Morgan - Wales

Tadhg - Scotland

The funeral took place a week later, with a grand total of twelve attendees and an expenditure akin to that of Peter's sweet shop funds. Arthur stood at the very back and kept his eyes on the faces of the mourners, from the beginning of the service to current lowering of the coffin, analysing their reactions to the loss of one human life out of the many, many others in this overpopulated world. The majority didn't seem all that fazed. So far, he'd tried his hardest not to be disappointed by the turn out — after all, he'd been as far away from popular as it was physically possible to be, so what had he been expecting? Still, perhaps he was a closet optimist, or at least harbouring some secret sanguine views, because somewhere deep down, in the part that still cared what was happening, he'd been hoping for just a little bit more.

The line up consisted of your generic strangers, run of the mill family-friends and people-next-door, the old bat who ran Arthur's knitting club and occasionally watched Peter when there was no one else for the job, his postman, his English teacher, the corner shop owner who'd taught him to play cricket — all your stereotypical acquaintances, with surnames he could barely remember and first names he didn't even know. His brothers stood near the coffin, Tadhg stoic as ever, eyes as hard as the ground beneath his feet, Morgan clutching a sobbing Peter to his side. He patted the child's back stiffly, occasionally whispering a, "There there," and looking extremely awkward. The only other known figure was, surprisingly, Kiku, who Arthur had always presumed wouldn't miss a day of school even if the Third World War began outside his front door. The Japanese boy's dark hair and eyes melted into his black suit and tie, turning him into a small, stern shadow, clutching a set of juzu beads in his left hand and a bouquet in his right. Arthur had no idea what they were for; after attempting to offer his family a black and silver envelope at the wake and promptly being turned down, he'd got into his equivalent of a heated discussion, finally popping out and returning with the flowers a while later. He gripped them tightly, knuckles white, face smooth and blank as slate, leaving Arthur to wonder whether it was some sort of coping mechanism or if he was truly this indifferent. It was impossible to tell. Either way, at least he'd bothered his arse to come, unlike a certain Frenchman, or even Arthur's own parents. Delayed flight, Morgan had said. Arthur scoffed.

The priest continued to babble on about Arthur's life, the light and warmth he had brought to the world, all his assets and talents and bountiful good qualities, and despite how sorrowfully he'd be missed, they'd do well to remember that he was now in a better place. Yes, if your idea of a better place constitutes of two steps to the left, the Brit thought petulantly. In life, he'd never followed a religion; it worked for some people, he knew, and he didn't deny them that, but he'd never found it in himself to believe in some higher force, nor had the time to pay homage to one. And if this was some god or deity's way of punishing him for that, well then, they could just go and bugger themselves. He didn't want to be part of their elite afterlife clique, anyhow. Much too mainstream.

The wind picked up, throwing gold and brown leaves across the graveyard as the priest's rant finally drew to a close. A jerk of his head was the cue to those surrounding the coffin to close the lid, one of the men moving forward and placing his hands on the smooth wood, only to pause at the sound of a polite cough. He looked around in puzzlement, as did the rest of those attending, until Kiku stepped forward, holding out the flowers like an offering. His lips were pressed so tightly together that they seemed to disappear entirely, leaving only a white dash across his face like a faint scar. The priest looked baffled, blinking several times at the Japanese boy before turning to Tadhg and repeating the process. Tadhg shrugged.

"Go ahead," he mumbled, voice gravelly and rumbling like the ground during a stampede. It wasn't from sadness, though, Arthur knew; his brother had always sounded as if he were part grizzly bear.

Kiku dipped his body in a brief show of gratitude before approaching the coffin, gazing upon Arthur's pallid form, skin caked in make-up and arms clasped over his chest. It was strange beholding himself in this state, and Arthur half-expected those sewn shut eyes to fly open, a hand to dart out and yank him forwards, right back into his body and into life as he knew it. But the corpse remained still. Silent feet guided him forwards as Kiku gently began to lay the flowers around Arthur's head, one at a time, tucking the vibrant blossoms behind choppy blond locks. The delicacy with which he carried out the task really was astounding. By the time the last petal had been put in place, his crown was surrounded by a ring of colour, almost like an iridescent halo. It lent brightness to a scene which had previously been nothing but pallor and shadows, skin blanched as an etiolated plant against the dark attire of mourning. A strange tightening began in Arthur's chest, akin to that of being out of breath — yet it couldn't be, as he no more needed air than a fish needed feathers. Something else, then, not a physical need, an emotion — he mused on it, picked this choking sensation apart and examined the pieces under his mind's personal microscope, until it suddenly dawned on him what he was feeling. Touched. He'd never experienced something like this before; gratefulness, yes, but not on this level. He hadn't even considered Kiku that close a friend, but thinking back on it...all those brief but meaningful conversations they'd shared, the words flowing so much smoother than they had with anyone else, the small smile that would surface whenever Arthur made a joke, the way break time had ceased to seem so horrendously long...

