Chapter Text
Hal Jordan came to terms with being voidmarked over a decade ago. The meaningless yellow symbols encircling the base of his finger had never been anything more than a source of curiosity for his classmates (who were all marked with ordinary names) and disappointment for his mother.
Hal was always the first to point out how nonsensical his own mark was, to laugh at his own poor luck and to joke about how at least he wasn’t going to get trapped in a boring marriage with a whiny wife and ugly kids like the rest of his peers. At first, he only said it to take a weapon out of the hands of his would-be bullies, but time and repetition got to him and eventually he sort of started to believe it.
Like most adults, he covers his soulmark with a ring, except on the days he forgets to, which is about fifty percent of the time. Carol knows he’s voidmarked, but it doesn’t seem to bother her, except when it does. More than once, he’s awoken to the sensation of her fingertips on his hand, tracing the strange symbols.
It could be me, she says. Look, don’t you think that first one looks like a C? A twisted up C?
And then they both laugh, because it looks nothing like a C.
Carol’s mark has been a secret to the entire world since her infancy. This, Hal understands, is standard practice for children born into wealthy families. Every morning, her father would carefully tie a soft bandage around her finger until she grew old enough to wear a ring reliably. Once, when they were about fourteen, Hal had tried to coax it off her finger, only for Carol to confide it was held in place with eyelash glue.
Even now, so many years later, she does not display her mark, and Hal never brings it up. It’s not that he doesn’t care, but he knows it’s not important. Carol isn’t going to let anything control her life, least of all some letters on her finger.
Hal suspects she wishes she was voidmarked, too, so at least then they would match and they could convince themselves that while they might not be soulmarked, they had the next best thing.
Abin Sur’s arrival changes everything, but so much happens in those first few days that Hal has absolutely no time to think of soulmarks or voidmarks or anything except guilt and grief and survival. It’s not until Tomar-Re escorts him to Oa and he finally has time to catch his breath that he looks down at his hand and sees the power ring he wears is slightly askew, revealing the voidmark beneath…
…except now he can read it.
The ring translates text the same way it translates speech. Hal can still see the glyphs that have baffled him for decades, but their meaning is layered above them like some kind of strange, invisible subtitle.
While Tomar consults with Salakk about Legion, Hal stares down at his hand in open-mouthed astonishment, turning it from side to side like maybe this is just some kind of trick of the light, or a hallucination brought on by stress.
“Lantern Jordan? Are you unwell?” asks Tomar.
“Um. No. I just—” Hal lowers his hand and tries not to look like everything he’s ever assumed about himself has been proven incorrect for the second or third time in only a few short days.
“Good. Follow me.” Salakk takes off at a brisk pace, and Tomar with him, leaving Hal with no choice but to run after them.
The knowledge that he’s not voidmarked after all might have driven him mad if he hadn’t been simultaneously immersed in Kilowog’s relentless training regiment. The endless hours of both physical and mental exercise make it easy to forget everything that isn’t eating or sleeping, including his own crushing guilt.
There are plenty of aliens on Oa—corpsmen come and go at all hours—and many of them have soulmarks, too. Not all species carry their marks on their fingers (not all of them have fingers), but it seems like a lot of them do, particularly the humanoids. The power rings cover most of them, but Hal still catches glimpses of marks in a dizzying array of colors and languages.
He keeps an eye out, but never sees Harold written on anyone’s hand. Or tentacle.
It’s too bad, really, because there’s plenty of girls (and a couple of guys, and one or two aliens that don’t appear to fall into either of those categories) that Hal thinks are pretty easy on the eyes.
He’s aware he should probably just start asking around, or at least lose the gloves that he’s recently added to his costume (he has no excuse; playing around with his look is just fun) and switch his ring to an unmarked finger if he doesn’t have the nerve to do anything proactive, but he never does. It’s funny. Why should the thought of meeting his soulmate—the thing that most people look forward to more than anything—intimidate him so much more than all the stupid, dangerous things he’s risked his life doing?
Because she’s an alien! She might have two heads. Or none. She might have fangs, or claws, or tentacles. She could be the most hideous thing the universe has ever seen. We might not even fit together.
He’s lying to himself. He knows why he’s hesitating, and it has nothing to do with how she looks.
She doesn’t have to know what a mess his life is. She’ll never have to know, unless Hal tells her. And he doesn’t have to tell her! She’ll never know about the disaster that is his career, or his countless failed relationships, or the warrant for his arrest, or...
He closes his eyes and sinks down onto the bed.
It is Tomar-Re he finally confides in, when the alien returns to Oa next. Perhaps this is unprofessional, maybe it’s oversharing, but he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t talk to someone and Tomar has been nothing but kind since their first meeting.
“It’s not uncommon for corpsmen to wear alien soulmarks,” confirms Tomar over a tray of what appears to be raw shrimp. Hal, for his part, has chosen a bowl of something unidentifiable and brown that nevertheless smells good. “Most of us do remain with our own kind, but not all. Have you tried to find them yet?”
