Exile to Érenn - 9. Chapter 9

They left the UCD lab just after ten. The vial was now sealed away in a secure cabinet, logged into the system and no longer in their hands. The morning felt strangely lighter without its weight, yet heavier in other ways.

Aiden walked beside Cianán toward the car park. Something felt slightly off. Cianán’s steps were a little slower than usual, his skin slightly paler.

Aiden glanced at him sideways. “Do you feel okay?”

Cianán gave a small smile. “I am fine. I’m just a little tired.”

Aiden had never seen Cianán tired before. The words settled uneasily in his chest. He’s only human. Isn’t he?

They reached the Tesla. Rowan was setting the GPS. Declan stood by the driver’s door, watching Cianán with that quiet, assessing look he’d been wearing more often lately.

Cianán stopped beside the rear door instead of climbing in. He took a breath, then spoke calmly. “I would like to go see my relatives while I’m here. Can you drop me off?”

Rowan straightened, surprised but agreeable. “Of course. Would you like us to go with you?”

Cianán shook his head. “I’m not sure if they will want a crowd. Maybe just Aiden can go with me.” He turned to Aiden, eyes steady. “Aiden, will you join me?”

Aiden felt the plan click into place. He nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Declan studied Cianán for a long moment, suspicion flickering behind his calm expression, but he didn’t argue. “All right. Be careful. Call us if anything strange happens.”

Rowan gave Aiden a quick hug. “Text when you’re done. We’ll be at the hotel.”

The car pulled away, leaving the two boys standing on a quiet street in Portobello, a middle-class residential area of red-brick terraces and small rental flats. Washing hung on lines in back gardens. A few bicycles leaned against railings. The Grand Canal ran nearby, its water reflecting the pale sky. It felt ordinary and lived-in.

They waited until the Tesla disappeared around the corner. Then Cianán let out a soft breath and started walking toward the centre. Aiden fell into step beside him. Their shoulders brushed occasionally as they moved along the canal path.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while. The path took them past modest houses with painted doors and small front gardens. Cianán glanced at them with quiet fascination, as though every ordinary detail still held wonder.

Eventually they reached the top of St. Stephen’s Green. The park opened up on their right, green and leafy under the morning sun. And there, on the north side, a bright yellow amphibious vehicle waited at the kerb, its side painted with cartoon Vikings and the words “Viking Splash Tours.”

Cianán stopped. His eyes lit up with genuine delight. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Metal dragons that swim and roar.”

Aiden groaned. “It’s a tourist thing. They drive around the city, make you wear stupid helmets, and then splash into the canal. It’s for little kids.”

Cianán tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “But they roar. And they swim. On land and water. How is that not magic?”

Aiden rubbed the back of his neck. He could already tell he was going to lose this argument. “It’s just a big yellow bus with wheels and a propeller. It’s cheesy.”

Cianán turned to him fully, eyes bright with that rare, unguarded excitement. “I want to do it.”

Aiden stared at him. Cianán, mysterious and different, was standing on a Dublin street corner, practically vibrating at the thought of a silly tourist ride.

“You’re serious.”

Cianán nodded once, solemn. “I have never seen a dragon that carries laughing children.”

Aiden let out a long, defeated breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. But if they make us wear the plastic helmets, I’m blaming you.”

Cianán’s smile was small, bright, and utterly victorious.

They crossed the road toward the departure point. Aiden pulled out his wallet and bought the tickets with most of his remaining euros. As they stepped away from the booth, Cianán looked at the money in Aiden’s hand with open curiosity.

“You use paper for trade?” he asked quietly. “Not gold, not goods, not promises?”

Aiden shrugged. “Yeah. It’s just… money. Everyone agrees it’s worth something.”

Cianán reached into the small pouch at his belt and pulled out a heavy twisted gold ring. The metal caught the sunlight with a warm, buttery gleam. Fine spiral grooves ran along its surface, the work of hands that understood both beauty and precision.

“This is gold,” he said simply, pressing it into Aiden’s palm. “It is pure and your people must still prize it. Do you think it is worth two rides on a metal dragon?”

Aiden stared at the warm weight in his hand. Even he could tell it was real, the colour, the heaviness and the way it felt alive in the light. “Cianán… this is worth way more than the tickets.”

Cianán’s smile was small and sad. “Then keep the difference. The land has given it to me many times over. Now it can give something to you.”