And he'd never thanked Kiku for it. The notion surged into his mind like a wave. He'd never returned that smile, never mirrored the soft greetings and farewells, only sought out his company when desperation drove him to it. The fondness was instantly washed away, replaced by an overriding sense of guilt. He'd been an absolute arse to this boy. Who in their right mind would continue pursuing friendship from someone who so blatantly dismissed their efforts, who didn't even acknowledge their amiable intentions? His actions here were most likely down to politeness, and it was with a heavy heart that Arthur reached this conclusion.

But these sombre thoughts were gone within an instant as the other boy appeared to suddenly seize up, spine going rigid and shoulders noticeably heaving, a strange, strangled gasp tearing itself from his throat.

"Kiku?" Arthur asked, momentarily forgetting his incorporeal state in his concern and reaching out a hand, only to have it pass through the smaller boy's arm, coaxing a shiver. Kiku's head jerked up, confusion painting its hues across his features, and Arthur was greeted with a sight he never thought he would see — fine, crystalline droplets clinging to thick eyelashes, several having already slipped down his cheeks. It struck him like a blow to the face, his pupils widening, jaw going slack, because in all the time he'd known him, the Japanese boy had showed so little emotion he hadn't even thought him capable. It caused the echo of his heart to beat a little faster, this sudden occurrence proving the hokum of his previous deductions. He knew it was cruel, of course, to feel happy that he was the cause of the droplets streaming from the Kiku's eyes. But that this quiet, sapient, introverted young man could care for him lifted some of the lead which had burdened his shoulders ever since his death. It was a sweet sort of relief, knowing that he'd be missed, that he hasn't been entirely alone.

Kiku stared at the space in front of him for a second longer before shaking his head and returning his attention to the body, inclining his crown and touching the arm softly. "Farewell, Arthur-sa...Arthur-kun," he mumbled, voice sounding choked no matter how hard he was trying to hide it, and he had to swallow before adding, "Owakare da."

Arthur didn't know what it meant, but he muttered a small, "Thank you," anyway, watching as the boy nodded and turned to walk away. He'd never been the huggy type — in all honesty, he'd be more liable to shrink away from another's touch — but in that moment, the Englishman was swamped with the overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around the dark-haired boy and pull him close, show him how grateful his was for his companionship, his dedication. Instead he merely played onlooker as Kiku returned to his place, the tears vanishing with one jerk of a hand and his face settling back into its impassive composure.

And thus the funeral continued, Arthur wandering back to his brothers as the ropes were brought out to send the coffin on its ultimate journey. He did not want to watch; it was too final, this act, and he felt his eyes would stick to the box, would hold as if welded and drag him down into the bowels of the Earth to join his corpse in eternal solitude. Instead he piled his focus into his family members, listening to the soft words Morgan uttered to stem the flow of Peter's tears.

"Chin up, Petey," the Welshman whispered, his jacket beginning to undergo the steady change from proverbial to literal sponge. "It'll all be fine, you'll see."

Tadhg shot him a disapproving glare, massive brows drawing together as if competing for space. "Dinnae lie tae the laddie, Morg. He's auld enough tae know the truth."

"Old enough?" Morgan snorted. "He's not even a teenager yet."

"But he's a cannie lad. When we were his age, we'd nae have got mollycoddled like that."

"When we were his age, our brother was still alive." The words hit hard, perhaps more so than intended. Tadhg looked bemused for a moment, blinking owlishly at his sibling, before an almost penitent look surfaced in his verdant eyes and he turned his face away. A sudden silence was dragged over the two, heavy and strung tight, only broken by a hiccup from the small blond beside them. Arthur noticed how tiny hands clung tight to fabric, green eyes puffy in a way that would most likely not go down for days. He felt oddly awkward watching this, as if it were something personal that should not be viewed by an outsider. Which was ridiculous, of course — bloody hell, they were his family! This was his funeral!

