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 Four: Drive
Mon-El opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness with the faintest blurs of gray. It occurred to him that such a development should concern him, but he couldn't hold on to a thought for more than a few moments because his breathing was so erratic. It would be clear and even for a spell, then all of a sudden, he'd start wheezing, and not long after he'd be gasping for air.
Again, that should've concerned him, but it didn't.
Those rare moments when he was lucid and not struggling to breath, he felt stiff, feverish, nauseated, and achy, but none of it was enough to distract him from the abiding loneliness. With wit enough for self-awareness, he became acutely aware of Kara's absence, and he drifted between the hope of her future arrival and the crushing reality of their separation.
Mon-El wasn't sure how long he lingered in this state, but it felt endless, like he was forever stranded alone in the blackness. And an old part of him bubbled up, fraught with anxiety and paranoia. He sensed another presence, not friendly and certainly not Kara. No, this was someone (or something) malevolent and dangerous, and it was watching him.
He felt himself tremble. That old part of him was one he'd meticulously buried deep. He'd hoped he'd never have to remember it, let alone face it again. But it was drummed up, screaming into life by the sensation of predatory eyes upon him.
Fear gave way to panic, and his heart rate escalated to match. In a desperate attempt to escape whatever was stalking him from the shadows, Mon-El forced himself to move. His entire body was like lead and did little more than feebly shake at his command, but his eyes opened wide at his behest, providing his first view of the world outside his head in what felt like forever.
Then suddenly everything hit him at once: blaring machines, a cacophony of voices, an ache that went down to the bone. Hands were at his shoulders, and hope seized him, drawing his eyes up to the face of the person comforting, certain he would see Kara's impossibly blue comets shining back at him.
Instead, he saw the dull brown eyes of the nurse or orderly or whoever had been assigned to watch over him. His surprise was foolish. This was how things had always been on Daxam: his parents ordered people to keep an eye on him, to guard him, to ply him with company. He hadn't known real companionship or true friendship until his time on Earth.
The realization knocked the fight out of him, and he crumpled back into the bed, defeated and spent. He would've shut his eyes, but the haunting fear had yet to abate, leaving him unwillingly vigilant.
"You're awake," someone said.
His mother's voice was startlingly quiet, and he wondered how long he had been struggling to recover. If her tone was any indication, it must've been weeks.
Everyone hastily exited as she approached his bedside. She stood above him, undoubtedly trying to catch his eye, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. He had fought so hard to tell his father about the healing power of the yellow sun, and there was no doubt in his mind that his mother hadn't allowed it. That was why he was still in this bed and had been for... well, however long he'd been here. However long she had pretended to worry for his well being.
"Can you hear me?" she asked.
Mon-El's gut clenched horribly, a visceral reaction to match his emotional turmoil. It almost sounded like she cared.
Almost.
"Mon-El?"
He turned to her, wishing he had the strength to convey his anger to her, but he didn't even have enough energy to keep her in focus.
She started speaking, but he couldn't hear her properly, only catching phrases here and there. She said something about him scaring them badly, then insisted he would be all right, that he was getting better. She went on to promise him that once he was well again, he would take his proper place, and everything would be well and right in the universe.
Or something to that effect.
He wasn't sure when the thought solidified in his mind, but he found himself agreeing with her. He would take his proper place. Somehow, swimming in the darkness with a nebulous, unknowable threat looming over him, he discovered the resolve he could only pretend to possess before.
Mon-El drifted into a dreamless sleep, his mind finally at peace with who he would have to become.
He woke in the early hours of the morning, his newfound resolution clear in his mind. Without considering the situation, he got to his feet to stretch his legs, slowed only by the IV lines pulling at his flesh. It took a few minutes before anyone noticed that he was up and walking, but then orderlies rushed in, insisting he conserve his strength and return to bed.
He ignored them until his lungs protested. It felt like congestion, then like his chest wasn't big enough, like it couldn't expand for air. By the time the wheezing started, the covers had been pulled back over him, and a nurse was handing him a portable inhaler.
"Please, Your Highness," the nurse said. "This will treat the inflammation and help Your Highness breathe."
