Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The transport pod descends through the stratosphere. Inside, Kal sits still, looking out the window and watching the city draw closer to his line of sight. The traditional robes of the House of El weigh heavily on his shoulders, their cobalt blue fabric woven with filaments of sunstone glimmering with a radiance that erases the cabin of darkness, from which emerges the form of General Dru Zod, the leading commander under Krypton’s ruling council.

"Keep your eyes forward, Kal," General Zod chides.

Kal acquiesces, eyes following the sealed door, fingers intertwining loosely in front of him. The sigil of his house, a stylized S within the golden diamond, rests just below his throat, growing tighter around his neck by the second.

When they breach the troposphere, Kal feels the shudder through the soles of his crimson boots. The world outside the port becomes a blur of speed, then refines into defined shapes: curving of tall bridges, the sprawl of a megalopolis, the spear of a central palace piercing the sky. The pod slows, banks, and begins a smooth, quiet approach towards a vast landing platform that juts from the palace like a crystalline shelf. Kal takes a breath, the first he feels he has taken in an hour. The air recyclers cycle into the local atmosphere. The scent is nothing yet strange all the same, and beneath it, something organic and wet, similar to how the grass smells after the rain. It is the smell of Earth, nothing like Krypton.

The pod settles. For a moment, there is perfect stillness. Then the door opens with a hiss. A ramp extends, meeting the polished steel of the platform. General Zod steps out first, and Kal follows. Earth is louder than he expected, wafting steady, unfamiliar noises, the distant whine of engines.

They arrive at Metropolis in the afternoon, when the light lies flat against the skyscrapers, stretching long shadows across the streets, in a way that makes the city, seeming endlessly vast from this angle, appear even larger than it truly is. Kal notices this first from the shuttle window: the way the buildings are arranged like flower petals facing inward, and the palace sits at the center, shielded by the surrounding towers. He has seen cities before, like Kandor and Argo, but this place seems less lived-in, more announced. It looks more like a maze than a city.

General Zod walks beside him, half a step ahead, his posture so straight it looks like he has a ruler behind his back. In contrast to Kal's blue robes, Zod’s uniform is darker, edged in metal, meant to signal authority without ornament. Kal has known him since childhood; he is an acquaintance, belonging to a higher social class than his family. A soldier with a silver tongue, his father has once called him.

The Grand Hall of the Terran Imperial Palace is a berth of gold and marble. The ceiling is lost in luminous mist hundreds of feet above. Pillars of marble, veined with gold, march into the distance. Banners hang between them, featuring lush green fields adorned with a stylized L in purple. The floor is a mirror of obsidian, reflecting the cavernous space and the figures that populate it, doubling them, making the crowd seem infinite. Terran nobility and officials stand in groups, their outfits a riot of expensive fabrics and customized tailoring. Every face turns toward the ramp, and all conversation dies in stages, like a wave ebbing, until the only sound is the solemn, echoing tap of General Zod’s boots on the marble floor.

Kal slows his step behind Zod, keeping his gaze fixed on his broad back. The weight of a thousand eyes level upon him, and the general appearance of his blue Kryptonian robes and red cape only sets him further apart. A sudden longing for the sunlit quietude of his family’s rooms in Argo City hits him; home, where the world feels simple, warm, and whole.

'I need to focus,' thinks Kal. 'Krypton needs me to do this right. Everyone back home depends on it.'

On a raised platform of reddish purple porphyry sits the throne. Upon it rests Emperor Lionel Luthor. He is an old Caucasian man, but his age seems like a weapon. A crown of interconnected golden rings rests upon thinning gray hair, resembling more a cage than a diadem. His face is long, the skin drawn tight over prominent cheekbones, his mouth a thin, colorless line. He wears robes of imperial purple, but they don't soften him. They accentuate the stark, predatory angles of his frame. From a distance, his sharp eyes watch their approach with interest that is neither hidden nor explained.

General stops at a respectful distance from the dais. Kal stops when he does. He brings his fist to his chest in a Kryptonian salute, then bows from the waist. He stands tall afterward and inclines his head.

"Greetings, Supreme Leader of Earth, Emperor Lionel. I am General Dru Zod, emissary of the Kryptonian High Council. We arrive as per the terms of Kandor Accord, a testament to the mutual understanding and benefit between the Terran Empire and Krypton."