"You know," Morgan began, breaching the quiet, "If you hadn't buggered off north the minute you turned eighteen—"

Tadhg rolled his eyes. "Stop bringin' it up, will ye? I'm pure scunnert o' hearin' it."

"It'd be easier to forget if you dropped that bloody Highland jargon and learnt to talk tidy like the rest of us."

At this statement, Tadhg actually scoffed, the pompous sound at odds with his broad frame and spaghetti plate of red curls. "You mean that damned Wenglish ye're always spoutin'?" He shook his head, chuckles rumbling out from his chest. "Nae wonder Uncle Owain likes ye so much."

Morgan shot a poison-injected look towards the Scotsman, eyes burning with an acidic flame, before a particularly loud wail from Peter drew his attention. He sighed and returned to his consoling duties, though the drawn countenance he wore unnerved Arthur more than if he had shouted. Even at funerals, his family had never been a sober one. He could recall the latest one they'd attended, less than a year ago, at the time of their grandmother's death — having begun with an awkward reunion and mumbled queries on life at present, and ended with Arthur passed out, draped over the dining room table like a blanket, Tadhg picking fights and screaming profanities at distant relatives, plus some rather close ones, and Morgan giving a rendition of what sounded like a fusion between Yma o Hyd and Bon Jovi, finishing off the act by making a rather flamboyant display of transferring his underpants to his head in under ten seconds. Needless to say, after that series of events alcohol had been banned both in the household and during family get-togethers, but even when they weren't palatic, a rowdy group they'd always been, quick to spit venom and come to blows and much slower to grumble out the subsequent apologies. So seeing the eerie lack of clobbering made Arthur's spine tingle — in a literal way, he suddenly noticed. It felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water down his back. He gasped, hand flying to his mouth to cover the sound, despite the fact that not a soul would have heard him even if he'd burst a lung screaming. His head jerked up as if to search for whatever being had dared to pour the liquid on him, but of course there was none. Then what the bloody hell—

"Morg." The tension in Tadhg's voice caught Arthur's attention as if it were a fish on a hook. He snapped towards the redhead, noting how his face had hardened like cement, a strange, alien emotion having registered in his eyes. For a moment his heart clenched as he dared to suspect — to hope, even — that perhaps it was shock, that perhaps his brother had heard him, that perhaps due to something horribly cliché like familial bonds he could at least sense his presence. But Tadhg's gaze was glued to something else, something behind him, the look baring more semblance to a sort of reserved anger. Morgan turned to him, inquiring. The Scotsman raised a hand and pointed, sounding as if he were trying to physically restrain himself from shouting as he asked, "Isnae that the lad who killed Art?"

It felt as if time had stopped, had frozen, as if Arthur were a perfectly functioning machine that just had a rusty spanner tossed in its circuits.

"Tadhg." Morgan's tone was reprimanding. "I've told you already, he didn't—"

"Didnae kill him, I ken." His voice was so tight it was practically suffocating itself. "Still, though—"

Arthur blocked them out. He already had his back to them, staring across the graveyard, glaring at a figure that embodied all that was wrong with the world. There it was, all his rotten luck, painted gold and blue and wrapped in what appeared to be a bomber jacket. A bloody bomber jacket, of all things, at his funeral. Did the fool not even have any proper clothes? His posture bled nervousness, hands twisting in front of him, tugging unconsciously at a thread in his sleeve, back hunched, eyes pinned to the ground in a way that was so purposeful it hurt. He appeared to be alone. Had he skived to come here? It seemed like the sort of thing he'd do.

All these thoughts and observations passed through Arthur's head in a matter of seconds, like cars whizzing by on a main road. What replaced them was a simple wish, a plea if you wanted to be technical about it, something which began as a fluttering in the back of his skull and grew, expanded, until it was something he wanted desperately and yet needed not at all. Just one little thing.

He wanted Alfred to look up. He wanted the Yank to see him. He wanted it with every fibre of his being.