She walked him through using the device. It did make his breathing easier but left him feeling jumpy and shaky and simultaneously too weak to do anything about it. Still, he felt alert and aware - no, alive - for the first time he could remember since collapsing in the lift. But then the wheezing returned around mid-morning. The doctors assured him that it was nothing more than inflammation recurring as his lungs healed. They asked him to rest and avoid speaking as much as possible, which Mon-El decided justified him not engaging his parents when they came to visit in the afternoon. He fell asleep not long after and didn't wake until the early morning.
Thus went the next ten days. He'd feel better in the wee hours when he woke, only to crash not long after. He got better by inches, up on and his feet for a few minutes more each day. On the ninth day, one doctor told him that he'd soon be well enough to be discharged, though he'd require a portable inhaler for some time as well as frequent checkups to monitor his progress.
On the tenth day, his parents had formal Daxamite attire brought to him and ordered him dressed and prepared for an incredibly early dinner. It was plain he had no choice in the matter, and he went without a fuss, conserving his strength, doctor's orders. He relayed that to his parents after they spent several awkward minutes overpolitely inquiring after his health before an abiding silence fell over them.
"We've passed the Andromeda Galaxy," Rhea announced. "Now that we've left these... primitive solar systems, we can look forward to being received formally by our allies and ambassadors. The Planets of the Runestone are nearby. You always liked them, and they've hardly changed. I have no doubt they will invite us to attend one festival or another, they always seem to have one."
"Emissaries from the Willow Empire have already extended invitations," Lar added.
"Soon, they'll all be clamoring for you," she said proudly. "The miraculously returned Prince of Daxam."
Mon-El's appetite fouled him, unable to stomach their words. He didn't have it in him to maintain appearances or to save face, so he abruptly and gracelessly stood up from the table.
"I'm going to bed," he said, the wheeze evident in his voice.
"Of course," his father agreed. He snapped his fingers at Raphin and said, "You! Take my son to his chambers and see to his needs for the night."
Raphin bowed low in acceptance of the command before leading Mon-El out of the Great Hall to the lift. As he stepped inside, he sneaked his arm between Raphin and the control panel, activating transport to the prison level.
"My prince," Raphin said. "The King ordered chambers be prepared for you on the third level."
"I command you to take me to my cell," Mon-El said. Then he added, "I won't have my father claim that you disobeyed an order."
The man was flabbergasted, but he held his peace and nodded his head, yes. That was his sole regret in this choice: the ramifications were not his alone.
There was something immensely satisfying about foregoing the warm, sumptuous bedroom his parents had in store for him for a cold, spare prison cell. The same cell his mother had threatened to lock him in for the next four years. It seemed untouched since he was last there, but he was loathed to find that his shirt and undershirt were no longer where he'd hidden them.
Raphin entreated him to go to his chambers once more, though it was clear it was little more than lip service to fulfill the King's orders. Mon-El stepped inside and ordered the guard to lock him in.
It didn't take long for the Queen to race in, ready to reprimand him.
"What is the meaning of this?" Rhea demanded. "We agreed. Once you were well, you'd take your proper place. As things should be."
"I did," he said. "And I am where I'm am suppose to be. My proper place is in this cell."
"There is no reason for this," she said, wavering between anger and sympathy. "You will be more comfortable in your chambers. Everything that has happened... it's all in the past."
"Not for me," he replied.
"Stop being foolish," she sneered. "Your anger is childish. You belong with your people. There is no other place for you - "
Mon-El interrupted, "I am with my people. I'm their Prince, but I have dangerous ideas, like equality and freedom and change. And those aren't going away. So I'm going to stay in here, Mother, where you said I belonged."
"Do not test me," Rhea said through gritted teeth. The proud feature of her face alight with barely-contained rage.
"Why not?" he quipped. "Are you planning to drag me out so you can throw me back in?"
"Fine," she said, no longer holding back her venom. "We'll see how long this will last."
He watched her storm off, and the sight gave him the faintest hint of triumph. He hoped Kara would've been proud of him, anyway.
Author's notes: I hope you've enjoyed the latest installment!
Apologies, I accidentally posted an earlier draft yesterday. I've updated this to the latest installment.
