teashoesandhair:

Everybody grab a pumpkin, it’s time for a spooky Halloween
tale. This time, it’s the story of Pwyll from Welsh mythology, who embarks on a
treacherous journey into the bowels of the Underworld to do penance for a
terrible, terrible wrong. Read on, if you dare. Sources and some extra spooky
info under the cut. Pretend that I’m cackling evilly.

Press J on your keyboard if you don’t want to read a terrifying yarn about the interior decorating trends of the Underworld and, like, the power of friendship.

Cockblocking yourself because of dogs: pre-Medieval etiquette 101

So our story starts with Pwyll, the prince of Dyfed, which
sounds kind of underwhelming until you remember that Welsh princes are
basically kings, which sounds really impressive until you remember that Dyfed
is approximately the size of a root vegetable and about as sparsely populated.
Anyway, Pwyll is sort of swanning around one day, on one of his royal visits to
his favourite court at Arberth (no relation to the hot bearded guy in The Mummy
with the face tats) when he decides to partake in a spot of hunting, because
he’s a pre-medieval prince and therefore he only has two hobbies, one of which
is hunting and the other is converting oxygen into carbon dioxide.

So, he gathers up his hunting dogs and his multipurpose
horse, and he sets out into the forest to murder some woodland creatures in the
name of sport. After a few hours, Pwyll starts to get bored, because it’s not
going so well. He hasn’t caught so much as an earthworm, and he really can’t
face the thought of going back to Arberth without at least a baby rabbit or
two, because all the other lords will laugh at him and tell him to ‘Pwyll off’
again, which secretly really upsets him and also gives you, the reader, a
decent idea of how to pronounce his fucking abomination of a name. He’s
considering his options, wondering whether or not he could stick some rabbit
ears onto one of his dogs and call it a catch, when he hears the baying sound
of a pack of hunting dogs in the near distance.

At first, he’s like “I can’t believe that someone else is
hunting in my forests, who would do this? Who would trespass on my royal land?
They could at least have invited me to go with them so that I didn’t have to
spend, like, 80% of my time brooding about my solitude as an unmarried Welsh
prince whose nearest friends live a six hour ride away,” but then he realises
something and his mouth sort of quirks upwards in a fiendish grin, and he heads
towards the sound of the dogs. When he gets there, he sees that a pack of dogs
have just brought down and killed a stag, and not just any stag, but a bloody
big one. There’s enough meat on it to feed his dogs and still have enough meat
to take back to his court and return a hero of the hunt, and so Pwyll chases
off the dogs, who all look really weird, because they’re all bright, glowing
white with bright, glowing red ears, and he lets his dogs eat the stag.

He’s on his way back home when suddenly this dude appears on
horseback, and his face is hidden by a grey hood which casts dark shadows over
his visage that shouldn’t be possible, but if his face were visible, it’s
pretty evident that he’d look pretty pissed off. The rider comes up to Pwyll,
dismounts from his horse, which is the exact same shade of grey as the rider’s
cloak, and he surveys the scene, looking at all the various viscera and bits of
stag, and then he turns to Pwyll and he says “look, mate, I know exactly who
you are, but if you think you’re getting some kind of formal greeting from me,
you can just jog right on.”

Pwyll would take a step back, except he’s on horseback, so
he sort of squeezes his heels into his horse’s sides and makes his horse take a
step back on his behalf, and he glares at this weird grey dude, because he has
no idea where this dude was dragged up, but Pwyll is fully aware that formal
greetings are, like, a huge deal. Pwyll is the kind of guy who formally greets
everyone, because he’s not an ingrate, and if he sometimes gets some weird
looks when he names himself and wishes a good day to each of his bed bugs in
turn, then it’s all fine because at least he is polite.

Because Pwyll is polite, he resists the urge to just yank
down this guy’s hood and lecture him on pre-medieval etiquette until he’s blue
in the face, and instead he just furrows his brow benevolently and says “my
dude, you don’t need to formally greet me if your status is higher than mine,
don’t sweat it,” because he thinks that giving this guy some kind of out is
probably the right thing to do, but the guy just shrugs and says “it’s got fuck
all to do with status, mate, it’s your goddamn atrocious manners.”

