Sector 2814

Aranel Took's DC Comics Fanfiction

Author Notes: This is a companion piece to Morelindo's Kyle O'Riordan (Kyle Rayner) story, A First Meeting.
The Start of the Journey

Hal turned away from the sight of the emerald shore and looked at the young man next to him. Kyle had an unusually serious look on his young face, brows knit into a frown. Hal wondered if his lord was having second thoughts about his pilgrimage to Rome.

The Irish had become enamored of the new southern religion. Hal had even let the priest baptize him, to make Kyle happy. But Hal didn’t see the point himself, traveling all the way to a foreign land to say a prayer or see some old bones. Wasn’t this God supposed to be everywhere? A standing stone wasn’t good enough? But his hlaford had insisted and Hal would obey. He just wouldn’t tell Kyle he had said a prayer to Thunor before they left the shore, asking for good weather. 

The wind picked up as they moved further from land and Kyle shivered in his thin tunic. “You should get your cloak, leofa,” Hal whispered into his ear, mindful not to touch him in a familiar manner in front of the sailors. At least as the prince’s bodyguard they were allowed to sleep together, though they had to be as celibate as the Christian priests.

“I am fine, Hal,” Kyle sighed. “Just because my mother isn’t here does not mean you have to take her place.”

“I apologize, hlaford min,” Hal said, bowing his head. Kyle gave him a slight smile, then turned back to watch Ireland disappear into the mists.

Hal couldn’t help fussing over the man. Not only was it his duty as the young prince’s bodyguard, but because Kyle had stolen his heart from the moment they met. 

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Months earlier

Hal was sharpening his sword when word came of the treaty. They had been fighting over the small island for weeks with the Irish, but both sides were weary and had suffered many losses. Not that Hal was ready to give up. He would fight to the last man for this rock if necessary. But messengers had been sent and received and now it appeared the fighting would be done. He did not know who would win the rights to the craggy island. It didn’t matter to him. He would fight wherever his lord told him to fight. It was in his blood to fight, and like his forefathers, he was a mercenary as well, paid to fight and fight well. 

Carolus Ferrum came out from his tent and Hal put his sword away and stood up with the others. Carolus served King Vortigern and was Hal’s master. Like Hal he was a professional soldier, descended from the Romans who had once ruled here who intermarried native Britons. From the stormy look on the man’s face, Hal knew the negotiations had not been in their favor. He looked around the faces of his men, then set his gaze on Hal. “Harold. Come with me.” He turned and went back into his tent.

Hal followed and dropped to his knee just inside the tent on the deerskin-covered ground. He cast his gaze to the ground, though his keen eyes had noted there were five other men in the tent, two of them Irish. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

“You will go to Ireland as a hostage, Harold Mortenson, to seal the treaty with the king of Dál Riata.”

Hal took a deep breath. A hostage? To Ireland? He was meant to fight! But he would not argue with his lord. “Yes, my lord.”

Carolus turned to the men next to him. “Take our guests to their tent.” Once left alone, Carolus turned his attention back to Hal. “I know being a hostage is not the aspiration of a soldier. But I need a man I can trust. One who will be on his best behavior among the Irish, but also one who can observe and report back to me when he returns. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, my lord.” Hal felt a little better about the task now. He wasn’t just going as a hostage. His lord trusted him over all others to represent their king … and to be their spy.

“I will miss your sword, Harold Mortenson. But I am confident you will do us proud.” He took Hal’s hands and tugged him to his feet. “It has come to my attention that my daughter finds you pleasing.” He nodded at Hal, a pleased expression on his face. “When you return, I will permit a match.” 

Hal had only seen the girl once, a dark-haired beauty. He had no interest in marriage, but he could not turn down such a generous offer. He nodded. “Yes, my lord.” 

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Less than a week later, Hal arrived in Orthear Maí, the castle of Tiarnach, king of Dál Riata, to fulfill his duty. As a hostage, he would be treated as a guest as long as the treaty held and after one year he would be permitted to return to Britannia. The Irish king had been wary at first about being given a Saxon hostage, but King Vortigern himself had spoken for Hal. He was a valuable soldier and a high price to pay to ensure the treaty. 

The Irish king knew Latin, but few of the Irish soldiers could speak the language of the Romans, so Hal’s journey was mostly spent in silence unless Tiarnach spoke to him. And the less of that the better. The king was a cold, calculating man, and he set Hal on edge, making the back of his neck prickle when the man looked at him. Hal sensed he was the type of man who would stab you in the back as he embraced you. 

The castle was small, though far grander than the fortifications in Britannia, perched on a hill overlooking the sea. The king entered first and Hal followed, watched warily by the king’s men. He was unarmed but they still didn’t trust him, probably on orders of their king. 

The great hall was full of people who all bowed deeply as the king passed. He spoke rapidly in his lilting language and men scurried away to complete to do his bidding. A woman waited at the end of the hall near the throne, auburn haired and fair as so many of the Irish women were. Tiarnach spoke to her and she shot a wary glance at Hal. Tiarnach turned to look at Hal. “This is my brother’s wife, Moira ban Árón.”

“Welcome to our hall,” she said, her tongue obviously unsure of the Latin. Her voice was cold, she was only doing the duty of a lady of the castle in welcoming a man who she saw as an enemy. Hal had learned from Tiarnach that his brother had been killed some years ago by the Britons, most likely to inform Hal that there would be no love lost though he was a guest. The king’s own wife had died in childbed.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said as graciously as he could, bowing low. He may be in service to Tiarnach, but he knew well enough that it was just as important to make a good impression on the lady, for it was she who ran the household. 

A door opened and Hal looked up. A young man had arrived, slightly out of breath, and stood next to the lady. Hal’s breath caught in his throat and he lowered his eyes again. The boy was beautiful.

Tiarnach said something to the boy, and though Hal didn’t understand the words besides his own name, he understood the tone: scolding and slightly angry. “My brother’s son,” Tiarnach said to Hal. “Kyle O’Riordan”. 

Kyle could not have been long out of boyhood and was unblemished by either the sun or battle. “Welcome, Harold Mortenson,” the boy said in well-practiced Latin. He reached up to push his unruly dark hair from his face — Hal noticed ink stains on his fingers, the mark of a scholar or poet — and studied Hal with bright green eyes and an appreciative smile on his lips. Hal’s wæpen stirred and he turned his gaze to a spot over the young prince’s shoulder. “Ic þancie þe, hlaford min,” Hal said. The boy frowned and Hal realized he had slipped back into his native tongue. The beautiful boy had rattled him.  “Thank you, my lord,” he said quickly.

When he left the hall to be shown to his new quarters, he could feel the young man’s gaze following him. He sent a  prayer to Woden to give him strength of will. He was going to need it around Kyle O’Riordan.

Old English Glossary:
þ is a soft ''th'' sound.
hlaford - lord
hlaford min - my lord
leofa - beloved
wæpen - penis
Ic þancie þe, hlaford min. - Thank you, my lord.