Chapter 5/8

We're burning out, we're burning down

We're the ashes on the ground

We're burning out, we're burning down

We've fallen underground

The light has fallen from the stars

Now we are sinking through the night

Out of sight we've fallen underground

Pick up the pieces left of us

-Greta Svabo Bech – "Circles"

Mon-El stares at the ceiling while her breathing settles into a steady, hypnotic rhythm. "We damaged the bed," he says, referring the headboard.

"Just the headboard. The frame is pretty sturdy," she hums, without opening her eyes. She listens to his heart beating inside his chest – the heart he vowed to remove if she asked it of him. How serious was he about that? Of course, she knows he was speaking metaphorically but…how serious was he, really? Was he saying what she thinks he was – hopes he was?

Unlike men of Earth, who prefer to fall asleep after sex (or so she's been given to understand), Mon-El gets chatty. She's always suspected it's because he has trouble sleeping, but she's beginning to wonder if that's not just not part of his personality. In many ways, Mon-El's always seemed like a bit of an odd duck when compared to other men of her acquaintance. Kara supposes that may have been part of the attraction.

"I don't like it either," he says, apropos of nothing.

"Don't like what?"

"Pulling out of you," he replies, as though it should have been obvious. "On Daxam we didn't use such crude devices to prevent accidental pregnancies. Both men and women received an injection every few years for such things. Although I suppose an injection wouldn't be an option for…either of us."

"Hmmm," she hums. "There are injections and even implants for human women. Eliza thinks the best option for me would be the birth control pill. A woman takes it every day to regulate her cycle."

"Well, if that's true and you can just take a pill, why aren't you?"

Here lay a subject she's been studiously avoiding since that night in the DEO gym when they had been so caught up in their need for each other that they forgot to use protection. Kara doesn't know if it's the fact that she's tired of carrying this burden alone, or if the post-coital oxytocin still coursing through her brain lowers her defenses enough to cause her to slip. Or maybe it's because a big part of her doesn't see it as a burden anymore. "I can't take the pill right now," she says.

"Why not? I don't understand. If you want this and I want this—"

"Because I might be pregnant," she blurts.

Oh. Oh! Of course this isn't news to him. Thanks to Ral's not so subtle reminder in the form of an unopened box of condoms, it hadn't taken Mon-El long to realize that their encounter in the gym, while incredible and memorable, had not been protected. He had said nothing to Kara, not wishing to cause any distress to their newborn relationship, but instead waited for her to come to him. Instead, he had vowed to make sure she needed no more reason to worry on that front. Mon-El suspects her reasons for not telling him her concerns were similar to his own.

She often has her reasons for doing what she does, and Mon-El made the choice to trust those reasons, even if he couldn't be certain what they were.

Kara cringes a little at his silence, though she can practically hear the cogs cranking in that brain of his. He's probably already formulating a plan of some kind. Whether or not this plan involves leaving her alone to raise a child with undetermined special needs, is a thought that has occurred to her with alarming regularity in the last few days.

"I can't start taking the pill until I know for sure," she explains, to fill the silence more than anything else.

"Until we know for sure," he corrects.

Kara releases a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "We?"

"What's that quaint little phrase? It takes two to Tango? Now, I don't know what this 'Tango' is…but I've gathered that the idiom is meant to acknowledge a situation two people create together. And if my recollection is correct—and I have no memory lapses when it comes to being with you—I was equally responsible for what happened in the gym. So…we," he declares. "And I want to apologize."

"Apologize?" she asks, lifting her head from his chest, the crinkle rising between her eyebrows.

"I should have been more aware," he explains. "I should have been considerate of your long-term needs and not just our mutual desire for orgasm in the moment. I was a lousy caretaker," Mon-El admits, clearly upset with himself. "But I promise to be better in the future."

"You are not lousy," she defends. "Not at any of it! You said so yourself…on Daxam you didn't have condoms. Expecting you to be thinking of protection at the time might have been asking a little too much for someone new to this culture. I should have been the one to keep level head."

"Well, if you'd been able to do that…then I really would have earned the title of lousy caretaker. Every time I touch you my mission is to take that levelness right off your head."

Kara giggles, turning her face into his chest. "You're really good at that."