And Pwyll won’t stand for that, because he knows he’s a
righteous and courteous dude, and he has like 500 bed bugs who will attest to
that in a court of law, and so he dismounts from his horse and takes two steps
closer to the grey hooded dude and says, in a low and foreboding voice, “can
you extrapolate exactly what I’ve done wrong? Can you explain to me what the
fu- what exactly you mean, so that I can do my utmost best to rectify it?”

At that, the guy turns around and points at Pwyll’s dogs,
who have just about finished chowing down on fresh venison and are all smeared
with, like, blood and guts, like that popular gif of a rabbit eating a
raspberry, except it’s stag innards and not a popular summer fruit, and the guy
says “you fed your dogs on my dogs’ kill. Not cool, man. Not cool at all,” and
then Pwyll’s stomach plummets because he suddenly remembers page 7291 of his
portable pre-medieval etiquette guidebook, and this guy is totally right, and
Pwyll has totally fucked up, and he feels awful.

He claps a hand to the grey guy’s shoulder and starts
wittering, like “I’m sorry, buddy, that’s totally on me, I’ve never done
anything like this before, this is so out of character for me, ask literally
anybody, normally I make my dogs slaughter their own food, I don’t even feed
them Pedigree Chum because it goes against my pre-medieval etiquette and
morals,” and then he has an idea, and he says “look, I’ll make it up to you in
a way that’s becoming of your rank, OK?” And he’s pretty sure that he’s just
resolved everything, because this guy basically admitted earlier that Pwyll
outranks him, so nothing can really go wrong, and maybe he’ll have to, like,
pay a fine, or mop a floor, or marry an ugly third cousin or something. Except
then the guy says “sweet, sounds good to me. I’m Arawn, king of Annwfn. How do
you feel about killing my sworn nemesis in the Underworld?” and Pwyll just
thinks ‘oh, shit.’

So Pwyll grits his teeth and puts on this really calm smile,
even though he feels sicker than Kylie Jenner at a copyright infringement
hearing, and he says “that sounds fucking fantastic, mate, honestly, but I have
loads of stuff to be getting on with here, what with me being the prince of
Dyfed and all, so I’m not sure I’ll have time to kill your sworn nemesis, my
six or seven subjects need me,” and Arawn claps a hand onto Pwyll’s shoulder,
who still has his hand clasped to Arawn’s shoulder, and he’s like “don’t worry,
bro, I’ve got a plan. This is what we’ll do. I’ll do some of my trademark magic
stuff and I’ll switch our appearances, and I’ll go and live as you for a year,
and you go and live as me, and on the final day of that year, you’ll find that prick
Hafgan and bash his head in, and then we’ll switch back. Does that sound good
to you?”

And Pwyll just thinks ‘no, that sounds literally the
opposite to good, honestly,’ but he knows he doesn’t have a leg to stand on
here, so he just nods, tight-lipped, and then he asks “but how will I find this
Hafgan chap? If I have to, erm, vanquish him on the final day, where will he
be?” And Arawn just airily waves a grey-gloved hand and he’s all “don’t worry,
pal, I’ve sorted it. By some astonishing coincidence and definitely not my
trademark magic stuff, I’ve arranged a meeting with Hafgan for a year today at
this very spot,” and Pwyll bites his tongue and says dully “wow, what are the
chances?” and Arawn probably beams under his stupid hood and he’s like “I know,
crazy,” and then the deal is done.

