Time and Space Fold - The Dream State Continues

My Guiding Spirit has over the course of the last week or so continued to think on the concepts of a Knight in Dented Armor and the Lady who loves, and is loved by, him. There have been numerous things which have come into her mind and have therefore caused my own heart and mind to dream dreams of my ancestors once more.

I saw her again. Sìleas. This time her lodgings were quite different. Not the large, comfortable home, but a tent in a field. There was an acrid smoke all around and many more tents - not unlike her own. She was writing in a journal. Even in my dream I seemed to think how very like her I am - never one to shy away from hard work, or even, battle. But also soft and soft-hearted. Journal writing must be a way of life for the women of my mother's clan - the Frasers. Clearly I keep my own personal and professional journals, but I can also recall both my mother and her mother doing the same.

Sìleas sat quietly in the relative peace of her tent near the battlefield making notes of one thing or another. The evening grew cold, however, as she waited for Gawter to return from the commanding officer's tent. She stood to tend the fire, and as she began to bring it back to a healthier warmth, she heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching. She turned to see a massive shape between herself and any light the moon was giving. She was carefully stepping backwards toward her side of the sleeping rug to find her sword so as to defend herself. All the while she watched the beast of a man approaching. Suddenly he stopped and grunting he lifted something up in the air. With a quick whoosh and a loud thump something hit the ground at her feet.

"I brought ye a gift, mo Chroí," Gawter said, grinning and pushing his large hands through his tousled red hair.

"A present, eh?" Sìleas said as she caught the scent of this...heap of....something at her feet.
"OH! It's.....it's a real......"

"Highland Grey Wolf blanket," he interrupted. "I won it playing draughts with the officers."

She picked up the blanket and inspected it. It had clearly been crafted with the skins of at least three wolves - for it was huge. It was also relatively clean for a blanket that was utilized by an officer in his battle quarters, though the smell of its wild, original owners was still close at hand.

"This is marvelous, Gawter! It's huge!"

It was certainly long and wide enough that two people could lie snuggled in its warmth - provided they did not mind sleeping close. The thought of crawling into the enveloping shelter, warm and cozy, after so many nights on this battlefield shivering under plaids and thin blankets was intoxicating.

Gawter appeared to be thinking along the same lines.

"Big enough for the two of us, " he said and he delicately reached over and touched her neck, then her breast.

"Oh really?" Sìleas replied smiling and arching a coy brow.

He leaned more closely to her and she caught his own scent about the gamy tang of the wolf blanket - dry leaves, peat and wood smoke, sweet whisky, all adding depth to the deep male scent of his skin.

"I could find you in a dark room full of a dozen warriors," she said inhaling deeply and enjoying it immensely.

Gawter laughed softly. "I donna doubt it, mo Chroí; I havena bathed in a week."

He put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head until their foreheads touched. Then he whispered, "I want to unlace the neck o' your shift, make love to you, and fall asleep wi' my head pillowed on your naked body. Really," he added standing up and looking at her straight in the eyes.

"Oh, " Sìleas said. "What a good idea."



**A song discovered by my typist just this weekend with many lyrics which ring true to the Knight and Lady. (The video is that of more modern times - from an XBox 360 game.)**

excerpts of lyrics from War by Poets of the Fall.


Do you remember standing on a broken field
White crippled wings beating the sky
The harbingers of war with their nature revealed
And our chances flowing by

If I can let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field

When I thought that I fought this war alone
You were there by my side on the frontline
When I thought that I fought without a cause
You gave me a reason to try

Turn the page I need to see something new
For now my innocence is torn
We cannot linger on this stunted view
Like rabid dogs of war

I will let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field

When I thought that I fought this war alone
You were there by my side on the frontline
And we fought to believe the impossible
When I thought that I fought this war alone
We were one with our destinies entwined
When I thought that I fought without a cause
You gave me the reason why...................

Dream State

The hour was growing late.

She had been watchful for several hours now and listening for the sounds of his horse's hooves. The last bit of sunlight was turning a gorgeous shade of pink as she sighed and turned from the window. After Seamus had built the fire in the large stone fireplace, she had told him that she would be fine and he should retire to the care of his family. He bobbed his head and smiled as he left.

Sìleas - her given name - had the stew of lamb and vegetables simmering on the cook iron, and had placed another pot filled with fresh water on to boil. On the table near the fire she had placed several clean cloths and a decanter filled with whisky. She knew that if this skirmish with the MacDonalds had gone as he had predicted it would go, he would most certainly be in need of all these things. The threats against several of the young women of the clan were not to be tolerated. The Frasers and MacDonalds had been strained neighbors at best, and this was most certainly not the best.

Her husband rode out with 6 other clansmen shortly after Sìleas' father, the Chieftain, had been told the story of the bold-faced MacDonald boys who made lewd and dangerous threats against the girls (none of them more than 14) as they walked along the stream this morning. She crossed herself, whispered a prayer, and was thankful that the girls had been in so large a group when they went out picking berries today. Thinking of what might have happened had these coarse young men met with only one or two was more than she could tolerate.