The emperor nods, not yet dismissive, not yet welcoming.

"With me is a potential consort, in accordance with the agreement, for the next heir to the Empire."

The silence that follows suffocates the hall. Emperor Lionel doesn't smile. He studies General for a moment, then lets his gaze slide past him to settle on Kal. It is a physical sensation, like a cold finger draws down Kal’s spine.

Kal lowers his eyes. He has practiced this. He is vaguely aware of his breathing and adjusts it so it doesn't show fear.

The emperor waves a hand languidly. "The Accord benefits us both, General," he says. His voice is dry, rasping, yet it carries effortlessly. "The Council’s wisdom in seeing its value is appreciated. We are pleased to welcome its offering."

He says offering the way one might say specimen. Zod gives a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment. Although he doesn't turn his head, his voice drops, shifting to the flowing, vowel-rich Kryptonese. "Make sure you greet the emperor and his son, Kal."

Kal’s heart flutters like butterflies trap in a jar. He steps forward from behind Zod’s shadow. The marble floor reflects his own face at him: dark curly-haired, big round eyes. He stops at the base of the dais. The floor feels colder here. The protocol has been drilled into him for months, a Terran custom for a betrothed of inferior status entering the sovereign’s presence. He sweeps away his red cape and lowers himself completely, prostrating in the traditional manner, with his forehead nearly touching the floor. The position exposes the back of his neck. He tells himself this is symbolic and therefore bearable.

"Your Majesty," he says in English, his voice manages to be even, thank Rao.

A beat. A second later he hears the rustle of heavy fabric, the soft thud of brogue on stone. The emperor walks down the dais. Kal keeps his forehead pressed on the floor. The brogue stops directly before him. He can see the ornate tips of them, tooled leather and polished platinum.

A finger, cold and dry, slides beneath his chin. The touch lands firm and exploratory. It applies upward pressure. Kal has no choice but to rise from his prostration, guided by that insistent finger. He is kneeling now, looking up.

The emperor’s face moves closer. The lines on his face are canyons, etched by power and spite. His eyes are a pale, ice blue, devoid of warmth. The gold crown casts a slight shadow across his forehead. A faint, sour smell of aged wine clings to him. An involuntary shiver rises deep within Kal, starting at the point of contact and traveling down his spine. He locks the muscles of his back, his neck. He will not let the shiver reach the surface. He meets the emperor’s gaze. His own pride, the pride of the House of El, is a torch in his chest. He will not look away.

"What is your name?" the emperor asks. His thumb moves slightly, stroking the line of Kal’s jaw.

Kal suppresses the shudder igniting from the touch and responds, "Kal of the House of El."

The emperor’s fingers hold him in a cold, possessive grip. Disgust rises in Kal, followed by gnawing trepidation, not just for himself, but for Krypton, his family, and the council that has pushed him into this role. He forces it down and schools his face into neutrality. The emperor turns Kal’s head slightly, first one way, then the other, as if judging live cattle. Then he angles Kal’s face to the right.

"He is quite handsome, don’t you think?" His voice is addressed to someone else. 

Kal wrenches his gaze from the emperor’s and directs across the dais. His new field of vision includes a man standing at the right hand of the throne.

The Caucasian heir of the Terran Empire is not what Kal expected. He has inherited none of his father’s severe traits. His features are fine, almost delicate: a strong nose, a well-defined mouth, high cheekbones, a jawline sharp enough to look intentional. His hair is pale blond, swept back from a broad forehead. His eyes are startling, clear blue. He is lean and tall, a bit shorter than Kal, his posture relaxed but not careless, his green uniform edged with silver. He is, subjectively, beautiful. 

The prince looks at Kal without hurry. Curiosity manifests, and beneath it the slow working of recognition. One eyebrow arches coolly, almost imperceptibly, on his countenance. Kal senses the pressure of that gaze and, against his will, feels heat rising to his face. He bows his head quickly, aware that he has been staring for too long.

The prince's eyes drift from Kal’s bowed head to his father’s hand that is still holding the Kryptonian’s face. Not a flick of emotion changes his visage. He looks back at his father. "He’s handsome," he answers, "and pleasing to the eyes."