So, Pwyll follows Arawn to the entrance of Annwfn, because
of course the Underworld is located in Dyfed, and then he suddenly realises
that he’s not looking at Arawn any more, but at himself, and he’s like “wow, I
had no idea that my parting looked like that from the side,” and Arawn-as-Pwyll
nods sagely and says “it’s really just the worst, I might change up your hairdo
while I’m living as you, because honestly I can’t live like this,” and Pwyll
doesn’t even disagree, and then Arawn adds “oh, and before I go and live as you
for a year, there’s some stuff you should probably know,” and Pwyll sighs and
says “go on, then,” and Arawn says “right, well, first of all you should know
that killing Hafgan is going to be an absolute fucking walk in the park, because
all you have to do is smack him once and that’s it,” and Pwyll is like “right
in the kisser?” and Arawn says “I don’t think it matters where, honestly, but
you have to only hit him once and no more, that’s the important thing,” and
Pwyll is all “OK, sock him once and only once in the kisser, I get it, but why
do I need to kill him, exactly?” and Arawn says “because he’s the other king of
Annwfn, and also he’s a knob,” and Pwyll is like “how come there are two kings?”
and Arawn scowls and says “because Welsh inheritance law is simultaneously
surprisingly progressive and a pain in the dick, but honestly the whole split
kingdom thing is only 30% of it. The main reason I need him dead is the fact
that he’s honestly just the absolute worst,” and Pwyll is like “how is he the
worst?” and Arawn says “look, I don’t have time to go into it right now, but he
once sent a love letter to a woman which consisted entirely of small images of
an aubergine,” and Pwyll is like “how did he even dictate that to a scribe?”
and Arawn is like “I don’t know, but you see my reasoning, don’t you?”

And then Pwyll asks “What else do I need to know?” and Arawn
sort of waggles his eyebrows, which is weird because he’s wearing Pwyll’s skin
but Pwyll has never been able to do that and he’s insanely jealous, and Arawn
says “the other thing that you need to know is that my wife is smoking hot,”
and Pwyll narrows his eyes and he’s like “OK, and what?” and Arawn says “it’s
entirely up to you what you do with that information, I just thought you should
know,” and then he disappears and Pwyll is alone at the entrance to Annwfn,
wearing the appearance of the king of the Underworld, and it’s only a Thursday.

When he gets inside the court at Annwfn, Pwyll is shocked to
see that this place is, like, decked the fuck out. It’s insane how beautiful
everything is. The staircases are made of solid gold, the ceilings are made of
rich, crimson velvet, and the walls are lined with intricate tapestries which
depict Arawn doing a whole range of heroic things, like slaying his enemies in
fields of blood and attending charity galas and speaking at climate change
summits. Pwyll keeps walking through the court until he gets to what he assumes
is his chamber, where he’s greeted by an attendant. His first thought is to
panic, because he’s pretty sure that they’re going to immediately work out that
he isn’t Arawn at all, but then he steels himself and arranges his facial
features into what he imagines Arawn’s might look like under that dumb grey
hood, and he says, “formal greetings to you, attendant. I am Arawn, king of
Annwfn,” and his attendant frowns and says “I know, sir, I’ve been working for
you for eleven years,” and Pwyll says “I’m just being polite, I noticed that
there’s been a real dearth of manners in these parts lately and I want to
remedy it,” and his attendant looks at him a little strangely and then hands
him a wonderfully brocaded jacket, all gold and emerald, and says “the queen
has already gone to the main hall for dinner, sir,” and Pwyll nods in what he
hopes is a sage and noble manner and says “I always feed my dogs on their own
meat, you know, and no-one else’s,” and the attendant sighs and says “I know,
sir, you’re very proud of that.”

He follows his attendant down to the great hall, which is
decorated, if it’s possible, even more sumptuously than the rest of the court.
The long table in the centre of the room is made of varnished oak, with little
carvings along the edge of animals and gods and emojis, and all along one side
of the table are sat the knights of Annwfn, whose armour is made of pure silver
and gold, and who each have dozens of finely polished, beautifully wrought
weapons. Along the other side are sat the courtiers, who all wear fashionable
and finely made gowns, even the men, because gendered notions of fashion are
not universal. And at the head of the table, in the seat next to the one which
Pwyll’s attendant is guiding him to, is sat the most beautiful woman that Pwyll
has ever seen. Like, it’s indescribable how beautiful this woman is. Pwyll
feels his mouth run dryer than Donald Trump’s income tax account, and, legs
shaking, he lowers himself into the seat next to her. She turns to him and
smiles at him, and Pwyll’s stomach flips over like one of the cats in those
videos with the cucumbers, and he manages to say “formal greetings, wife, I am
Arawn, lord of Annwfn,” and she just keeps smiling at him and says “I’ve always
admired your excellent manners, dear. You know that I don’t merit a name for
the purpose of this narrative in its original form, but you may call me Paula,
husband of mine, as you have done for the past dozen or so years of our
marriage,” and Pwyll just blushes furiously.