Aiden closed his fingers around the ring, feeling its unexpected warmth. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply slipped it into his pocket and bumped Cianán’s shoulder gently. “Thanks.”

The attendant handed each of them a bright red plastic Viking helmet with horns. Aiden stared at his as if it had personally offended him. Cianán slipped his on without hesitation. The cheap plastic looked absurd against his auburn hair, yet somehow he wore it with quiet dignity, like a crown.

Aiden muttered, “I’m never living this down,” but he put his own helmet on anyway.

They climbed aboard and took seats near the front. The engine rumbled to life. The guide, a loud Dublin man in a matching helmet, launched into his patter. “Right, Vikings! Let’s give Dublin a proper roar!”

The vehicle rolled forward. Cianán gripped the rail, leaning forward as they trundled down the street. When the guide called for the first roar, Cianán joined in without hesitation, a clear, bright sound that cut through the traffic noise. Aiden rolled his eyes but found himself shouting along a second later, half embarrassed, half laughing.

They passed shops and pedestrians. People on the pavement waved and laughed. Cianán waved back, delighted. “They are not afraid,” he said, eyes wide. “They laugh at the dragon.”

Aiden felt the skepticism crack. The absurdity of it all started to feel fun instead of stupid.

Then the vehicle reached the canal. The guide called, “Hold on, Vikings, we’re going in!”

The front wheels left the road. The hull hit the water with a splash. Cianán let out a startled laugh as the vehicle surged forward, now a boat gliding down the Grand Canal.

Water sprayed up the sides. The city slid past: old warehouses, modern apartments, swans drifting on the water.

Cianán’s face was open with wonder. “It swims,” he breathed. “It truly swims.”

Aiden watched him instead of the scenery. The plastic horns on Cianán’s helmet bobbed with every movement. His auburn hair caught the sunlight beneath it, the copper tones bright again. For a moment he looked exactly like any other excited fourteen-year-old, except for the way his eyes seemed to hold centuries while he laughed at a metal dragon boat.

Aiden’s own helmet felt suddenly ridiculous and perfect. He leaned closer until their shoulders pressed together. “Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “This is kind of brilliant.”

Cianán turned to him, grin wide and unguarded, and gave Aiden a quick, soft peck on the cheek. “I told you. Metal dragons.”

Aiden’s face flushed hot, but he didn’t pull away. The guide roared again. Aiden took Cianán’s hand and roared back without hesitation, and Cianán’s laugh rose with his.

The boat surged onward, water sparkling around them, while the city of Dublin watched two boys in plastic Viking helmets chase the last of the afternoon light across the canal.

When the tour finally returned to dry land, Aiden’s cheeks hurt from smiling. Cianán kept the helmet on, as though reluctant to let the magic end. He glanced sideways at Aiden, eyes still bright.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Aiden, still holding Cianán’s hand, bumped his shoulder once, gentle. “Yeah. Anytime.”

They stepped off the vehicle together, plastic horns still on their heads. But as they started walking back toward the hotel, Aiden noticed Cianán’s pace had slowed just a little. His shoulders seemed a fraction heavier. The brightness in his eyes had dimmed, though only slightly.

“Are you okay, Cianán?” Aiden asked quietly.

Cianán managed a small smile. “I need to rest tonight.”

That night the teens retired early. Aiden still felt the sexual tension humming beneath his skin, but he was more concerned about Cianán getting a good night’s sleep. Cianán looked tired in a way Aiden had never seen before. Not exhausted, exactly, just quieter, as though the bright edges of him had softened.

The next morning at breakfast, Declan set his cup down and looked across the table.

“We’re heading home this afternoon. I’d like to show both of you the Book of Kells and the Long Room at Trinity College before we go. It’s amazing and I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Cianán’s eyes brightened at the mention of the old books. Aiden nodded, trying to hide his own curiosity. They finished eating quickly, loaded the car with their suitcases and the cooler and headed toward the city centre.

Trinity College’s grounds felt like stepping into another century. Tall trees shaded wide paths, and students moved between old stone buildings with the easy confidence of people who belonged there. Declan led them toward the Old Library. Dr. Nair, a professional colleague, had arranged a private viewing before the public hours.