"You're not so bad yourself," he replies. "Which leads us right back to this situation we find ourselves in. How long…do you think…until we know?" Despite the speed with which their relationship has progressed, he hasn't yet had the time necessary to acclimatize himself to her female cycle. He suspects it may come soon though.

"Five days," she answers, confidently.

"Five days," he echoes. "That's…specific."

"I've always been like clockwork," she explains, a blush rises unbidden to her cheeks, "sometimes down to the time of day."

"Okay. I'm going to make a suggestion, sunshine."

"What's that?"

"Let's spend the next five days not worrying about it. What's done is done," he justifies. "Let's wait until we know for sure before we go crazy. Because I suspect if we find out we are having a child, worry will become a natural state…for the rest of our lives. So let's spend the next five days just being us. Together."

"But isn't that a little bit like not thinking about pink elephants?" she suggests.

Mon-El's forehead crinkles and his eyes narrow. "Lost in translation," he chuckles. "I understand all the words but I can't make sense of them."

Kara laughs. "It's an object lesson about how the mind works," she explains, lifting her head to look him in the eyes. "I tell you, 'No matter what you do…don't think of pink elephants.' So, what's the only thing you can think about?"

"Pink elephants," he surrenders.

"Exactly."

"Hey, are pink elephants a thing? Because I would really like—"

"Nope."

"Damn. That sounded really cool."

"Sorry."

"Well, what if I said, 'Whatever you do, don't think about naked, sweaty sex'? Would that help?"

"Very sneaky," she rolls her eyes, but can't deny the inherent genius he often displays but underutilizes. "And maybe a tad self-serving."

"Self-serving?" he asks, sounding mock-horrified. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Maybe at first," she admits softly.

"Not exactly the kind of guy you'd want to sire your children," he says, a trace of sad realization in his voice.

"I don't think that anymore," she jumps in to reassure him. "Not anymore." She hates it when he speaks that way. It's all rolled in there somehow; this belief that he's not good enough for her, unworthy of her, as if she's perfect. Kara knows she's anything but perfect. Of course there are times when, as Supergirl, she has to convey unwavering confidence, which can come off as its own version of self-importance. But deep down she knows that she—Kara—is just as flawed as anyone else. "I can't imagine anyone better," she says, placing a kiss over his heart. But his entirely too self-deprecating words repeat in her head like an echo bouncing back until she realizes something. "Children?"

"Yeah," he chuckles nervously. "Our little pink elephant is going to need a sibling. At least one," he insists. "Siblings make the tough times easier."

"Yes," she nods, thinking of Alex and the strong leadership she's provided her whenever she needed it most. "Yes, they do. So…at least one then?" A lump rises in Kara's throat and she swallows it down, unable to believe they are actually having this conversation.

"At least," he confirms.

"You're not…scared?" she asks. Kara wonders how this is possible, because she's terrified out of her mind, despite having had the time to accept and even welcome the possibility.

"Oh, don't be fooled, I'm petrified!" he replies. "I mean…the way I understand it is that parenting on Earth is very…hands on. Daxam wasn't exactly an excellent model for this. I would have no idea what I'm doing. Just to prepare you." Mon-El tilts his head to look down at her, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking it just above the rise of her cheekbone. "But I swear that I would never stop trying."

"I know," she whispers, before gracing him with a lingering kiss on his lips. Pulling away, she has a difficult time opening her eyes and keeping them open.

Mon-El chuckles, placing another kiss at her hairline. "Get some sleep, sunshine. We'll talk about this again in five days."

She snuggles back into the warmth of his chest, her ear directly over his beating heart. "And you'll still be here in the morning," she mumbles.

"Where else would I be?" he asks, not expecting an answer as he hears her breath even out. Kara isn't much for tossing and turning, she finds her comfortable spot, closes her eyes and is out like a light.

Had they really just planned a family? He imagines it in his mind's eyes because….how could he not? Imagines himself being the loving father he never had. A father that doesn't look at his child and see only an extension of himself and his own selfish desires. He imagines encouraging his child to follow their heart and find their own path. He imagines all the things his child could do and be, born without unrealistic expectations already hanging over their head.