Emperor Lionel releases Kal’s chin as abruptly as he took it. The absence of the touch is a relief, but the ghost of it lingers on his skin. Kal slumps slightly, catching himself.

"Well," the emperor says, turning on his heels and climbing the dais steps back to his throne, "there you have it. Let the engagement festivities ensue." He makes another vague gesture, this time toward a band of servants in grey livery who stand rigidly by a side arch. "Take him to his room. Get him prepare."

The servants move as one. Two of them step toward Kal, who is still kneeling on the floor. He rises without their help and goes with them. As he passes, he allows himself one brief, almost accidental glance in the direction of the heir.

However, the heir no longer looks at him. He keeps his gaze forward. Standing slightly behind him, a step out of the primary light, is a young Caucasian woman. She has dark red hair and bright green eyes.

'She must be the younger sister, Lena,' thinks Kal.

She doesn't look at Kal. Her gaze fixes intently on her brother's profile, her head tilting just so as she studies him.

"Eyes to the floor," hisses General Zod from behind.

The riposte comes to him at once, but Kal knows better than to argue, so he presses it down, feels it fade, and lets his eyes settle on the ground. He is led through corridors that are long and echoing, the walls polished to a sheen that makes footsteps sound almost flat. Servants position on either side of him, their faces impassive, their hands folded in ways that seem designed to make them camouflaged with the wall.

They stop at the door of the guest suite. The servants bow once in unison, a brief dip at the waist, and turn away. The pale composite door closes behind them with a soft click. Kal stands there, listening to the silence that is different here than in the hall; it is smaller, warmer, and hums with the latent energy of concealed systems. The room is spacious, extravagant in a stark, Terran way. A window, a single sheet of aluminum, offers a panoramic view of the metropolis, a jungle of soaring towers and aerial transit lanes glowing with streams of vehicle light. 

General Zod moves past him. His eyes, sharp and cautious, scan the contours of the room. He runs a finger along the seam where wall meets ceiling, examines the light fixtures, the vents, the seemingly artless placement of furniture. He stands for a long moment before the window, assessing for any type of surveillance. Finally, he turns, lowers his voice to Kryptonese.

"The room is clear." He steps closer, and his demeanor, which in the great hall has been all about control, now shifts to something more tense and personal. "It is absolutely vital for the survival of Krypton, for every citizen that this arrangement proceeds. You must do whatever it takes to see it through. There is no margin for error, and no room for personal feeling."

Kal, who has been standing frigidly, lifts his head. The anger that comes is clean and sharp, and it feels better than the fear or disgust. "I know," he says, and the Kryptonese words are furious, clipped. "You do not need to tell me repeatedly, General. I stood on the platform. I saw my mother and father’s faces, and I gave my answer. I gave up what I had for the people of Krypton. I made that decision willingly." He locks eyes with Zod and glares back, his usually gentle expression hardened. "You need not admonish me any further. I am not a child you are overseeing."

A muscle in Zod's jaw contracts, then relaxes. The relentless pressure in his posture eases by a degree, a minute so it would be invisible to anyone but another Kryptonian raised under the yellow sun. He gives a single, slow nod. "Yes," he concedes, "quite. You have carried the weight of your house and our world. You deserve the respect that is due from all of us."

Kal turns to the far wall, where the window looks out over Metropolis, and says quietly, "I would like to be alone now."

For a moment, there is no sound but the faint, almost imaginary hum of the metropolis beyond the glass. Then, the crisp sound of boots on the floor, the whisper of the door opening, and the same soft, sighing click as it seals shut once more.

Kal exhales slowly. The tension in his shoulders loosens, though only slightly. He moves to the bed and lets himself collapse onto it. One arm swings over his eyes, shielding him from the room’s harsh light. His other hand rises, his fingers finding, beneath his robe, the familiar shape on its chain. He pulls the necklace out, the sunstone warm from his skin. His thumb traces the raised edges, the elegant, sweeping lines of the glyph, the symbol of the House of El. On Krypton, it means hope.

