There was a king, a Welsh king and his army, beaten into the hills.
Beaten, but not killed and not captured, even though no one ever saw him or his army again.
Thousands of men swallowed within the muscles of earth that formed Wales’s natural defences against invaders.
And they were still there, yes, still there.
In the hills, deep inside them, buried under the peat, heather, gorse, rowen, bog cotton, stone and soil.
Asleep. Not dead, asleep.
An entire army and their king, sleeping in the hills, ready to wake and defend the country in its hour of need.
And it was the looking that mattered.
The belief and the looking.