After a few moments of staring at the ceiling, picturing the four children they would have (it seems a nice round number), listening to the hypnotic rhythm of her breath whistling in and out, Mon-El feels the need for sleep hijack his thoughts. His vision flashes white and gray, blurring from exhaustion. He blinks it away before deciding to give up the fight and just fall asleep.

His body melts in the mattress and darkness closes in all around him.

More shades of violet, plum, and indigo blue fill the garden than he remembers from the last time he was here, and the grass beneath his feet is a rich brown, the color of freshly baked gingerbread. Where once there was overgrown and neglected brambles, the palace gardens now stand lusher than the recollections of his youthful memories. The red sun above his head shines to the full extent of its dim spectrum, darker than the yellow sun to which he's grown accustomed, and there's not a cloud in the sky to warn of impending weather. It's the perfect day on Daxam.

Last night's garden party broke up only hours ago just after the morning meal was served, and palace servants rush about cleaning up the mess and setting things back to rights. A mostly pointless endeavor, since another soiree will begin at sundown. At some point during the night, a stone statue must have been tipped over by the revelers and is now littered with detritus as well as what looks like someone's outer dress. Mon-El wonders if there's a scantily clad woman wandering around the palace somewhere. It wouldn't be the first time.

He hears a laugh he recognizes instantly, his heart racing as he turns to find its source. It's a testament to the heart-stopping artistry of her smile that it's the first thing he sees when he looks at her, instead of the protruding belly heavy with child. A child he knows is his. She wears a flowing gown of mint green that sets off the stunning blue of her eyes; and she leans slightly to one side to offset the weight of the heavy basket she carries. She's so beautiful his heart expands at the sight of her.

"What are you doing?" he rushes forward to relieve her of the burdensome basket she lugs with her.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten, husband," she jibes gently, gladly surrendering her cargo.

Husband? "Forgotten what?" he asks, smiling down at her, hoping she'll call him 'husband' again.

"Our picnic," she replies, her brow crinkling in the way that makes his wish to soothe it. "You promised. In our special place? What did you think the basket was for?" she laughs.

"Of course," he answers, playing along. "Our mid-day meal. In our special place. But you shouldn't be carrying this," he scolds, holding up the basket. "There are plenty of servants to help you with such tasks, Kara. Did you even ask?" He sets the basket down at his feet, as though in protest to her ostensibly reckless actions.

"You know I didn't," she rolls her eyes, quite unlike the princess she is. She places a hand on her belly, caressing the bump lovingly. "Besides, the weight of the basket helps me keep my balance. And I'm not one for idleness."

He knows it very well. She's always been active and athletic. It's one of her personality traits that made him fall more deeply in love with her. But after a year, she struggles still with adjusting to her transplantation to Daxam, and even though her head is here with him, he can't help but feel that her heart longs for Krypton and its more regimented ways. Kara doesn't trust the people around her, the servants assigned to assist in her duties. She's frequently confessed to him in their bedchamber that she suspects the servants gossip about her behind her back.

And why wouldn't they? She is the first woman to undergo a natural pregnancy in more than seven generations, a novelty that captures the attention and imagination of all who look upon her. No one could possibly miss the way her hair shines and her skin glows, even more now than before. She is a vision. But that doesn't answer why so many of her personal items inexplicably go missing.

"Your father's illness keeps you so busy," she interrupts his musings with a little pout. Not enough to be gauche, but just enough to brush up against endearing. "You have to eat, after all," she reminds him, her eyes suggesting more in store for him than a simple meal.

"That I do," he agrees, conspiratorially.

"Oh!" she cries out, dropping his hands to clasp at her belly.

"What is it, Kara?" he asks, the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck rising as alarm races through his veins. "Is something wrong? Is it the baby?" Mon-El's blindsided by the onslaught of fear he experiences at the mere suggestion that harm could come to either her or their child. It's a dark thing, so tangible he can taste it in the back of his throat, his fingers itching to tear its throat out.

She gasps before a wide grin splits her face, which she turns up to him. If there had been clouds in the sky, they would have parted to pay homage to her smile. "Our son is strong, my love, and wants to greet the world." Kara takes his hand in hers and guides it to the top of her budging belly. A tiny foot slides along the underside of her skin, so close to the surface Mon-El can practically count the child's toes. His heart swells with love, as though it triples in size to contain the vastness of emotion he carries for them both – his family. "We may be meeting him sooner than we think," she worries, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of anticipation and terror. "Our little Kryptamite."