“No. Not yet.” Hal glances down at his ring, and the mark it conceals. “You think she might be in the corps?”
“It’s certainly a possibility. If not, you might also search the inhabited planets in your sector. Have you asked your ring to identify the language?”
“No,” says Hal, who hadn’t known that was something he could do. “Not yet.”
“Why do you delay? Are you afraid she will reject you?”
“I mean, maybe?”
“You are too unkind to yourself,” advises Tomar, as though hearing his thoughts. “I’m sure she’s eager to meet you. Perhaps she’s been searching for you, wondering where you are.”
Hal removes his ring, which also serves to dismiss his uniform and reveals the yellow text hidden beneath his glove. He lays his hand down on the table between them. “Any chance you know who she is?”
Tomar stares at the mark, his enormous eyes somehow even larger than usual. His beak slowly falls open.
“You do!” A strange amalgam of horror and relief crests over him. “Is she in the corps?”
“He is,” confirms Tomar. “I know him well.”
“Him?” Okay, slight change in plans, but Hal is pretty sure he can work with that. “Is he on Oa right now?”
“No, he’ll be in his sector.” Tomar goes on staring. “But…”
“What’s the matter?”
“I always believed he was marked with his wife’s name. Perhaps that was only an assumption on my part.”
Hal’s heart sinks. “His wife?” he repeats, crestfallen.
“Thinking back on it… no, I have never seen his mark. I merely assumed.” Finally taking in the expression on Hal’s face, he adds, “She was killed several years ago, along with their child. I understand it was murder.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.” Guilt clenches around his heart like a fist. To think he’d been disappointed to hear of her existence only a moment ago. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was not your doing, Lantern Jordan.”
“Yeah, I know, but…” He gives up on this line of conversation. “Look, do you think you could…?”
“Introduce you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. Or at least point him out?” If he’s some kind of tentacle thing, Hal might rethink revealing his mark. He’s not into that.
Or is he?
“I’m sure he’d come to Oa if I explained the circumstances. Would you like me to send a message?”
“No!” says Hal hastily. “No, I want to tell him myself. In person, when the time is right.”
“Of course. I will leave the matter in your hands. Though… a word of advice. The guardians permit relationships between corpsmen so long as they do not become distractions. If they find out about your mark, they’ll likely make a special effort to monitor you. You may wish to be discreet.”
Hal frowns. “Wait, are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Sounds like the Guardians need to learn to mind their own business.”
Tomar looks astonished. Then, unexpectedly, he begins to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” demands Hal.
“Nothing, my friend.” Tomar wipes at one gigantic eye. “Only… stars above, you have nothing to fear. He’s going to love you.”
The first thing Sinestro ever does is save his life. Hal is too busy staring in slack-jawed horror at the amorphous monster he’s accidentally unleashed upon Oa to pay any mind to his surroundings until a green construct yanks him out of harm’s way. A moment later, it becomes clear they have to retreat, and so Hal forgets about the assist until much, much later.
Despite their losses—seven dead, countless buildings reduced to rubble—the mood that night is jubilant. It’s a welcome change, for Oa has largely been a source of frustration and exhaustion for Hal, despite some wonderful moments. Warmth and joy fill every room, and he’s pulled into several conversations with complete strangers, who greet him like he’s an old friend and ask him what happened when he connected with the central power battery.
Hal has no answers for them, except that he has no recollection of what happened—he doesn’t even remember flying into the battery, even though everyone swears he did. He expects them to be disappointed by this answer, or even angry, but they just laugh about beginner’s luck and clap his shoulders. The camaraderie is sort of intoxicating, particularly when Kilowog calls him over so he can boast about his pupil.
Hal is watching someone tell a story about a different battle, illustrated with full-color constructs, when Tomar approaches him quietly.
“By the doorway, standing beside Salakk,” Tomar murmurs in his ear. “The tall one.”
Hal’s eyes find the magenta alien who saved his life a few hours ago. He’s humanoid, but everything about his body appears somewhat elongated, and there’s something catlike in the way he holds himself.
“That’s him?” Hal mutters back. “That’s—?”
“Thaal Sinestro.”
Thaal, the name on Hal’s hand, the name he hadn’t been able to read until a few weeks ago. There is an indifferent air about him, even as he nods along with whatever Salakk is saying. When the light catches his eyes, they seem to glow from within.
“Do not be intimidated. His manner is often brusque, but he means well.” Tomar squeezes Hal’s shoulder briefly. “Good luck, my friend.”
He’s going to love you.
Hal isn’t so sure about that. He hangs back and continues to watch the alien, being careful to avert his eyes every so often so it’s not obvious what he’s doing.
If Sinestro really does have his mark, it will say Harold. Not Hal. Not Jordan. That means unless Hal introduces himself with his full name, the alien will never realize who he is.
With this realization, Hal quietly withdraws from the gathering and makes his way back to his room. Sinestro has a dead wife and a dead child. The last thing he probably wants right now is for Hal to come stumbling into his life, feeling entitled to his heart.