Exile to Érenn - 8. Chapter 8

The late afternoon sun slanted low over Donnybrook, turning the stone walls gold and the leaves on the lime trees a soft, burning green. Declan led the way, hands clasped behind his back, pointing out small details with the quiet authority of someone who had studied the city’s layers for years, even if he only visited occasionally.

They started from Donnybrook Hall, strolling down the residential stretch of Donnybrook Road. Declan nodded toward the old granite gateposts of a Georgian house. “That one dates from the 1790s. Built for a judge who preferred silence to society. Rare in a place like this.”

Rowan walked beside him, hands in his pockets, content to let Declan guide. Aiden and Cianán trailed just behind, shoulders occasionally brushing as they matched pace.
Cianán kept turning his head, taking in everything: ivy spilling over garden walls, wrought-iron railings painted black and white, small front doors in bright colors, of emerald, mustard, and cobalt.

“So many people live so close,” he murmured. “Yet each house holds its own silence.”
Aiden smirked. “Wait till you hear the neighbors arguing at three in the morning.”

They passed the old churchyard of St. Mary’s, its mossy headstones tilting like crooked teeth. Declan slowed. “This yard has seen centuries of quiet arguments between the living and the dead. There’s lots of history here.”

Cianán paused at the low wall, fingers trailing the lichen. “The stones remember,” he said softly. “They always do.”

Declan glanced at him, then looked away, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
They turned onto Pembroke Road, past elegant Victorian terraces with bay windows and climbing roses. A woman watering her window boxes glanced up and nodded politely. Declan returned the nod.

The air grew warmer with the scent of cut grass and distant charcoal as they neared the main village. Shopfronts appeared: a butcher with sawdust on the floor, a newsagent with newspapers stacked outside, a tiny bakery exhaling sugar and butter. Cianán stopped outside the bakery window, staring at the cream cakes dusted with icing sugar.

“Clouds you can eat,” he said.

Rowan smiled. “We’ll get some tomorrow.”

They crossed the road and walked past the old village pump, now a flower planter, then past the library with its small green beside it. Children kicked a ball; a dog barked once, half-hearted.

Declan checked his watch. “It’s time to eat. Is anybody Hungry?”

Aiden nodded. Cianán’s stomach answered for him with a faint rumble. He looked startled, then amused.

They turned onto Donnybrook Road proper. The sign for Khan Balti House came into view: simple, unpretentious, warm light spilling from the windows. The smell hit them first, cumin, garlic, charred meat, and fresh naan.

Declan pushed the door open. “Right on time.”

Cianán stepped inside last, pausing on the threshold as though crossing from one world into another. The scents wrapped around him like an old friend. He looked at Aiden, eyes bright.

“This place remembers fire,” he said quietly.

Aiden grinned. “Yeah. And it smells like good curry.”

They followed Declan inside. The host was a broad-shouldered man with a quick smile. He waved them to a booth near the back. The tablecloths were red, the napkins paper, and the menu was laminated and sticky in spots.

Cianán slid in beside Aiden, staring openly at the other diners. A young couple at the next table laughed over plates of butter chicken. An older Pakistani family shared naan and passed bowls of dal. A lone Irish man in a suit demolished a lamb balti with quiet focus.

Cianán leaned toward Aiden, voice low and delighted. “Look at them. Different faces, different tongues, all eating the same food. How do they know the food is good without tasting it first?”

Aiden grinned. “They don’t. They just trust the smell. Like you’re doing right now.”

The waiter arrived and rattled off the specials. Cianán listened like he was hearing music for the first time. When the man left, Cianán turned to the table.

“He speaks your language but cooks like my people,” he said. “The words change, but the food stays the same.”

Rowan chuckled. “That’s Dublin for you. Everyone’s a little bit from somewhere else.”

When the food came, Cianán stared at the spread like it was a map of the stars. The lamb balti arrived in a small iron dish, still hissing. Naan landed in a basket, puffed and charred. A bowl of raita sat cooling beside mango chutney that glowed like amber.

Cianán lifted a piece of naan, tore it slowly, and sniffed it. “This bread has seen fire,” he said solemnly. “It remembers the flame.”

Declan laughed quietly. “Most bread does.”

Cianán took his first bite of rogan josh. His eyes fluttered shut. For a long second he didn’t move. Then he opened them, pupils wide.

“It sings,” he said. “The spices sing.”

Aiden nearly choked on his tikka masala. “You’re gonna make me cry over curry.”

Cianán grinned, sudden, bright, unguarded, and scooped another spoonful. “This food carries stories. The cook’s hands, the market, the long journey of the seed and the animal. I taste all of it.”

Rowan leaned back, amused. “You’re going to ruin us for ordinary meals, aren’t you?”

“I already have,” Cianán said, and tore off another piece of naan like he was accepting a sacrament.