He let his gaze fall heavily on the other boy, imagined it weighed as much as a tonne of bricks as it landed upon him. This was supposed to be effective; people were supposed to sense your eyes on them if you put enough willpower into it. And oh, he was, staring, staring as if his pupils could puncture skin, could crack bone, could burn a body and reduce it to ash. He had a reason for it, of course. Pride, redemption, following through on the promise he'd been too cowardly to carry out earlier, when any thought of the American had made him feel sick, when he knew that just the sight of him would bring the pain and fear and the horror back and he wouldn't be able to stand it. It had nothing to do with loneliness — heavens, no. Nothing to do with the past few days, where contact or communication or even simple acknowledgement had become a taunting myth, a Holy Grail dangled before him just out of arms reach.

Arthur was beginning to discover the downsides of lying to oneself. Namely, these untruths were so much easier to see through than the ones he dished out to others.

Alfred's brow suddenly scrunched in puzzlement, eyes blinking up a storm. He stared at the air in front of him as if he were expecting a person to step up and fill the empty space, a strange tingle spreading across Arthur's chest as the American's head turned left, then right, and then ever so slowly...

They locked eyes. Arthur's lip quirked. Alfred's pupils dilated, horror weaving an intricate web over comically enlarged features, mouth opening and closing like a set of rather addled electronic doors. Blue clouded over with a haze of pure fear. It was all Arthur needed to know what to do, raising his hand languidly so Alfred could see it, flicking it in a cheery wave.

The American's gasp was audible even from this distance.

His hand flew to his chest as if that mere movement had been an attempt on his life, a knife plunged toward his heart. Panicked orbs darted to the mourners, beseeching, begging, Arthur knew, for at least one other to acknowledge the Brit's presence. But of course no one did. His stark white visage whipped back to face Arthur's, who responded with a sunny smile and a sprightly call of, "Lovely day, isn't it?" This simple sentence caused him to stumble. With quivering lips and limbs alike, he jerked his head to the side, swallowing thickly, looking as if to bolt. Arthur began the countdown to when he would.

And then something changed. It was the flick of a switch, the blink of an eye. Alfred's features began to morph, tension melting, eyebrows drawing apart. His shoulders lifted as exhaled breath. Bemused, Arthur watched as the blond faced him once more, but this time, the downturn of his mouth had nothing to do with inner turmoil. This time, his eyes sparked not with fear, but with pity.

The Brit just blinked, not sure what to make of this sudden transformation. It was silent, yet sent a jolt through his bones. Sucking on his lip, Alfred appeared to be almost analysing him, jaw working in thought. His eyes bore so furiously into Arthur it made him feel hollow. The question rose within him, lips parting to ask what the bloody hell the moron thought he was doing, staring at Arthur as if to commit his image to memory — but although his mouth opened, his tongue was like a dead slug. He couldn't speak. Then, just when he thought his skin would crawl off out of sheer discomfort, the blond gave a curt nod, turned on his heel and walked out of the graveyard, calm as you please. Nobody made a move to stop him, not that they'd have any reason to.

Arthur shook his head. He had no words. What on Earth...why had he...it made no sense. Only yesterday — no, only moments ago the American had acted as if Arthur were out for his very soul, all glinting eyes and flashing fangs and ropes of blood hanging from his mouth. Where had the sudden change in attitude arose from?

He sighed. Here he was, dead, transparent and currently attending his own funeral, and yet apparently his life could get stranger.

The inhumation finally ended with some parting words from the priest and the crowd began to disperse, people mingling and chatting as seemed to be the protocol after an event like this, as though he hadn't just been placed six feet under. Tadhg whipped out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and began puffing on it, Arthur's nose crinkling as he blew a cloud of smoke right in his face. The Scotsman brought the fag away from his lips, licking the vessels, before shrugging and shoving his free hand into his pocket. "Well, that's me, then." He turned to Morgan. "You need a lift?"

His brother wavered momentarily, clutching onto Peter's hand, before he gave his head a shake and gently retracted his fingers, giving the boy a small shove towards Tadhg. "No, you and Petey can go on ahead. I think I...I think I'll just wait here for a bit."

Tadhg didn't push, though a hint of concern flashed behind his eyes. He took Peter's hand — the youngest Kirkland didn't look anything close to happy with this new arrangement — and began to lead him off to wherever he'd parked their car, shooting Morgan a glance over his shoulders as he left. Morgan watched his brother's retreating figure, face impassive, before running a hand through his crisp hair and trudging over to Arthur's grave, the blond following curiously behind.

