren't stored under rocks. Or whose pantry you're going to raid? Not as if pudding cups and pop-tarts grow on trees. And, since you've all developed quite the taste for the beer in my cooler…"

Silence as they look at each other blankly.

"Is that an invitation to stay?" Bedwyr looks shocked…and slightly smug. "You'd miss us, admit it…you would…"

"I would not. I simply cannot, in good conscience, knowingly inflict your persons on the populous of Wales." I smile gently but as coldly as I can. "Get out."

Laughter greets my ears as they file out and into the kitchen. I've just given them carte blanche to the pantry and cooler, as far as they're concerned. Sighing, I sink back in my chair. I guess from here on out, I've got nobody to blame but me…gods help me.


A/N: I confess I'm pretty well out of ideas for now. If you've got some, let me know – I could be persuaded to tackle them.