He holds it tight, the edges pressing into his palm, a tiny, specific pain. The image of the Emperor’s cold finger on his chin invades through the darkness behind his eyelids, and then is replaced by a pair of curious blue eyes. He pushes both away. He seeks, instead, the memory of the yellow sun, Rao, warming the crystal spires of home; the sound of his father’s voice in the library; the weight of his mother’s hand on his shoulder; the eager, warm breath of his dog, Krypto, nuzzling his palm. The thoughts are vivid, and they ache.

"I miss you," he whispers into the empty air of the Terran palace, his voice barely a breath. "Father. Mother. Krypto."

The engagement party unfolds in the left wing, and it's rife with raucous noise and lights, which feels almost separate from Kal. The chandelier throws pinpricks of light across the polished floor. People prattle, laugh, and eat slow-roasted meats from a dozen colony planets. A band plays a slow Terran music in a corner, the notes swallowed by the low, incessant murmur of chatter. Kal stands near a towering arrangement of crystal and flame, holding a small plate of unfamiliar food in his hand. He has taken a single bite of something that tasted of salt and pepper, and now the food sits heavily in his stomach. He feels the eyes upon him, discreet and assessing, glancing from his face to his traditional attire and back again. He is an exhibit. A newly acquired, exotic artifact on display before its formal installation.

General Zod stands several feet away, a glass of water in his hand, speaking in a low voice with a Terran admiral whose uniform is a constellation of service medals. His instruction has been final, back in the room: Do whatever it takes to see it through. The order feels like a sentence. Kal swallows another bite and feels a kind of nausea rise, not from hunger, but from the thought that he is marrying into an empire that may, if he fails, reduce his home planet to dust. Not marrying for love. Only for the safety of Krypton. For every single person who still draws breath there. The nobility of the sacrifice has acerbated into a sickening practicality. His hands tighten around the fork.

"Hello," a feminine voice interrupts his thoughts. He looks up. The princess, Lena, is standing next to him. Her green eyes survey him with the faintest glimmer of polite, distant fascination.

Kal sets his plate down on a passing waiter's tray and bows his head. "Your Royal Highness."

"Relax, Kal of the House of El," she says. Her voice is cold, precise, and devoid of any sort of warmth. "I'm here to offer my well-wishes to the future consort of the Empire."

Kal doesn't lift his head. He keeps his eyes on the polished toes of her pumps. "I thank you for your well-wishes, Your Royal Highness. The honor is mine."

She leans in, and the scent of her perfume smells sweet and deadly like a belladonna. Her whisper delivers to him alone. "The Terran Empire operates on a rather different principle than Krypton. I'll be interested to see how you fare in the palace." She pulls back, her sneer unchanged, then gives a slight nod and glides away into the crowd, leaving a chill in the space she once occupied.

The murmur of voices in the left wing amplifies, transforming into a thunder in his ears. Light falls on him in a spectrum of every color, each one roaming and sliding across his shoulders. He focuses on his breathing, the feel of the sunstone beneath his clothes, but the air is too thick, too cramped. He is drowning on dry land.

The veiled anxiety that underlays Kal's countenance doesn't escape the canny gaze of the crown prince. 

"The air in here is recycled through about six hundred filters," the prince says as he walks over, his tone surprisingly casual amid the ceremony. "It can start to smell stale after a while. Kal, would you allow me to show you the gardens? The palace gardens are a source of pride for us; we have every plant from each terraformed zone."

Kal’s head lifts. "Yes."

The prince holds out his hand. It is warm, steady, real. Kal takes it in alacrity. He allows himself to be pulled away, leaving the crowd behind, the smiles, the courteous little nods, and suddenly the world beyond the palace opens up, quiet and comforting.

The humidity reaches Kal before anything else. Then comes the smell of trees and earth. A narrow path of white stone curves ahead, edged by ferns and flowering branches. Light from the tall lamps falls evenly through the foliage, softened to something like moonlight.

Kal lets the sounds of the party fade behind him, increasingly aware of the prince beside him. The blond bangs part at the side, his lean frame, the long fingers lightly brushing his hand as they walk, the way he moves as if every bit of the palace belongs to him. Kal steals glances often, despite the repose and proprieties. The prince is astute and handsome in a way that seems effortless, the kind of beauty that does not ask for admiration; it receives it.

"Is there something on my face?"