"Daxatonian," he counters, as if echoing a good-natured argument of old. The burst of fear he felt a moment before drains away, but the dregs of it still leave him a quivering mess on the inside, barely able to mirror her smile.

"Kryptamite sounds better."

Mon-El can't help but pout a little, because she's right. It does sound better. "Fine," he relents, with a mock-scoff. As if he's ever been capable of denying her anything her heart desires. It's been thus from the moment he laid eyes on her. "Kryptamite."

She rewards him by attempting to lift on her tiptoes to kiss his lips, but she loses her balance in the process, tumbling into his steadying arms instead. She finds his arms a perfectly suitable place and chooses to remain there, her laughter still ringing in the air. "I'm larger than a vexlar beast and can barely walk a straight line these days."

"You could be ten times the size of a vexlar and you would still be the most beautiful woman in the system. The universe, by Rao!" he declares. Too late, he remembers that his recent religious conversion is a closely guarded secret, known only to those in his inner circle. He glances quickly about to see if anyone overheard his profession.

"I'm sure no one heard, husband," she assures him. "But I don't see the need for shame. Your belief in Rao is a blessed thing. When we die we will find eternity together…in Rao's Light."

"Shame and prudence are not the same things, my heart." As he holds her blossomed body to his, lazily stroking her back, he can feel their active child moving beneath their layers of skin and clothing. It's the closest he will come to understanding what it's like for her to carry their child. "The proper time and circumstances are required for my profession of faith. We must be calculated and deliberate about it. We can't risk people finding out accidentally," he explains.

"So we…keep it a secret," she concludes.

"Until our son is safely delivered and the line of succession, through me, is secure. Should something happen, and my brother become king, all hope would be lost. There are those that would see my conversion only as your undue influence, especially with the state of my father's health. It could paint me as weak in their eyes and vulnerable to attack. And no doubt the Trinitarians will have their tantrums."

She tucks her crinkling forehead into the heat of his neck, her favorite place, and snuggles as close to him as her swollen belly will allow. "I don't wish to judge the religious choices of others—people should follow where their heart leads—but the Trinitarians seem…unhinged."

Sensing her apprehension, he takes steps to soothe her. Placing a kiss on her forehead, he tightens his arms around her before drawing her back so that he look into her eyes, his hands caressing her arms. "The Trinitarians are rabble rousers and nothing more. They're harmless, but they can make a lot of noise which gives them power. Please don't worry. The stress isn't good for our little Kryptamite," he gives her a placating smile, and hopes that will put her concerns to rest.

"They're more dangerous than you give them credit for, husband. Their blind devotion gives them permission to take actions they might not otherwise take—despite direct contradiction from religious texts. And the Trinitarians have little enough text as it is! This is what happens when people feel as though they have no say in the making of their own lives—they put their faith in an inappropriate context—expecting it to do for them what their government can't…or won't."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes and heave beleaguered sigh, he says, "We've talked about this, my heart. I understand your concerns and I hear you, but these things don't happen overnight. The wheels of government, and change, move at a slog's pace. We must build support from within, make incremental inroads on behalf of change. Then…perhaps…in the distant future, we will leave this world in our son's hands, knowing that we have laid the groundwork for a better life for all Daxamites."

"I like the idea of our son leading Daxam into a new era of peace and equality."

"Maybe even reunification," he suggests.

"Do you really think so?" she asks, excitedly, her eyes sparkling like gems.

"I have my hopes too," he confesses.

Kara cups her arms around her swollen belly, placing her hands near the bottom of the bulge, where the baby's head is now located. "He has such a glorious life ahead of him. May Rao's Light bless him."

"May Rao's Light bless him," he echoes the expected reply. "Though some might say that he's already blessed, having a mother who loves him so deeply before he even greets the sun."

"And a father," she adds.

"Yes…and a father, as well."

"Liege," a deep voice interrupts, stealing Mon-El's attention from his beautiful wife.

Mon-El turns his head to find Kallas Max, the head of Planetary Security Forces, looming behind him. The man is well over six feet tall with a muscular breadth that makes crossing thresholds a particular challenge, even in the palace, where the doors are generous in width. Like most Daxamites, Max is a product of genetic engineering, though Mon-El thinks him perhaps a bit too engineered on the physical side. His personality though belies his physical presence, as Mon-El has always found the giant to be thoughtful and considerate of others.

