Spoiler warning: All episodes of Supergirl through 02x17 Distant Sun.

Canon-divergent: 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, he is stranded on the ship bound on a four-year journey to his home planet.

The Great and Noble House of Gand
Chapter Five: Monotone

Mon-El raced nimbly down hallway after hallway, randomly turning this way and that, barreling through the off-limits corridors of the central high palace, paying no attention to which direction he took, and relishing his newfound, unfettered freedom.

He turned a corner - one identical to the dozens that came before it - and skidded to a halting crash, landing awkwardly on his side. He cast his eyes warily towards a terrifying maw that spanned the entire width of the ceiling and nearly half its length. For one horrifying moment, Mon-El thought he might be swallowed down the gullet of some monstrous beast, but then he spotted the telltale glint of gold against the cold contrast of wrought steel. He found himself transfixed with the elegant arrangement of parts, each one etched and embossed with fine, intricate patterns. At the center of it was an equally resplendent tongue, though its shape and proportion seemed wrong, even to his untrained eye.

Then it moved, and a deep, dangerous sound erupted as it shifted one way, then the other, then back again.

It took Mon-el three strikes to realize that the fixture above him fashioned as an ominous orifice was a bell. And not just any bell... no, this was one of the great palace bells, signaling the evening.

He had three more strikes of the bell before the sound of his title - Your Highness - jolted him from his reprieve. They'd found him...

Mon-El snapped awake to the sound of metal rattling against metal, the after-image of his dream clinging to his eyes.

No, not a dream. A memory.

At a young age, he'd made a habit of slipping away from his many minders - nurses, tutors, guards, and whoever else his parents had ordered to keep him in line - to explore on his own. Whenever he succeeded, his father stepped in, first to discipline whoever lost track of him, then to scold Mon-El about his behavior. In hindsight, this was probably meant as a deterrent, but it had the exact opposite affect. At the time, those reprimands were the extent of his father's attention outside of royal events, where hardly a word passed between them.

He was five when he first managed not only to slip away but also sneak into an area that was off-limits. He had felt so triumphant, so elated... then disappointed. He'd expected extravagant tapestries, bejeweled vases, or an armory, but the corridors he found were naught but endless small doors, the halls themselves harsh, dark, and sparse, save for the great bell, the one shaped like one of The Watchers, the Daxamite version of grotesque guardians, akin to the gargoyles of earth.

He learned much later that the bells only rang for calls to service: to change shifts, to dress their charges, to serve meals. Once it rang, the servants had precious few minutes to arrive at their assigned posts.

Mon-El also distinctly remembered learning that it was Sal Gand, the third king of the Gand dynasty, who decreed that the great bells only toll for summoning. When he asked why, all of his tutors shared the same look of concern, as if his question indicated a lack of intelligence.

Then, as politely as possible, the head tutor explained, "His Royal Majesty Sal Gand was a wise king who brought peace and abundance in his reign. Yet the people were ungrateful and thoughtless, and with no consideration to how it might affect His Royal Majesty, they rang the bells to wake the servants at times when the High Royal Family was sleeping. They likewise rang the bell at times of preparation, when His Royal Majesty was focused on important matters of state. It was a cacophony every day, and His Royal Majesty Sal Gand refused to abide it. And because of that, their Royal Majesties the Queen and King and Your Highness need never suffer the echoes of bells that the High Royal Family has no wish to hear."

Mon-El had only asked because bell ringing seemed so trivial a thing, too small to be worthy of a king's notice, so he accepted the tutor's answer without much consideration. He didn't think to ask how the servants managed to rise hours before dawn nor how they kept schedule, despite many being too poor to own their own timekeeping devices. It wasn't until many years later that he learned the answer to the questions he'd never asked.

The children of servants collected discarded metals and parts, hoping that, one day, they would have the pieces required to craft a small bell. Any servant without one risked sleeping in, receiving reprimand, and losing both their job and their home. That was why, regardless of its appearance, a working bell was always counted among a servant's most prized and cherished possessions.

Many managed to create their own bell before their call to service. A very lucky few received them as gifts from either someone in their debt or a member of the lower ruling class, who generally knew more about the ways and cares of servants. Some received bells as an inheritance upon a blood relative's death; thus, the Daximite euphemism to leave a sound bell, which indicated a servant passing in honorable standing.

At least, that was what the expression was supposed to mean. In High Daxamite, being called a bell-leaver was a grave (albeit archaic) insult, and members of the elite would threatened each other with sayings like, "By the time I'm finished with you, you'll leave nothing but a bell!"

As a child, all he knew was the awe he felt at the sight of the great bell, and he wondered after the sentiment that led such a thing to be added to a corridor for servant quarters. He had assumed that those who ran the palace must've cared deeply for those who served, not only providing a bell for their benefit, but also one so intricately made. Why else would they put such a fearsome and wonderful thing where only servants could see and admire it?

He had believed that the ruling elite gave to the lowest of the low: food, housing, work, ornate bells, and all the rest of it. Those around him built up this belief with nearly every word from their mouths, and as a child with limited contact outside the royal court, he had no reason to question it. That had served as the foundation of his understanding of everything, tainting his perception to the point that whenever a servant erred, his immediate reaction was bitter resentment.

