Spoiler warning: The Great and Noble House of Gand contains spoilers for all episodes of Supergirl through 02x17 Distant Sun.

Warnings: The story contains imprisonment, isolation, and desperate heartbreak as well as psychological coercion, mental abuse, and physical abuse, which take place in the past (including childhood) as well as the present.

Canon-divergence: Canon-divergent from 02x17 Distant Sun. Once Mon-El returned to the Daxamite battle cruiser, the DEO possessed no means to rescue or to contact him; thus, the King and Queen leave Earth's galaxy with their Prince locked in a detainment cell.


The Great and Noble House of Gand
Chapter Two: Thorn


Mon-El must've slept at some point, for he dreamed about the first morning he woke up next to Kara. He watched her sleep for a long time, overwhelmed with peace and happiness. He thought he had known what those things were, but he had never felt them, not like this. Her eyes fluttered opened and met his, and this lazy smile lit up her face.

That had been the moment he knew he was completely in love with Kara Zor-El, and dreaming about it was like living that memory again for the first time.

Her beautiful blue comets were the last thing he saw before he woke up, alone in his prison cell.

It was a cruel contrast. Perhaps a better man would've let it steel his resolve, but it inspired a special kind of hopelessness in Mon-El, borne from the bitter realization that he would only ever see her in his dreams. His senses beguiled him, for a trace of her scent lingered on his shirt, making his nighttime imaginings feel twice as real, like she had been there next to him only moments ago, but she hadn't been. She couldn't have been.

He couldn't imagine getting out of bed, let alone standing his ground against his parents. But somehow, he knew that the day had already started, whether he was ready for it or not.

He glanced at the bars of his cell and saw that two guards were by the prison doors; there had only been one guard when he had fitfully fallen asleep. Unsure of what to make of this information (did night or day truly matter any longer?), he turned to his other side and tried to sleep again.

He nearly succeeded, but his body ached fiercely. He couldn't remember waking up sore like this, not since he landed on Earth. Had more important losses not eclipsed his thoughts, he might've realized that his powers wouldn't last long. They had vanished the moment he set foot under the red sun of Maldooria, and apparently, the same held true for space.

The pain pitched so that he couldn't lie still, so he carefully shifted into a sitting position, sliding the blanket off without thinking.

Cold air - the likes of which could only be found in the vacuum of space - clobbered his entire body, and on instinct, he condensed for warmth, his abrupt reaction doubling the sore protest of his muscles.

After the initial shock, however, the cold was soothing.

Though he would never consciously admit to it, he was thankful for the pain and the prison cell. He found the physical discomfort reassuring. Had he woken up in a luxurious bed adorned with sumptuous sleepwear without Kara at his side, the dissonance would have driven him mad. The universe wasn't right anymore, and that should hurt.

"My Prince," a soft voice said. "Their Majesties the King and Queen await Your Highness in the Great Hall."

The speaker was an unmasked male servant - likely a messenger, from the look of his garb - who approached noiselessly with a parcel of clothing. Keeping his head bowed, he gracefully pressed his delivery between the bars to present it properly - or as properly as possible, given the location. The gesture clearly indicated that the invitation was not to be declined.

"What is your name?" Mon-El asked.

"Raphin, your Highness," he replied, his voice shaking.

"Thank you, Raphin," Mon-El said as he took the parcel. "I shall change and call for you when I am ready."

Raphin backed away, still bowed, before be turned for the door.

Apparently, every social convention and restriction survived the destruction of Daxam, and Mon-El couldn't help but resent it. He hadn't been prepared for the fear in the man's voice, though he should've expected it. On Daxam, it was unheard of for a person of station to request or use a servant's name, excepting those of sufficiently high rank and those in more intimate roles - such as a lord's valet or lady's personal maid - and even then only after a lengthy tenure.

He had willfully forgotten the hundred thousand constraints of high society on Daxam. He had despised them long before his time on Earth, though admittedly his distaste had stemmed from shallower motives back then. He had seen it as a way for his parents and tutors to control him, ignorant to how it enabled those in power to treat people like objects and perpetuated injustice at every level in Daxamite society.

On Earth, where rank held little meaning in most social interactions, asking someone's name was just good manners. Here, it was a break with tradition, and it had the opposite effect that he'd hope for, alienating the man rather than making him more comfortable. But, if he wanted things to change, he would have to lead the way.

He turned his attention to the parcel. It contained traditional Daxamite traveling attire of tunic, trousers, and hooded robe, all augmented with a thick lining meant to provide insulation during interplanetary travel.

While he couldn't protest their practicality, he found himself reluctant to put them on. He knew that once he was parted with the last of his Earthly apparel, his mother would order them incinerated, cleansing the last physical evidence of his time on the planet she had grown to hate in just a few short weeks. Perhaps it was silly to cling, but Kara had given him these garments, and he couldn't help feeling like it was one more piece of her that was being stripped away.

That's how he found himself tucking his undershirt and shirt beneath his mattress as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do. He made quick work of redressing, despite every muscle in his torso aching with the smallest movement.

When he was fully dressed, he finally felt how refined and intricate the garments were. Beyond the pure measure of craftsmanship, they also fit him exactly. No doubt some hapless soul toiled through the night making them. For some reason, the thought of it made him feel helpless.

"Raphin," he called. "I'm ready."

He spoke boldly, but he wasn't ready. He had spent months training to face down formidable enemies with his fists, but nothing that he had learned translated to dealing with his parents. Even if he did still have his powers, he couldn't just punch them out and lock them up.

A masked guard unlocked his cell and opened the door so Raphin could escort him out. They walked through a few winding corridors before reaching the lift.

Mon-El tried to think of a plan as they ascended to the mid-deck, but the time crunch made his brain stop working. An odd kind of panic set in as they approached, dovetailing with the dread that set upon him as soon as he stepped out of his cell. At first he thought the dizziness came from his rapidly escalating heart rate, but that was before the pain in his side pitched.

One minute, he was a little sore with a nagging pain running along his torso; the next, it was like lightning struck him. He suppressed a scream as he collapsed to the floor, and the next thing he knew, everything went black.


Author's notes: Sorry for the cliffhanger… it just sort of happened. But the next chapter should be done soon. Hope you've enjoyed the latest installment!