They entered the exhibition area first. The lighting was low and respectful. Two open pages of the Book of Kells glowed gently behind glass. The intricate spirals, knotwork, and jewel-bright colors seemed to pulse on the vellum as though the ink still breathed.

Cianán stopped a few feet away, perfectly still. His auburn hair looked a little duller today, the warm copper tones muted as though the light could not quite reach it. His skin, usually pale with a faint inner glow, appeared almost translucent under the museum lamps.

Aiden noticed. He always noticed now.

Declan spoke softly, respectful. “This was made by Irish monks around the year 800. They were copying the Gospels, but they poured centuries of skill and memory into every line.”

Cianán’s gaze moved slowly across the page, tracing the swirling patterns that looked so much like the carvings on the stones at Carrowkeel. His voice came quiet, almost to himself.

“There was a time when the words were still spoken, not trapped in skins like this.” He lifted a hand, not quite touching the glass. “People sang them. The old stories. The battles, the healings, the light that came before the cross.”

He paused, and for a moment the room felt heavier.

“They tried to keep us,” he continued, so softly Aiden almost missed it. “The monks. Some of them still remembered the old ways. They put the ancient spirals and knots into the book of their god, thinking it might preserve something. But the light… the real light… it has grown dim.”

Aiden’s chest tightened. The subtle weariness that had been creeping into Cianán since Dublin was clearer here. His breathing was just a fraction too shallow. His shoulders seemed a little frailer.

Rowan shifted uncomfortably, sensing the shift but not understanding it. “It’s beautiful work, though. They must have loved what they were doing.”

Cianán gave a small, sad smile. “They did. But love alone cannot hold back the tide.”

He looked at Aiden then, and for the first time, Aiden saw something raw in those blue-green eyes. Not just wonder, but a deep, quiet grief. The kind that came from watching your entire world slowly turn into beautiful, harmless stories locked behind glass.

Aiden stepped closer until their shoulders brushed. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply took Cianán’s hand and stayed there, letting the silence stretch between them while the illuminated pages glowed on.

Declan watched them both, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Cianán.

The Book of Kells lay open before them, a masterpiece of faith and artistry, yet in that moment it felt to Aiden like a beautiful tomb for things that had once been alive.

They moved upstairs into the Long Room. The space opened around them like a cathedral of oak and parchment. Tall shelves reached toward the barrel-vaulted ceiling, lined with row after row of ancient books. Sunlight slanted through high windows, catching dust motes in the air. Marble busts of scholars and philosophers lined the central aisle, watching silently.

Aiden felt small beneath the weight of so many books. The air smelled of aged leather, dust, and something faintly sweet, like ink and time.

Cianán walked slowly, head tilted back. His steps were careful, as though he were moving through a dream that was no longer his. “So many voices,” he murmured. “Trapped between covers. The stories once lived in the air. They were sung around fires and carried on the wind. Now they sleep here, waiting for someone to wake them.”

Rowan looked around with open admiration. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? All this knowledge in one place.”

Declan nodded, but his eyes kept returning to Cianán. “The monks who built this place were trying to preserve something important. They blended the old knowledge with the new faith. Sometimes the two worlds met more gently than we think.”

Cianán stopped beside one of the busts and rested his fingertips lightly on the wooden railing. “The old gods and the new god argued in whispers for a long time. The monks wrote down the old stories, but they changed the endings. They made the ancients into heroes or fairies instead of what they were. It was kinder, perhaps. But it was still an ending.”

Aiden squeezed Cianán’s hand gently. He could feel the faint tremor in Cianán’s fingers. The weariness was still there, subtle but unmistakable.

They walked the full length of the Long Room in silence. The sheer scale of it pressed down on them all. When they finally stepped back outside into the bright daylight, Cianán blinked as though emerging from deep water.

Aiden stayed close as they made their way back toward the car. The city bustled around them, but Cianán moved a little more slowly than he had that morning. His auburn hair caught the light, but the warm copper tones seemed softer, less vibrant.
Declan glanced at his watch. “We should get going. We have a long drive ahead and there’s one more stop I want to make.”

Cianán nodded quietly. “Yes. I think I need to rest.”

Aiden didn’t say anything, but he kept hold of Cianán’s hand. The weight of everything they had seen that morning settled between them. The old light and the new light. The stories that had been sung and the stories now trapped in glass and leather. And the boy beside him who carried both inside him, growing just a little more tired with every day he spent away from the mounds.