Aiden watched him eat, careful, reverent, delighted, and felt something warm and ridiculous bloom in his chest. Here was a boy who may have seen the birth of rivers, now losing his mind over garlic naan and a decent lamb curry.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aiden muttered, but he was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
Cianán looked at him, eyes sparkling. “And you are eating like a man who has never tasted joy before.”

Aiden laughed, loud and startled, and shoved a chip at him. “Shut up and try the chips. They’re basically magic.”

Cianán took one, bit down, and froze. Then he laughed too, soft and wondering, the crisp crunch blending with the clatter of plates and the low hum of other people’s conversations.

For a little while, in the warm glow of a small Donnybrook restaurant, four people from four different worlds shared one simple, perfect meal. And the spices, old as memory, kept singing.

It was past eight when they left the restaurant.

“We have a busy day tomorrow,” Declan said. “We best return to the hotel and get some rest.”

They walked back to Donnybrook Hall under streetlights that glowed soft orange. Aiden’s stomach was full, but his mind felt wired. Every step beside Cianán made the air feel thinner.

Back at the hotel, Declan and Rowan headed to their room with a quiet “Good night.”

Aiden unlocked the door to Room 14. Cianán followed him inside.

The room felt smaller at night. The two single beds stood close together, intimate.
Aiden was excited, wired, hyper-aware of every sound and movement. Cianán seemed calm, almost serene, as he took a seat at the foot of his bed.

“Do you want to use the bathroom first?” Aiden asked, voice a little too high.

“No, you go first.”

Aiden brushed his teeth, washed his face, and changed into clean boxer briefs and a loose T-shirt. When he stepped out, Cianán was already sitting at the foot of his bed, barefoot. His sweatshirt was folded neatly beside him. He was shirtless, his pale skin catching the lamplight, lean but strong of build, a faint silvery scar across one shoulder that looked like an old wound that healed cleanly. He wore only loose linen braies. The garment was knee-length, tied with cords at the waist and knees, in a simple off-white fabric that fit him perfectly. There was nothing lewd or blatantly suggestive, but he looked incredibly sexy to Aiden.

Cianán rose, paused, and looked intently at Aiden, scanning his body up and down, before moving on to the bathroom.

Aiden blushed hard. He was embarrassed by the attention and even more by the attraction he was feeling. He realized it was starting to show. He sat on his bed with a pillow in his lap, pretending to check his phone, but his eyes kept drifting to the bathroom door.

When Cianán returned, Aiden noticed everything: the way the lamplight caught the curve of Cianán’s collarbone, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the quiet strength in his shoulders, the scar that made him look both vulnerable and ancient.

Heat flooded Aiden’s face, chest, and stomach. There was a tightness lower down. Confusion and embarrassment swirled inside him. He’s just sitting there… why am I staring? He’s a guy, but he’s not just any guy, he’s Cianán.

Aiden felt exposed, caught in his own gaze. Cianán seemed more real, more human, and therefore more overwhelming.

Aiden broke the silence awkwardly. “You… sleep like that?”

Cianán tilted his head slightly. “I usually sleep naked, but since you are clothed I will sleep like this. I want you to be comfortable.”

Aiden laughed once, short and nervous, trying to cover the flush in his cheeks. Inside he thought, Should I take my shirt off too? No, it’s too late now. He’d think I’m weird if I did it now.

Cianán’s smile was small, gentle, and knowing. He slipped under his covers. The sheet settled over his bare chest.

There was a moment of eye contact. Was it shared longing? Aiden looked away first, his heart pounding.

“Good night, Cianán.”

“Go dté tú tríd an dorchadas gan eagla,” Cianán said softly. (“May you pass through the darkness without fear.”)

Aiden’s heart gave a strange, unsteady thud. The words hung between them, soft and old, like something carried on wind through the mounds. He didn’t know what they meant exactly, but he felt them settle somewhere deep, like a hand resting lightly on his chest.

Aiden turned off the lamp. The room darkened except for faint city light through the curtains. They lay in their separate beds. The silence was thick, charged, intimate.

Aiden listened to Cianán’s steady breathing and felt the pull across the narrow gap between the beds. Confusion, longing, and a quiet ache he didn’t yet have words for filled him. He’s right there… and I can’t stop thinking about him.

Aiden stared at the ceiling, wide awake, the image of Cianán’s bare shoulders burned into his mind.

Morning light filtered through the curtains. Aiden woke to find Cianán already awake, still shirtless, sitting quietly in an almost meditative state on the edge of his bed.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Aiden asked, voice rough with sleep.

“Shower?”

“Yeah, just to clean up.”

“I would like to wash myself,” Cianán said.

“Go ahead. I’ll go after you.”

“I am not sure I’ll do it properly. You go and I’ll watch you to learn.”

Aiden flushed crimson. He hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was five or six. He’d like to be naked with Cianán, but not naked in front of him.