Kallas shifts his eyes to Kara as a matter of protocol and nods his head slightly. "Princess," he acknowledges stiffly.

"Good afternoon, Kallas," she returns.

Mon-El shares a pointed glance and nods to Kallas before bending over to retrieve the picnic basket and taking Kara's arm to lead her a few yards away, towards the entrance to the hedge maze cut from plum-hued boscage. Woven throughout the thicket runs a reedy vine bearing clusters of mustard yellow blossoms in full bloom at this time of the season.

"Kallas Max looks serious today," she comments as he leads her away. She's always felt uncomfortable around the man, an instinct she's never quite been able to shake, though her husband would trust him with his life.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he fibs. "I promise I won't be too long. Why don't you go on ahead, and pour me a glass of wine. I'll only be a few moments behind you."

Gripping his jacket with both hands, she tugs him down, capturing his mouth with a kiss. "I'll have more for you than a glass of wine," she promises, the pupils of her shiny blue eyes dilating.

Struck suddenly by all that has blessed him, Mon-El cups her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb, gazing into her eyes. "I love you," he says, his tone bearing no trace of artifice.

"And I love you," he replies, with equal authenticity.

He relinquishes the basket to her, which she takes with one hand, resuming her strange stance of leaning to one side to offset its weight. "Are you going to be okay?" he chuckles.

"I'm stronger than I look," she replies. "Don't be long," she whispers before turning and attempting to saunter away, even though her gait is closer to that of a waddling pegarin. He can't help but smile as she totters down the row, basket in hand, disappearing to the right at the first T-junction.

Turning back to Kallas, Mon-El notices for the first time that Kallas is alone, a rare occurrence, as he's usually shadowed by his loyal lieutenant, the slighter and quieter, Seflan Mos. It is often joked about the palace that Seflan Mos refuses to take a piss without Max's permission. "You must be handicapped without your right arm," Mon-El jokes in greeting.

"Indeed. He is on other business at the moment." Kallas wastes no more time on pleasantries, swiping at his Q-bit, the clear crystal screen that's never far from his reach, and gets down to business. "There's been a skirmish in the Revlan Nebula, Liege."

Mon-El sighs, disheartened. This isn't the kind of news he'd wanted to hear today. His marriage to Kara a year ago helped bring an end to the greater conflict between Krypton and Daxam, but these smaller clashes continue unabated, much to his dismay. "Casualties?"

"Two Daxamite fighters, and…."

"And?"

"A Kryptonian transport. All souls lost."

"That's not a skirmish, Kallus, that's a slaughter." Mon-El's heart sinks into his gut while his blood boils at the same time. "Civilians?" he probes, the muscles ticking violently as his jaw clenches.

"Yes, Liege."

"A transport full of civilians would hardly be looking to start a fight, now would they?"

"That would be a reasonable assumption, Liege."

"Do we know who started it?" he asks.

"General Braal informs me that according to flight recorder data…the Kryptonian transport requested safe passage to beyond the Nebula. According to the captain the transport was headed for the planet Lierra. A Daxam fighter opened fire without responding or providing a warning."

A breach of the rules of engagement during wartime, let alone an armistice.

"And who was the pilot?" Mon-El grills. The giant suddenly views the information scrolling across his Q-bit as a fascinating mystery to unravel. "Kallas…who was the pilot?"

"Commandant Ras Brecka."

"Grife! Brecka? Tell me you jest!" Ras Brecka is a war hero by anyone's measure. Popular among his superiors and revered by those under his command. As a lieutenant, he planned and led a suicide run against a Kryptonian munitions supply line and miraculously managed to return alive, mission accomplished, with all but one of his squad. There stands a statue in his honor right in this very garden!

"I'm sorry to deliver this news to you, Liege. What are your orders?"

Mon-El paces back and forth in front of Kallas, his mind reeling. "He has broken the rules of engagement."

"Undoubtedly, Liege."

"Is he in custody?"

"He's being quartered by Braal. As a courtesy," Kallas replies, indicating that Brecka is not yet being treated as a criminal, but merely a material witness.