Kal blushes and looks away, settling his eyes on a cluster of colorful, trumpet-shaped flowers. "I apologize, Your Royal Highness. I didn't mean to stare."

"You don't need to apologize for that." The prince stops before a bed of roses. Their blossoms are huge, unnervingly perfect, their color a deep, velvet crimson that seems to absorb the light. "I don't see your curiosity as an offense. I welcome it."

Kal doesn't know what to say, so he changes the subject. "What are these plants?"

"These, for instance, are classic flowers. Rosa gallica varietas imperialis. Genetically stabilized for zero mutation, perpetual bloom." He reaches out but doesn't touch a petal. "I know the genus, the species, the modification index, but I don't know much about the title of the plants. I never bothered. Not from lack of effort, just not my interest."

Kal bends to smell the roses, leaning so close that ends in an awkward bumble, and his boots slip on the wet, mossy edge of the path’s border, causing his balance to falter. He flails for a moment, a graceless shift between his feet, and then topples sideways into the shallow, rock-lined fountain that gurgles quietly beside the rose bed.

The water is cool, not cold. It soaks through the robe instantly. He sits up, sputtering, water streaming from his hair. His robes, designed for Krypton’s drier climate, become translucent. It hugs every curve of his body like a second skin, outlining the broad frame of his shoulders, the contours of his chest, the thick muscles of his thighs and arms, the callipygian of his buttocks where he sits half-submerged. The thin cloth offers no modesty, only a detailed map of his brawny form.

Kal freezes, looking mortified. His eyes dart to Lex.

The prince stops and stares at Kal with a pure, ravenous hunger that is almost polite in its patience, and Kal, not quite surprised but conscious all the same, feels it occur to him, almost idly, that Lex is staring at his nudity.

Kal scrambles to his feet in the knee-deep water, crossing his arms over his chest, which only serves to tighten the fabric and accentuate the swelling of his breasts. He bows his head, the water dripping from his chin, and stammers, fumbling for words. "I-I have made myself tremendously improper in front of Your Royal Highness. For that, I must apologize."

The prince lets out a low chuckle. "Call me Lex," he says. "There's no need for the formalities. It's only you and me here. I’ve never had much patience for those antiquated rules. Not in private, and certainly not in front of my fiancée."

My fiancée. It's the first time either of them has spoken it aloud since the grand hall. It's a fact, but on Lex's lips, here in this verdant privacy, it feels like a possession, and a promise. Kal’s heart gives a hard, erratic thump against his ribs, a sudden thrill and fear mixed. He almost trips on himself, but Lex extends a hand and lifts Kal from the fountain.

"You’re wet," Lex says. "I don't want you to get cold." He is already shrugging off his jacket and moves behind Kal, draping it over his shoulders. His hands briefly settle on the wet fabric underneath. The jacket is heavy, lined with a subtle, insulating material, and carries the scent of Lex, composed entirely of linen and amber cologne.

Kal feels the heat of his body meet the warmth of the jacket, and he mumbles, barely above the sound of his own thoughts, "Thank you."

Lex studies him for another second, water pooling at Kal’s feet on the ground. Then he holds out his hand again, palm up. "Come," he says. "Let’s get you dry up. You can go to my room and change your clothes there."

Kal stares at the offered hand. Zod’s warnings, Lena’s whisper, bring to mind the political game he is stepping into. He then turns his gaze to Lex’s face, which now shows only a look of anticipation; the intensity of his earlier stare softens into a semblance of patience. 'He's nothing like what Kara says,' thinks Kal. 'He's kind and considerate. Completely different than the rumors.'

"Okay," he says, lifting his own hand, still damp and cool, and placing it in Lex’s.

The door to Lex’s private quarters seals behind them with a sound softer than a breath. Kal steps inside, Lex's jacket still draping over his shoulders, and looks around. The bedroom is larger than Kal expects, though that seems beside the point once he is inside it. The ceiling is tall, and the walls are paneled in dark wood that absorbs rather than reflects light. There are no portraits, no banners, and no souvenirs of the empire's conquests. At the back of the room, near the closet, is a large shelf holding not just books, but also rows of identical, gray archival cases. The furniture is minimal and organized: a wide, low platform bed sheathed in black linen, a low table, a reading chair angled toward the window.