“Ah… ah… ah,” Aiden stuttered. “I’ll show you what to do, but I don’t want you to watch me.”

Cianán looked at Aiden with a curious expression, trying to understand his hesitation.

Aiden explained, “You turn the valve until it’s warm and pull the lever.”

“It rains inside,” Cianán exclaimed, eyes lighting up.

“Yeah, have a good shower,” Aiden said as he turned to leave the bathroom.
“And remember to …”

He turned back to remind Cianán to close the valve just in time to see Cianán’s braies drop to the floor.

Aiden froze, staring at Cianán’s perfectly formed posterior. His boxer briefs were unable to hide his excitement. He turned and hurried out of the bathroom, heart hammering.

Aiden and Cianán met Declan and Rowan for breakfast in the hotel sunroom.

The breakfast room at Donnybrook Hall was bright and cosy, with sunlight streaming through tall windows onto a handful of small wooden tables.

Aiden and Cianán sat side by side, plates piled high with the full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, rashers of bacon, sausages, black and white pudding, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, and thick slices of toast.

Cianán stared at his plate with open reverence. “This is… a feast for warriors.”

Aiden grinned and dug in.

“Just wait till you try the pudding,” said Rowan.

He and Declan sat across the table. They had chosen lighter options: porridge with honey and fresh fruit for Rowan, and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon for Declan.

Rowan watched the two boys attack their plates with wide eyes. “How are you two even fitting all that in? You’re fourteen-year-old humans, not growing bears.”

Aiden shrugged, mouth full. “It’s good.”

Cianán took another bite of sausage, eyes fluttering half-closed in pleasure.

“Everything tastes… alive. Like the land itself decided to feed us this morning.”

Declan sipped his tea, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but his gaze lingered on Cianán a moment longer.

Rowan laughed softly and shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone enjoy breakfast like this. At this rate we’ll need to roll you both to the car.”

Cianán looked up, serious for a second. “It is good to eat when the day is still young. The land gives, and we give thanks.”

Aiden glanced at him, warmth blooming in his chest. For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic reply. He just kept eating, his knee bumping Cianán’s under the table.

By nine o’clock they were walking across the UCD Belfield campus toward the Archaeological Science Laboratory. The modern building felt cool and clinical after the warm sunroom. Declan led them through security with his pre-arranged pass.

Dr. Priya Nair waited at the reception desk. She was a South Asian Indian woman in her mid-forties, sharp-eyed and warm. “Declan MacDonagh, the Carrowkeel man! Good to see you again.”

Declan smiled and shook her hand. “Priya, thank you for making time so quickly.”

He introduced the others. “This is my husband, Rowan. Our nephew Aiden, who’s been helping on the dig, and Cianán, a local lad who’s been assisting us at the site.”

Priya smiled warmly at each of them, her gaze resting on Cianán for a brief extra second, but she didn’t comment. “Pleasure to meet you all. Come through.”

She led them to a quiet analysis room. It was modern, well-lit, with clean benches, microscopes, spectrometry equipment, and secure storage cabinets.

Declan placed the padded case on the bench and opened it carefully. He lifted out the pale-green quartz vial.

Priya leaned in. Her eyes widened instantly. “Good lord… this is quartz?” She was already reaching for gloves and a loupe. She examined it under bright light. “Flawless. No inclusions, no cleavage planes, mirror polish on every surface. And the hollowing… this wasn’t ground out with abrasives. It’s too perfect.”

Priya looked at Declan. “I’ve never seen anything like this anywhere, let alone in an Irish context. The carving precision alone is beyond Bronze Age lapidary work. And the liquid…” She tilted the vial gently. “Pale green, inert, no sediment. What is it?”

“We’re hoping you can tell us. The volume hasn’t changed a drop and it healed a small wound on Aiden’s hand in seconds.”

Priya’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re serious?”

She looked at Aiden. He nodded and showed the fading scar on his thumb.

Priya exhaled slowly. “Right. We’ll treat this as high-priority.”

She outlined the planned tests, non-destructive where possible: optical microscopy and SEM for surface analysis, Raman spectroscopy for material identification, XRF and ICP-MS for elemental composition, GC-MS for any organic residue, and UV-Vis for color and fluorescence.

“Full results will take four to six weeks minimum,” she warned. “I’ll fast-track what I can, but we’ll need controls and repeats.”

Declan nodded. “I understand. Just… keep it secure.”

Priya held the vial up to the light one last time. “This is either the most extraordinary find of my career… or something that doesn’t belong here at all.”

She logged it into the secure database, sealed it in a lab container, and placed it in a locked cabinet. “I’ll call you the moment we have prelims. And Declan, thank you for trusting us with this.”

They left the building in silence. Aiden glanced back at the lab entrance. Cianán walked beside him, silent, eyes on the ground. Rowan put a hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “You all right?”

Aiden nodded, but his mind was already on the vial and on Cianán beside him.

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