Angusel returns in RAGING SEA Ch 6/Sc 5a #amwriting #Arthurverse

Graphic overlay (c)2015 by Kim Headlee. "It will be impossible to ignore the shattering of lives that happens in Morning’s Journey in future works of Headlee’s, and it left me feeling ill. This was, of course, by design." 

So reads a portion of one of my favorite reviews to date of Morning's Journey, predecessor of Raging Sea. 

In Arthurian Legend, the relationship between Lancelot and Guinevere is ever a rocky one, often resulting in anger, jealousy, fear, grief, and even madness. I begin that cycle in Morning's Journey and continue it in Raging Sea.

Today's excerpt shows Angusel in a face-to-face meeting with his former friend and mentor, Gyanhumara, for the first time since she had banished him from her lands. Whether they choose to reunite or not will fall upon both of them.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea  Chapter 1: Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4 | Scene 5 |Chapter 2: Scene 1-A | Scene 1-B | Scene 2 |Chapter 3: Sc 1-A | Sc 1-B | Scene 2 | Sc 3-A | Sc 3-B |
Chapter 4: Sc 1-A | Sc 1-B | Sc 2-A | Sc 2-B | Sc 2-C |
Chapter 5: Sc 1-A | Sc 1-B | Sc 1-C | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4-A | Sc 4-B |
Chapter 6: Sc 1 | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4 |
Raging Sea Chapter 6, Scene 5a©2015 by Kim HeadleeAll rights reserved.
Although it had been a year and more since Angusel had last set foot within the praetorium at Caer Lugubalion, his memories of its every door and corridor, column and tile, step and statue surged forth with heart-rending intensity. Nothing about this opulent Ròmanach palace had changed.

Everything about himself and his relationship to its primary residents had.

Clenching fists and jaw, he lengthened his stride.

Two guards flanked the door leading into the workroom of the Comitissa Britanniam. They saluted him, and one requested the purpose of his visit. Angusel returned the salute. Upon hearing his answer, both guards saluted again and allowed him to enter.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him, though the mouths belonging with two of those pairs no longer possessed the ability to voice a comment. Below the shelf displaying the embalmed heads of Niall the Scáth and Ælferd the Sasun stood . . . her, beside her clansman and aide, Rhys. Angusel grieved to see her hair cropped as short as ever, though he chewed the inside of his lip to suppress the reaction. It appeared that she and Rhys had been discussing something Rhys had written; parchments and quills and nibs lay scattered across his worktable amid pots of different colored inks. They straightened upon Angusel’s entrance. Their intense scrutiny made his face heat and his pulse pound. To keep from retreating, he raised the shield of military protocol with a sharp Ròmanach salute.

“Optio Ainchis Sal a Dubh Loch reporting, Comitissa.” He lowered his fist but didn’t relax it. “As ordered.”

She cocked an eyebrow and glanced at Rhys. The centurion nodded once and left the chamber. She beckoned Angusel into her private workroom. He mentally girded himself as though entering a lioness’s den.

And what a den it was, filled with Caledonach furnishings carved with symbols of the gods, the shelves overflowing with scrolls, three of the walls covered with swaths of wool woven of the various Caledonach and Breatanach clans’ patterns—though the Albanach and Móranach colors were conspicuously but not surprisingly absent. Two embroidered dragons faced off between the windows behind her worktable, each ramping across a field of gold: one scarlet and the other midnight blue. Surmounting the banners, her battle sword Braonshaffir gleamed from polished pewter hooks shaped like a dragon’s talons.

Arms folded and expression stern, she regarded him for what felt like an eternity.

“Visit the quartermaster before you report to Centurion Cato of First Ala. You are out of uniform,” she declared at last.

Of all the things he’d expected her to say, this didn’t number among them. He gave his head a slight shake. “My lady?”

“Trade your Caledonach boots for Breatanach ones. Then begin your duties as optio for First Ala. You did bring Stonn with you, I trust?”

“Aye, my lady, but I thought—that is, your invitation to join the new unit—” Gods, he felt like a dithering fool, and her scowl was darkening by the moment. He clamped his mouth shut.

“The Comites Praetorii needs men who will lay down their lives for me without a second thought.” Her upraised hand stilled his protest. “That is why I requested volunteers. I had hoped that you—” She lowered her hand and chafed her arms, her expression softening a wee bit. “Since you say you were ordered to answer my invitation, I must conclude that you are not yet ready to join my unit.”

He wanted to disagree but couldn’t voice a lie, no matter how much he desired to reclaim his place at her side.

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