Kal, standing in a puddle of his making, looks like a wet bear in the pristine room. He clutches the edges of the jacket tighter. "Am I supposed to be here, Lex?" 

Lex has already moved to a seamless panel in the wall, at which he touches to reveal a closet. Inside, shirts and pants hang in chromatic order. "Don’t worry about it," he says, his back facing Kal as he shuffles through the selections. "No one here minds." He selects a pair of black pants and a simple, long-sleeved shirt of charcoal grey. He turns and holds them out. "These should fit your size."

Kal reaches for them, his fingers, still cool from the water, brushing against Lex’s. The contact is brief and accidental, but it sends a sharp, unwarranted jolt of fire through Kal’s arm. He grabs the clothes swiftly, his eyes rounding slightly before he looks down, a fresh blush rising on his neck. "Thank you," he mutters.

Lex watches him a beat longer than he needs to, his hand still hanging there; at first, his eyes set on Kal’s face, as if that's the proper place to look, but a second later, they stray, unavoidably, almost, to where their fingers have met, the small accidental contact that stays with him longer than it should. His eyes move back up again, drinking in the sight of Kal’s dark hair slicked down with droplets of water, the exposed skin of his neck when he dips his head, open and briefly unguarded, and the jacket that is still a size too small, tugging across a frame it can’t quite manage. Lex feels the moment when the urge, the want, resides in his body before he looks away.

"You should get changed in the closet," Lex says, and his voice becomes quieter, losing its previous edge of flippant disinterest. "If you don’t mind." He pauses and adds, with a thought that seems newly considered, "I won’t violate your privacy."

"I don’t mind. I'll be quick. Thank you."

Lex smiles, almost privately to himself. "You’ve said thank you three times in under two minutes. I’d prefer to hear less of that," he says. "I want to hear more about yourself. Tell me about you."

Kal nods and steps into the closet, where, after shutting the door and then leaving it open a crack, he begins to peel off the robe, and once the wet fabric drags over his head, he calls out, his voice slightly muffled, that he doesn't really have much to say, that he isn't a very exciting person.

From the other side of the door, Lex’s voice comes: "Then how about I start first? As crown prince, I have duties to fulfill. There are expectations and requirements for me. The garden is one of the few places where I can take a break from the world."

Kal stops, one sleeve half on. Sympathy gathers uncomfortably in his throat. He finishes getting changed, opens the closet door, and steps out while running a self-conscious hand through his damp hair. "I know how that feels. We don't have a garden, but I go to a place in the backyard of our house. No one knows about it. It’s where my mind calms."

"What’s it like?" Lex asks, turning toward him. "Your home." He hesitates, then adds, "I know Krypton is under a yellow star. If you're feeling sick under our red sun, let me know."

Kal brightens at the question, the topic of Krypton easing his apprehension. "It’s not a big deal," he replies quickly. "The red sun only makes me feel a little bit tired, and the symptoms are more like jetlagged, but I feel okay so far." He takes a breath, then rambles on, "Krypton is very pretty. A lot different than here. My planet has stronger gravity than Earth's, and the atmospheric pressure is so high that it can crush anyone in a second, but we manage to survive using crystal. We have rivers too. The water is so clear and blue. It's the prettiest sight you'll ever see."

"Yes, I’ve read the briefings relating to the crystals used for energy transduction and architectural form. I would like to see it someday."

"I'll take you there."

"Perhaps after our ceremony."

"It can be our honeymoon destination." As soon as the word leaves his lips, the reality of it, the intimate implication in the midst of this political arrangement, crashes over Kal. His eyes go wide. "I-I mean, we can decide the trip later. We don’t have to do that right now."

Lex closes the short distance between them and takes Kal’s hand, not in a guiding grip as before, but steadfast, his fingers wrapping around Kal’s, his thumb caressing his knuckles. "You’re right," he replies. "It can be our place for the honeymoon."

Kal lifts his eyes from where their hands are linked and looks at Lex. The nameless embarrassment and dread, which only a moment ago seemed perpetual, abates, pushed back by a weaker yet more persistent, bewildered hope. He releases a smile, not the perfected smile he often wears in front of audience, but a real one, and it softens his handsome features in a way that surprises Lex, for it reaches his eyes, drawing faint lines at their corners, and possesses a glow so plain and unambiguous that it seems to give off its own light, quietly changing the room, as if nothing else matters anymore.