He brushed some dirt off the ground and knelt carefully beside the substitute marker, folding his hands in his lap. Glassy eyes danced with something indiscernible. He reached out tentative fingers, hovering briefly before the wooden cross, then let them drop, tugging nervously at his collar. Arthur merely waited, unsure of where this was heading. "So Art...I...I, uh..." The Welshman cleared his throat. "What I mean is, I just wanted to say..." He halted, fiddling, before letting out a harsh bark of laughter. "Actually, I don't know what to say. I shouldn't have to say anything. It shouldn't — it shouldn't be you. Not this early. You're my little brother, and...little brothers aren't supposed to die first."

The Welshman exhaled through his nose, the sudden breach in composure tempting Arthur to take a further step forward and lay a hand on his shoulder. He didn't. "First off, ignore Tadhg," Morgan began. "He cares about you, he really does — he's just not all that good at showing it. And as for me..." He bit his lip. "Look, I'm sorry that I left, okay? It was wrong of me to leave you on your own like that. I just — I couldn't tolerate Mam and Dad any longer. If they weren't going to be there for us, then what was the point of waiting for them? So when Uncle Owain offered to let me stay with him...well, I know you two never got along, but I loved the summers spent at his house. I always assumed that when you reached my age, you'd do the same. It never occurred to me that you didn't have a relative to run off to — after all, you hated that year you spent with Auntie Erin, didn't you? Ringing us up every five minutes, begging us to bring you home...I'm sorry we didn't listen.

"But I'm underestimating you. Even if you'd had somewhere to go, I doubt you would have ever left Petey by himself." One corner of his mouth twitched upwards, eyes beginning to crease; a small movement of his face, and yet it transformed his expression entirely, from one of self-deprecation and remorse to a display poorly hidden pride. He brushed a lock behind his ear before continuing, "You're made of something different, you know. I could see it in you since the start. We're all selfish bastards in our house, Art, but there's different levels of it; I'd say you're at the lowest."

Selfish. The word buried itself in Arthur's chest like an arrow. Hadn't that been what Katyusha had called him, when her voice had not been hers, when her eyes had held a century's worth of malice? But to say he was the least selfish of all of them...that couldn't be correct. After all, what he was now, a being bound to Earth after he'd been dismissed, long outliving his stay, was the very definition of the word, was it not?

"You'd deny it if you were here," Morgan said, and Arthur jolted, momentarily wondering if he had spoken out loud. But of course, even if he had, it would have made no difference. In which case it must have been brotherly instinct. Arthur smirked despite himself as Morgan carried on, "You were a prideful little prick, yet the second someone made a sincere complement you found a million ways to prove them wrong. But it's true, dwt." The nickname wrapped around Arthur like an old and much-loved blanket, so close he could practically breathe in the familiarity, bringing with it a wash of memories consisting of summers spent in Brecon, dipping toes in the coolest of waters and rolling down hills as lush as life. "We're all craving different shades of freedom. Freedom from family, from friends...from the world at large. And yet you gave up your chance at finding it to take care of what was most important. That's not selfish, Art. That could never even come close."

Up until Peter had come along, people were always telling their parents that he and Morgan looked the most alike. And it was true, in a way; discounting hair colour, if you looked at them from a distance they could easily be mistaken for twins. They shared the same build — with Morgan's being a tad more delicate, meaning it came as quite a surprise to others when they discovered he could play rugby better than most professionals — the same absinthe eyes that could have served as the Kirkland family crest, the same way of holding themselves, even, as if they had the world on their shoulders and were terribly proud of it. But once you came up close the differences struck: whereas Arthur's lips remained perpetually downturned like they were caught in a gravitational pull, Morgan always had a cheery expression on his face, smiling even when his eyes were spilling out Europe's water supply. And now it was clearly obvious. The corners of his mouth tilted towards the sky, completely at odds with the twin rivers flowing on either side. It opened a well of guilt in Arthur's chest, making him regret every time the phrase 'sheep-shagging choirboy' had left his mouth.

The Welshman snivelled into his sleeve, throat bobbing in an effort to swallow. "I've always defended you, you know. You claim to need no one but you're wrong. And that boy...believe me, if I thought he killed you, he'd be locked up faster than you could blink. I don't think he did, though. He doesn't seem the type. I can read people, Art, and hell was he nervous, but he cared. You could see it in him." A faint smirk began to trace its way over his lips. "It wouldn't surprise me if you cared a little back. I'm not judging or nothing — in fact, we always knew you were a bit of a pillow-biter. Whenever we were watching Torchwood and John Barrowman came on screen, you'd get this look in your eyes...thing for Americans, have we?"