Over the course of the meal – which is, Pwyll is unsurprised
to discover, Michelin star quality – Paula is a total babe, laughing at all of
Pwyll’s jokes, even the rubbish one about the mailman and the medieval
etiquette tutor, and when they finally retire to bed, Pwyll is also unsurprised
to discover that he is experiencing some difficulty in the trouser department.
Paula notices this and she does that thing with her eyebrows that Arawn did,
and Pwyll starts to wonder if it’s just an Underworld thing, and she says “is
that a hunting knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” and
Pwyll says carefully “it’s a hunting knife, dear, for when I go hunting and
feed my dogs on nothing but the animals they kill,” and Paula frowns and says “I
was doing an innuendo thing, you normally love the innuendo thing,” and Pwyll
doesn’t say anything, because he has no idea what to do. He’s pretty sure that
it’s bad form on about eighty levels to sleep with Paula, because firstly she’s
not his wife, and secondly it’s impossible to obtain informed consent from her
when he’s wearing the guise of her husband.

So, Pwyll does the decent thing, and says “look, dear, I’m
desperately attracted to you, as always, but I am experiencing some personal
difficulties which pertain to events outside of our relationship, and which
are, I assure you, thoroughly platonic and non-sexual in context, and accordingly,
I think we should forego the hanky panky for the time being,” and Paula says “you
could just say that you’re not in the mood, you know, I get ‘headaches’ too
sometimes,” and Pwyll says “yes, but I think this might last a year,” and Paula
shrugs and says “our marriage has always been based on more than just our
devastatingly ferocious chemistry between the sheets, and I am here to support
you through your journey of personal growth and discovery as best I can,” and
so they have a slightly awkward hug goodnight and then go to bed.

And that’s how it is between them for an entire year. Pwyll
and Paula become the best of friends, and she never even suspects that he’s
anyone but Arawn, because he’s very careful to mention every other sentence or
so that he always feeds his dogs on their own meat, which is something that he
knows Arawn feels strongly about, and then, before he even knows it, the whole
year has passed, and it’s time to fuck up Hafgan.

He goes to the meeting place, where Hafgan is already
waiting for him, and immediately he just dislikes this dude. Hafgan has one of
those faces where you think you’ve seen him before, but it’s actually just
because he’s super bland and good-looking in the kind of way that men who star
in advertisements for carpet cleaning products sometimes are, and Pwyll
honestly wants to kill him. He’s brought his attendant with him, and Hafgan has
brought his, and a whole load of courtiers from both Arawn’s and Hafgan’s court
have come to watch the duel, and some of them are chanting ‘fight, fight, fight’
and some of them are eating popcorn out of beautifully crafted silver dishes,
and Pwyll feels his adrenaline rush like shoppers to a Black Friday deal, and
he pulls up his sleeves to his elbows and says “formal greetings, I – ” and
Hafgan just waves a hand and says “yeah, yeah, you’re Arawn. I know. Christ,
what is it with you and manners?” and Pwyll says “I’m going to challenge the
fuck out of you right now,” and Hafgan says “bring it on, Manners,” and
wordplay has never been Pwyll’s forte, so he just lunges forward with his sword and
stabs Hafgan right through his chest.

Hafgan stares down at his wound, and he’s like “dude, seriously?
That’s just super painful. I mean, I’m in complete agony right now. The least
you could do would be to kill me like a king. Put the ‘man’ into ‘Manners’,
mate, and finish me off.” But Pwyll remembers what Arawn told him, so he just
shrugs and says “not my problem any more, pal. Put the ‘have gone’ into ‘Hafgan’
and get out of here, would you? Find someone else to finish you off,” and then
Hafgan just groans and says “lads, I’ll be honest with you, he’s properly
dicked me over this time, so you should probably go and swear fealty to him
while I go and slowly bleed out in this corner over here,” and his attendant
carries him off to die slowly and painfully, and Pwyll realises that he’s just
won the entirety of Annwfn on behalf of Arawn, and honestly he feels kind of great
about it.