After all, what right did a servant have to be short with him, the Prince of Daxam, after his family had so graciously appointed that same servant to a coveted position in their palace? His family had sheltered, fed, and protected these lowly beings and demanded nothing but the pittance that comprised a servant's duties. How difficult could that possibly be? The obligations in question were hardly difficult; otherwise, such tasks would never have been trusted to the lowest denominator.

Shame swept over him as he realized he had maintained that perception - or some form of it - until his time on Earth. He hadn't even questioned it.

The metal-against-metal sounded again, dragging him away from his musings.

He opened his eyes. He had a lot to make up for. He'd better start now.

"The gods raise the day as the sun, Your Highness," Raphin said gently.

Perhaps he was still sleepy, but he struggled to recognize the traditional Daxamite greeting, the lexical equivalent to "good morning."

Raphin continued, "I am to escort Your Highness to the medical ward."

"What time is it, Raphin?" he asked.

"Dawn, Your Highness."

Mon-El wanted to point out that they were in space where dawn didn't exist, but he bit his tongue. Daxamites preferred to score time as dawn, morning, midday, afternoon, dusk, evening, midnight, and aftereve, more so than counting the hours and minutes. Apparently, that tradition persisted despite spending the last few decades with neither planet nor sun to mark the distinction.

"You were ordered to take me to the medical ward at dawn?" he asked.

"Her Royal Majesty insisted upon the time, Your Highness."

"Of course she did," Mon-El grumbled as he reluctantly left the warmth of his bed.

One of the guards unlocked the door as he donned yesterday's robes over the clothing he had slept in to avoid the frigid air. Before he could step out of the cell, however, Raphin presented a new parcel of clothing.

Mon-El took it and tucked it under his arm.

"Thank you, Raphin," he said."I'll change in the medical wing."

"Yes, Your Highness," Raphin replied, bowing.

Then he turned on his heel toward the lift.

The medical ward was quiet, for the entire staff stood at attention, waiting to receive him. As soon as he crossed the threshold, they all bowed low.

Mon-El's breath caught in the back of his throat. Such deference was reserved for the Queen and King, and while a sign of fealty to the Prince was no act of treason, it could easily be interpreted as an act of defiance.

And Mon-El didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve their loyalty or fidelity. He didn't deserve any of it.

It took him a moment to realize that they were waiting on him.

"Rise," he ordered in High Daxamite, a knee-jerk reaction from his years of training as Prince. So he said, "Please, rise."

The language felt strange on his tongue and sounded stranger to his ear, but neither was as bizarre as watching his command followed as if he possessed true authority.

Almost as one, the entire room shifted from a low bow to standing at attention. Mon-El had hoped they would return to their previous tasks, but patients and doctors alike kept their heads lowered and their eyes downcast, their faces fixed with expressions of reverence. A sense of discomfort - nigh embarrassment - snuck up on him, inspiring an overwhelming urge to escape.

Before he could process the situation, however, the Doctor in Chief took the smallest of steps forward.

"We are pleased to see Your Highness in such good health," the Doctor in Chief spoke, her voice unnaturally quiet. "We have prepared the primary examination room."

She extended her arm and indicated the room he had spent weeks recovering in, though without a permanent occupant, it appeared much like all the others.

"Very well," he said before he stepped inside, doggedly following the Daxamite custom of royalty leading the way even when it wasn't their place to do so, as if it was some kind of answer to the interest and respect they'd shown him.

Three doctors followed him in and attended him, running scans with various tools he couldn't identify, as if trying to convince him that three medical doctors were needed for one person's exam. Of course, his parent's wouldn't care about something as trivial as wasting a doctor's time.

After about ten minutes, the Doctor in Chief bowed low and excused herself, undoubtedly to report on his health to his parents.

"Your Highness, we have concluded the examination," the first doctor said in High Daxamite. "And the results are within the projections for Your Highness's recovery and health."

"Please, can we drop the formalities?" he asked.

It was too early in the morning for parsing the eight layers of unwarranted respect applied to the Royal Family in every day conversations.

"Forgive us, Your Highness," the other doctor said. "But their Royal Majesties the King and Queen would not be... accepting of such a scenario."

"Well, then, it's a good thing neither are here to protest," he replied.

It was another thoughtless response, the kind of flippant remark he would've said before the destruction of his planet. It had been easy enough for him to say, of course; the Prince never risked losing his tongue for speaking out of turn. He had once made a habit of saying it to speed along tedious conversations. Like everything he did back then, it was to benefit himself.

But he wasn't that person anymore. He wouldn't be that person anymore.

He continued, "What I mean is... I would prefer that I speak to you as any other patient, and for you to speak to me as my doctors, not my subjects. And my parents need never hear of it. Please."

"Very well, my Prince," the first doctor agreed.

"Yes, my Prince," chimed the second.

Mon-El sighed. It was too much to hope that anyone but his own parents would call him by his name, but 'my Prince' was certainly an improvement on 'Your Highness.'