"What does he have to say for himself?"

"That he was doing his job."

"Protecting the system from Kryptonian families on a beach vacation?" Mon-El snarls.

"As you say," Kallas diplomatically agrees. "How would you have Braal proceed, Liege?"

Mon-El breathes deeply. This was the part he hates about being the prince—having to make serious decisions when the populace prefers their lives coated with sweet lamec nectar. But though he knows the decision will be unpopular, he makes it anyway. "Make an example of him," Mon-El answers, grimly, the weight of governing sitting heavy upon him. "Show him the same mercy he gave the Kryptonian civilians."

Kallas's jaw ticks but he straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and nods an assent. "As you will, Liege." He makes a few selections on the Q-bit and then bows slightly.

But Mon-El has one last thought to add. "Kallas?"

"Yes, Liege?" Max replies, readying his screen to issue new orders.

"Have his statue destroyed as well."

A moment of silence. "Yes, Liege."

"Publicly. Make a spectacle of it."

"It will be as you say." Kallas taps Mon-El's commands into a flat clear tablet, hardly thicker than a sheet of parchment.

"Keep me informed."

"Of course. Your seal, Liege?" Kallas reminds him, holding out the tablet.

Still new at this, Mon-El starts, his hand reaching to touch his chest. Since his father's health declined he was given the Royal Seal to affirm all decisions made in his capacity as Regent. He still needs reminding from time to time. Reaching under his shirt he tugs free the chain with the flat, blue crystal attached.

Mon-El swipes the crystal over the top right corner of the screen until it beeps, and with that, Kallas nods and stalks away without a backwards glance.

Mon-El slips the chain back around his neck, tucks the delicate crystal back into his shirt, and continues his pacing. He considers the necessity of telling Kara of this latest development, but fears that learning of the skirmish and the pure vitriol behind it could send her into early labor. Her pregnancy is as high risk as any medical condition can be, since no physician alive has ever delivered a child from anything other than a birthing matrix, a process undoubtedly less complicated than delivering from living being. The Physician Eminent has been studying centuries-old data archives, to learn as much as she can before Kara's labor begins. It would be best for all concerned if the Eminent's time were not cut any shorter than absolutely necessary.

But Brecka's punishment will be swift and public and there's no way Mon-El can hide that from her. He has no choice but to confess, but he knows the delivery of the news will require a deft touch. But perhaps it can wait until after their mid-day repast.

Decision made, he enters the maze anticipating a quiet and intimate meal with his wife. They've had so little time together of late, his father's declining health requiring that Mon-El spend more of his time on governing then honeymooning. Every moment alone with his wife is one he cherishes. Two rights and a left through the plum and mustard yellow hedge maze leads him to a clearing that branches off in four different directions, including the one from whence he came. A stone bench stands before three heroic statues, each more arrogant looking than the last, striking poses as though waiting for him to take a seat so as to admire them at leisure. But that's not what captures his attention.

In the center of the clearing lay the overturned picnic basket, fallen to ground, its contents spilled all about. The base of one of the stone statues is drenched in wine, shards of black-bottle glass strewn on the ground beneath the stain. Recognizing instantly the evidence of a dire situation, Mon-El's heart races at the speed of light.

"Kara!" he shouts. His eyes cast about for any clue of the direction she might have gone but finds done. How could this have happened? Did she fall? Did she become disoriented? All he knows, senses, is that she's in danger and he has to find her. Choosing a path, he runs with all due speed, shouting her name and listening for a response. "Kara! Where are you?"

His call is answered with a scream, providing him with direction, but too distant to determine location. "Kara, I'm coming," he shouts, the pitch of his voice sliding into panic mode.

He shouldn't have sent her on ahead, his mind races, faster even than his feet. He should have had her wait for him outside of the hedge maze, where he could see her. "Please…Rao who blesses us, let her be safe," he prays under his breath, even though he already knows, can feel it in his gut that he may already be too late.

Her scream grows closer, until he's able to determine her location as that of another clearing, the one with copper-blossoms and a naked statue of the goddess Lure.