"Excuse me?" Arthur spluttered, shocked at how the conversation had taken such a dramatic turn, especially seeing as it was one-sided. But then what was he expecting? Morgan was family. Only family could do something like this, tease one's brother for his preferences — not that Arthur was saying he liked boys, mind — when said brother had already popped his clogs. It really was a tad hypocritical, though, seeing as Morgan was the one who owned the Torchwood DVDs in the first place.

"I could be wrong, of course." The Welshman didn't look nearly as sincere as he should have. "Really, we both know that's not all that likely, but you could just be friends. It doesn't matter. What matters is you find someone, him or anyone, to be there for you unconditionally. Promise me. I know you obviously can't say it outright, but I trust that wherever you are now — and I like to believe you're somewhere — you're at least repeating it or nodding or something. Just...promise."

He shut his eyes, running his thumbs over the lids. Those were the same eyes that had watched over Arthur for nearly all of his life, witnessed his first steps, marvelled at his tiny form in their mother's arms, coaxed out words from the language they now spoke and another language he'd never understand.

"I'm your big brother," said the grinning face, older than Arthur's yet somehow just as young. "That's brawd mawr. Can you say that? Brah-owd mow-er."

Arthur blinked up at this strange person, having no idea why they were making these noises, but liking how they sounded. He giggled. The boy's face scrunched up, lips sinking in a pout.

"Hey. That's not funny," he grumbled, but his eyes withheld a smile.

The smile was there now, struggling to remain, quivering like jelly balanced on a table edge. There was so much water shining in his brother's eyes Arthur was surprised he could see. "You should be proud, you know," Morgan hiccuped. He had to pause a moment to collect himself, to breathe, before adding, "I haven't cried this much since Children of Earth." His eyes dropped to the marker and he reached out, placing a hand atop it that shook only slightly. "I love you, dwt. Remember that. And sleep tight." The Welshman swallowed, rising on unsteady legs, briefly appearing as if to leave before pausing, gaze travelling upwards to meet Arthur's own. The Brit nearly choked. "And...don't worry about us. Whatever happens, we'll be okay. You've...you've already watched out for us enough."

And with that he turned away, leaving Arthur standing there, alone and agape. His vision swam but his eyes remained dry. Had he really just seen him? Sensed him, at least? He watched his brother's retreating figure, fading to a dark dot in the distance. And was that what he believed, then, that Arthur was stuck here because of them?

He wanted to tell Morgan that wasn't true. He wanted to shout it, to just yell in general, to pound the Earth with his frustrations. Now of all times did he finally receive some compassion, some familial love, and he had no way of showing how it was reciprocated. Morgan would never know he wasn't to blame. But running after him now would do no good, even if his brother could see him. He would have no way of giving him peace, certainly not like in all those films where the deceased said their goodbyes and vanished in a flash of light, leaving their families to mourn but know they were finally at rest. Somehow, Arthur knew that if he ever had unfinished business, that wouldn't be it. So he'd have to be content with this, staying out of their lives and letting them believe that he'd done it, he'd moved on, and that was that. Letting them think he'd accepted the apology and responded with his forgiveness, not that there was anything he truly had to forgive them for. Not that he had the right to place fault on anyone.

Anyone.

His mouth tasted of sandpaper. Fool, oh what a fool he had been. A fool with excuses, but a fool none-the-less. He brought to his mind's eye the image of cornflower orbs and shaking limbs, pupils as rounded as a full moon and one who was undoubtedly innocent. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, as the saying went. With a sigh that caused his shoulders to droop like a wilting flower, he turned on his heel and departed the graveyard, watching as his feet made no imprint on the grass. The sun emerged from behind a cloud, but Arthur Kirkland felt nothing.

So that actually took me quite a long while...Sorry. ^^'

Wenglish is, basically, the version of English spoken in Wales (also known as Anglo-Welsh) and 'dwt' is Wenglish for a small - usually adorable - person. And, not that is it matters or anything, but 'Uncle' Owain is supposed to be Owain Glyndŵr, the Prince who lead the Welsh revolt.

So, apologies for taking so long, and...read and review? :D Thanks!