The remainder of the appointment went by quickly. The doctors explained to him that his lungs were still inflamed and healing, which could cause difficulty breathing, so he needed to carry a portable inhaler. They also warned him to avoid strenuous physical activity.

He thanked them before they left the room, changed into the new outfit from Raphin, and folded his used clothing into a decently tidy pile so he could tuck it under his arm.

When Raphin came to escort him, he looked confused, then horrified.

"Your Highness, we servants will happily attend to those," he said, indicating the pile of dirty laundry.

It felt dangerously awkward, so Mon-El replied, "Ah, of course. I'll just leave them here, then."

"Very good, Your Highness."

As they left the medical bay, everyone stopped what they were doing to watch him go, bowing at his departure.

Which was also quite odd. Daxamites only showed such deference to a prince or princess at their funerals, and only if said prince or princess died before taking the throne, rather than those who lived and died with the title because the line of succession passed them by.

It occurred to him that their devotion could be from curiosity more than honor. After all, he wasn't just their prince; no, he was the Lost Prince, miraculously recovered from a planet galaxies away, somehow alive and well despite the decades he spent apart from his people. The fact that he nearly died mere days after his parents so-called "rescue" would only serve to make him seem even more extraordinary.

How much did they know? Given his parents' involvement, the better question was, what did they know? Even before Daxam's destruction, the Queen and King would've provided an account of pure invention for such a scenario, and he doubted that had changed.

Mon-El was left pondering Daxamite tradition and history lying across the bed in his cell. Raphin brought him breakfast and lunch, which solely marked the passage of time.

His meals were all rehydrated, but they weren't terrible. He found himself more bored than anything else. Perhaps his parents thought that the tedium would get to him better than direct punishment.

Raphin approached again and said, "The gods bless the twilight eve and eventide, Your Highness."

"Good evening, Raphin," he replied.

"Their Royal Majesties the Queen and King bid Your Highness to dinner," he said.

Did his mother think he'd break after one day in a cell? How weak did she think he was?

Fury build in him as he followed Raphin up the lift to the Great Hall, where a lavish meal was set and his parents awaited him.

They gave him no greeting, and he likewise said nothing to them as he took his place at the table. For the first four courses, the only words spoken were those required for serving, and Mon-El derived a strange satisfaction out of the dreary silence.

"Has your time in the cell enlightened you?" his mother asked.

"I've been thinking about what you've told everyone," he said. "About you finding me."

"You mean, how we rescued you," his father corrected.

"And what you've been telling them while searching for me," he said.

"Perhaps, in time," his father said. "But your mother and I are concerned about your current... arrangements."

"Then perhaps mother should have considered her words more carefully before insisting I belonged there."

"Don't be stubborn," his mother snapped.

"Now, Rhea, if he wants to stay in some prison cell for the sake of his pride, there's no reason to stop him," his father added. "But perhaps he would be amenable to spending his time in a more productive manner."

"Such as?" Rhea asked.

"Reading the historical archive," his father suggested. "Let him see what our people have lived through since the fall of Daxam... since we lost him."

"Very well," his mother replied, disapproval dripping from every syllable. "But this conversation isn't over. We expect you at breakfast tomorrow, Mon-El."

It was a very clear dismissal, so he left the table and returned to his cell, wondering after his father's suggestion.

It wasn't a bad idea to read up on recent history, though he doubted the archive would provide a true accounting of events. His best bet for the truth would be the ship's logs and records, but he'd had to be careful about how he got his hands on those, lest his parents intercept them or redact whatever truths they didn't want him to have.

Yes, obtaining such sensitive information would take time and patience, so, for now, he needed to play their game, no matter how much he hated it.

That's what Kara would've done.

For the next four weeks, he lived the routine of rising at dawn for his medical exam, eating breakfast with his parents in a stony silence, and then returning to his cells to read from the historical archive until diner, when he would wrap up his day with another awkward meal with his parents, which usually consisted of him listening to them insist upon the voracity of the material he was reading.

Days and doctors and lies blurred into each other, giving Mon-El with this distinct feeling that his life had lost all its color, leaving him with nothing but grey and black.

At on point, he realized he'd gone an entire day without thinking about Kara, and it made his heartache. Was he forgetting her already? How could he?

He undulated between grief and guilt, floundering in his inexperience. Was this normal? Was this right? How could leaving Kara behind ever be the right thing?

Back on Earth, when he was mourning the loss of his planet, he experienced something like this. There would be days when the dread and fear and guilt weren't so bad, and somehow he'd make it through the day without thinking about it. When he confided in Kara, she told him that it was a good thing, that it was a sign he was healing.

Is that what was happening now? Was he 'healing'? If so, he hated it, and he never wanted to heal.

Whatever his parents were doing, it was definitely starting to get to him.

Author's Notes: I'm currently dealing with ulnar tunnel syndrome and cubital tunnel syndrome, which limits how much time I have to type. Please bare with me...

Chapter Notes: The time words mentioned in this chapter (morning, midday, afternoon, etc.), will appear throughout the chapters to come.