"Please…don't," her voice begs, her own panic only feeding his. Mon-El hears the sound of flesh hitting flesh and recognizes it as the thud of repeated punching. He unsheathes the knife he wears on his belt for ceremony and imagines plunging it into the heart of the man who would harm his wife. He's so close to her but so far, separated by an eight-foot tall hedge row, but with no way through, and the knife in hand is a useless tool in the face of the shrubbery. He must find his way around to the clearing's entrance, using his memory while in a state of increasing panic.

"You poison his mind with your heretical ways." The voice is familiar somehow, though he can't place it. "It has been decided that you must die. You, and that abomination in your belly. It's only fitting that you die in the presence of Lure."

"Please don't hurt my—"

The strangled scream that follows tears at his soul, his whole world shrinking down to a pinpoint, as all sound but her terror and the heaving breath in his lungs become all that his mind can process. Ages later, after detouring three lefts and two right, he barges into the clearing entrance, tackling his wife's assailant before he can make for the exit on the opposite side of the glade.

Mon-El loses the grip on his knife in the confrontation, but it doesn't belay his momentum. Rolling the attacker over, he's horrified by what…or rather whom, he finds. Seflan Mos. A trusted member of his own inner circle. Trusted because he is Kallas Max's right hand man and loyal lieutenant; a man, it was said, who would do nothing without Max's direct order.

Betrayed. By his own man.

Mos looks up at him, horrified, as though he never thought he would have to face the fruits of his own treason. Mon-El can't help but smash his fist right into that face, an act which only sends him into a blood rage. Pulling back, he pummels the man with both fists so hard he shreds his own knuckles in the process. "Why?!"

"I will…tell you…nothing," Mos gurgles, blood rising in his mouth to coat his teeth.

"Did he order this?" Mon-El shouts, placing his hands around the man's throat. "Tell me, Traitor! Did he order you to murder my family?" Frothing at the mouth, Mon-El's spittle sprays the other man's face.

Mos can only gurgle in response.

"Husband," Kara's weakened voice calls, capturing his attention. She lay beneath the statue, her prone form surrounded by copper-blossoms dislodged from their bushes during the fight for her life. Her face is beaten and swelling, her lower lip busted and bleeding, but what truly draws his attention is the quickly spreading stain of blood on the side of her gown.

"Kara!" he screams, his throat closing with his emotion. The insignificant creature beneath him forgotten, Mon-El releases his hold on Seflan Mos and crawls over to her.

"Husband," she gasps, her hand holding the gushing wound over her belly, trying desperately to keep the blood inside of her. "The baby," she weeps. She displays no concern for her own life, only for that of their child.

"Help!" he shouts, praying for someone to come. Anyone. "Please someone, help!" Mon-El drops to his knees by her side and places his hands over her wound. They quickly become covered in her blood.

"It's too late," she tells him, her voice resigned.

"No!" he insists, the bitter taste of panic mixing with the salt of his tears in the back of his throat. "You are going to be fine. You and our son." Keeping her wound covered, he moves one hand to cup her cheek. "Please..." he begs. "Stay with me. My heart."

"Stardust," she breathes, her eyelids drooping lazily. She removes her hand from the wound and places it on his tear-stained cheek. "Bury him in my arms, my love. We will be together in Rao's Light…one day…all of…."

Mon-El watches helplessly as her eyes glaze over and drift shut.

"Kara, NO!" his own strangled shout awakens him, his sweat-slicked body rocketing to a sitting position, as though forcibly propelled from the dream world into the waking one. His ragged breath catches in his lungs, not quite able to flow smoothly around the stone of emotion lodged in his throat.

"Whazzit?" she mumbles beside him.

"Nothing, sunshine," he lies, struggling to bring his breath under control. "Go back to sleep."

"'kay," she answers, compliantly and rolls away from him.

He throws off the comforter and slips from the bed, retreating to the bathroom where he can be assured of privacy. Such a sound sleeper, he's surprised that his outburst got any reaction at all from her, but he doesn't want to risk waking her for real.

He can still feel it—the pain of losing her, and their child—and internally he puts up a valiant fight to keep him from giving into his emotions. A fight he's destined to lose. Sitting on the toilet lid he grabs a hand towel from the counter and covers his mouth, the tears now flowing with abandon.

Rocking back and forth on his perch, he screams into the towel, the sturdy terry cloth muffling the sound of his pain.

TBC