Just as the last rays of light faded into night, Gawter came through the door. Moving slowly, but under his own power, he smiled softly at the sight of her. She met him halfway across the great hall.

"Come, Mo Shearc. Let me help you."

She led him to the fireplace and assisted him out of his armor. First the sabatons and greaves, then the cuisses and poleyns. He had already set his helm on the floor near the chair as he moaned settling into the cushions she had so thoughtfully placed.

She tenderly touched his bloodied face and turned to the fire for the kettle, poured the boiling liquid into a large basin of cold water she had placed near his feet. "Well no obvious injuries to your feet or legs...that's good." she said as she helped him lift his feet into the warm water. His eyes were closed already, and the luxury of the warm water on his legs and feet warranted another soft moan from deep in his throat.

Smiling, Sìleas then set about the business of getting the rest of his armor removed. She carefully untied and removed his gauntlets seeing the large gash across the palm of his left hand. "Tried to stop a blade with your hand, did ye?" she asked as lightly as she could manage. The gash was deep, but thankfully it was well-clotted and no longer bleeding freshly.



"I'll do, A Ghrá mo Chroí [the name he nearly always called her]," he said softly, " had naught but that choice at the time."

He watched as she unfastened the breast plate and each rerebrace. Her face was full of emotion with each revelation of horrid bruise, knot, or slash of flesh, though he was sure that she hoped he would not notice.

Next she took up one of the cloths, dipping it in the water and began washing his battered face. The nose was bloodied but did not seem to be broken this time - though it had been several times before in either battle or pub brawl. He also had a large cut under his right eye. Carefully she added boiling water and some whisky to a small bowl, dipped the cloth into it, and began cleaning the wound. The alcohol stung like a fire brand - even diluted in the water - but he merely made a Scottish noise in the back of his throat as all his muscles tensed.

After she completed tending the wounds on his face, she began work on his dear hands. Hands that had held her own, and counted the tiny fingers of their first born. The right was not bad at all, but the left had the large gash. She cleaned it with the alcohol mixture, handed him a dram (or more perhaps) of the whisky for drinking, and excused herself by kissing the top of his head.

He knew she was headed for her little herb room to mix a poultice for his wounds. Shortly she returned humming a little tune. Gawter knew the tune well and a smile crossed his lips. They had danced their first dance to that tune a mere three years earlier at a ceiledh that her father hosted in the great house. It seemed to him that she hummed that tune both in times of happiness and of worry, as if the song that had brought them together would somehow repair the things causing any concern. Although given the nature of the women in her family, he should not be surprised. They did seem to have magical abilities.

Sìleas applied the poultice to his wound and packed it with clean lint. She then tore strips of cloth from an old chemise and bound it fairly tightly. Once she had convinced herself that she had attended to all his injuries, she handed him a bowl of the stew and settled herself on a cushion near his feet eating there with him by the fire. Not for the first time did he feel a bit uncomfortable with this type of arrangement. "Mo Chroí, it is I who should be sitting at your feet. I am more humbly born than you - a Chieftain's daughter. I should be caring for you."

"Och! A Stór, you hold yourself to meanly in mind. You take care of me, your family, and clan daily. You are the best of men." she returned.

"No. Just look at that pile of metal you have pulled from me tired body. It is all dented and worn. So much the opposite of those men in shining armor that would have had your hand, had your father not given in to your whim of loving me." Gawter said softly.

She arched her left brow and smirked very mildly as she began her answer to him - a look that by now he knew very well. He could not help but smile at her upturned face. "My pa never in his life "gave in" to a whim of mine unless it suited him to do so. He saw in you, what I see in you, me brawny ruadh man. He saw a man who loves his daughter more than he loves his own life. He saw a man of Honor. He saw a man who would not be pleased were his armor to remain shiny. He saw a man, YOU, my Gawter, Mo Shearc, who would fight to protect me."

At this he held out his hands and she rose onto her knees. He pulled her to him and kissed her soft, full lips. Sìleas touched him gently knowing just how battered and bruised he was, but leaned onto his chest hearing the strong 'lub dub lub dub' of his heart.

"Aye. May I always be here to protect you, mo Chroí. May I ever have dented armor on your behalf."

At this I awoke. It was almost as if I had come to a part of the story of my many-times-great grandmother and grandfather that was too intimate for my own heart and the mind to allow me to share. I laid in my bed smiling to myself, humming a little tune and thinking that even though I am a dab hand with a sword (and mightily independent), I will always choose the knight with the dented and well-worn armor, too.

Lamia by John William Waterhouse

**Some inspiration from The Outlander Series by Diana Gabaldon, Mrs. Brown by Jeremy Brock, art by John William Waterhouse, and my adventures in SL.**