So, Pwyll goes to the meeting place he and Arawn had arranged the
year before, where Arawn is waiting for him. As soon as Arawn sees him, he breaks
into a smile and he’s like “Pwyll, my guy! We can finally change back! I’m so
excited to be myself again, you never told me that your knee was so dodgy,
mate,” and Pwyll is about to say something when he realises that his knee is
twinging, and he’s back as himself again. Arawn says “wait ‘til you get back to
your court, pal, you’re going to be thrilled with what you find,” and Pwyll is
like “same to you,” and they exchange an awkward silence and then Arawn sniffs
and says “come here, bro, let’s hug it out,” and Pwyll feels tears welling up
behind his eyes and he says “it’s been so emotional,” and Arawn says “I know,
pal, you just did me a massive solid back there, and I owe you one,” and Pwyll
says “if you owe me one, then I guess that means we’ll have to meet up again so
that I can call in the favour,” and Arawn says “mate, you’re welcome at my
court any time, I have this totally rad new bard who recites poetry like you
wouldn’t believe, hit me up sometime,” and Pwyll says through his tears “that
sounds good to me,” and they let go of each other and just sort of look at each
other for a few moments, then Arawn awkwardly punches Pwyll on the arm and says
“go on, get out of here, Pwyll off,” and Pwyll sniffs and laughs and says “it’s
OK when you say it,” and they part ways.

When Arawn gets back to Annwfn, he goes to find Paula and he says “is
that an embroidery bag in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” and
Paula says “have you worked through your personal problems in a safe and
supportive environment?” and Arawn frowns and says “you what?” and Paula says “well,
it’s just that you haven’t really touched me for a year, and I want to make
sure that this is coming from a healthy place in you, you know,” and Arawn’s
mouth falls open and he says “you didn’t sleep with me all year?” and Paula is
like “I mean, I feel like you should also be aware of that,” and Arawn just
shakes his head and he’s like “oh, Paula, I have something to tell you, and it
starts with the day I met my new best friend, who is a man of great integrity,
honour and fealty, after he let his dogs eat the flesh of an animal they hadn’t
killed,” and Paula puts her hand on Arawn’s knee and says “I’m definitely
listening to you, but also you should put your face in the vicinity of my face,”
and Arawn says “I can do one better than that,” and then the whole scene fades
to black and slow ‘80s synth music starts to play.

And when Pwyll gets back to his court, he finds his advisor and he
asks him “so, indulge me, one man to another, how do you think I did as a
prince this year?” and his advisor looks at him suspiciously, like he’s afraid
to answer honestly, and Pwyll’s heart sinks, because he can’t believe that he
spent the entire year cockblocking himself and improving the bureaucratic
infrastructure of Annwfn, only for Arawn to make a total hash of his time in
Dyfed, and he says “you can be honest,” and his advisor sighs and says “my
lord, you were a better prince this year than you’ve ever been before. You
totally revolutionised the tax system, made peace with Gwynedd, and planted a
truly delightful herb garden on the front lawn, and you stopped formally greeting
every single sentient entity you came across. The year was a delight, my lord,”
and Pwyll just blinks and says “can you get a fruit basket made up? I’d like to
send it to the one true king of the Underworld.”

And from that day onwards, Dyfed and Annwfn are united under the
banner of an immortal friendship, and Pwyll becomes known as Pwyll Pen Annwfn, and
no-one ever dares tell him to Pwyll off ever again, because Arawn has a
tendency to glare threateningly in the direction of anyone who does, but it’s
still OK when Arawn says it, and they live happily ever after.

Until Pwyll falls in love with a magic woman on a horse, but that’s
a story for another day.

My other retellings can be found here; my dedicated mythology blog is here; and my Mythology Mondays Facebook page is here. My spooky, spooky book is here.

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