moved to drowniingdreams

                                       He said: Now hush, love                                             Here’s your gown                                              There’s the bed                                                Lanterns down                                                             But I don’t want to go to sleep                                                               In all my dreams I ᴅʀᴏᴡɴ.

Modern day insults were strange, only in the fact that they could also be used as compliments. Orla was absolutely insistent that being called a bitch was a good thing because it meant you were stirring up trouble and that men found you intimidating. Gwenllian rather liked stirring up trouble for men. “Bitch is a word you use to replace that which many have called me for a long time, a witch! An abomination. A terrifying creature, a woman who speaks her mind! h, how hated a species we are, Knightling. Women with brains, women with individual thoughts, women who take control! A fearsome and monstrous thing is the woman who will not allow herself to be dominated into silence. I will be as loud as I desire.” 

The hospitatlity was rather promising. It was what normal people do, isn’t it? Although the modern times started blurring the old ways, it’s still quite close to instinct to offer a visitor something to eat or drink. And seeing Gwenllian manifesting such a normal behaviour only gave Gansey high hopes. The last time he subjected his palate to 300 Fox Way’s tea was rather interesting, and he wasn’t certain if it was wise to even let a reality-challenged witch do the honours of making him something consumable, but curse his polite self, that despite the little jaw clench, he just had to say, “Tea would be lovely.” The curtsy was definitely over the top, but by playing along her quirks, he was convincing himself there’s a way out of her tangled thoughts one day. Conversations over tea should be a good way to form a bit of rapport, and he’ll take his every chance to gather answers - not just for his search, but maybe to help Gwen regain her old self as well. “I’m prepared to whatever answer you can give me. I guess it’s just up to me what do with what you say to me.” He sighed and thought he’d start with something easy. “Your father, what’s he like?”

Gwen recalled hospitality well, she remembered entertaining everybody from nobles to pilgrims in the halls of her home at Cenarth. No-one would have doubted that there would be a warm fire, a hot meal and a place to sleep if they needed it. But that was a long time ago. Those self-same people she would have given hospitality to had all forsaken her when she needed them. She could only hope these witches and knights and their king would not do the same. She set the kettle boiling on the stove, marvelling at how little advancement there had been in regards to heating water. Metal pot over fire. Six hundred years and they continued with the old ways. She banged about the kitchen, seeking cups and spoons and tea leaves, then she banged those down on the side too, singing joyfully but nonsensically as she went. It was his question that made her turn and point her spoon at him accusingly, not because she disliked talking about her father but because the resemblance he bore was to Richard Gansey III was astounding. “Like you, Little King. A leader. A King. A kind and fair ruler who wanted to free his people from the tyranny and oppression of the English dogs!” Here, she spat on the floor. “He loved his people and they loved him, fought for him, betrayed him,” her voice turned to a hiss and the spoon was waved in his direction again. “Beware, Little King, betrayal, betrayal, betrayal. It doesn’t come from your enemies.” Suddenly, she pitched her voice from the low murmur it had been to a wild cackle. “And I might not be there to stab your poet this time!” She screeched in time with the kettle as it signalled the water hitting its boiling point.