Lex’s gaze catches on it and doesn't let go. The hand holding Kal’s squeezes, just slightly, a reflexive, possessive grip, as if to control this brilliant moment before it can escape the bars of his calculated world.

Three raps knock on the door. Kal looks in the direction, though he stays there. Lex slowly releases Kal’s hand and composes his posture.

"Come in," Lex says.

The door opens, and a male servant in a black shirt stands at attention. He bows low, holding the posture a moment longer than necessary. "Your Royal Highness," he says, "His Majesty requests your presence in his private study at your earliest convenience."

Lex acknowledges with a slight nod of his head. "Inform my father I am on my way." He then turns to Kal, and his demeanor softens. "I’ll be back. Make yourself at home."

"Sure," Kal beams.

The male servant bows again and begins a backward retreat. Behind him, an older Caucasian male servant, lean and dour, his face etched with permanent lines of disapproval, darts his eyes past the prince’s shoulder and falls on Kal. The eyes travel with a slow, insolent drag from Kal’s damp hair, down the length of the borrowed shirt, to his bare feet upon the prince’s private floor. A visible sneer of contempt distorts the older man’s mouth. When Lex steps past him, the older servant mutters under his breath: "Filthy Kryptonian whore."

The insult paralyzes Kal at first. Then, rising through the shock, a hot wave of fury emerges, a pure Kryptonian rage, with the thought of 'how dare he' surging above all else. He marches half an angry step, then halts, recalling General Zod’s warning. Zod has made it clear: there is no margin for error, and no room for personal feeling. Kal tucks his bottom lip between his teeth.

'I'm just a foreigner. If I do anything outrageous, it will only embarrass my family and Krypton,' thinks Kal. 'I have to let it go.'

Lex, who has taken a full step into the corridor, stops there. He turns slowly, and in that moment, Kal thinks, absurdly, that perhaps Lex will say something, correct the servant, dismissing him. Instead, Lex looks at the servant with an expression that is both calm and oddly detached. His right hand moves to his hip, reaching for his gun.

BANG!

The man’s head snaps backward. The sneer is now a death mask below the round bloody puncture that appears between his brows. His body folds, collapsing at Lex’s feet with a dense thud. A slow, dark rivulet of blood begins to seep from the wound, tracing a path through his blond hair and pooling on the smooth surface.

Kal lets out a small, stifled gasp and stares at the blood, which, under the light, becomes an impossibly vivid stain. Fright shivers deep inside him, spreading through his bones so that he feels it in his hands, in his feet, in the hollow of his chest.

Lex lowers the gun. A droplet of blood has speckled the back of his hand. Another spatters on his cheekbone. He looks at it, then wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, examining the smear for a second before shrugging it off.

Turning to the remaining blanched servants, Lex says coldly, "Any word of offense to my consort will suffer the consequences." He hesitates for a moment, as if allowing the instruction to sink into their minds. "The next time this happens, it won't be a quick death." He gestures toward the corpse. "Now go and clean it up. The floor is dirty."

The servants bow quickly and get to work. They tiptoe around the blood as if it were an inconvenience rather than evidence. No one looks at Kal. The dead man's body is moved down the corridor, and the servants scrub the floor after it. The copper scent of blood still lingers, though the hallway appears unchanged.

Lex turns to Kal. The change in Lex is immediate, almost like a switch is turned off. He crosses the room and gathers Kal into his arms, pulling him close. One hand comes up to cradle the back of Kal’s head, guiding it gently to rest against his shoulder. The other hand rubs slow circles on Kal’s back through the soft fabric.

Kal flinches, involuntarily recoiling from the man who has just cold-bloodedly taken a life.

"Shhh," Lex murmurs, his voice now a warm, low vibration against Kal’s temple. "I've got you."

Kal stays rigid in Lex's embrace. The acrid tang of gunpowder clings to Lex’s clothes like a stigma.

"I will protect you. No one will insult you like this again."

The warmth of Lex holding him comes as a sharp contrast to the cold horror in the corridor. Kal grips Lex’s jacket, fingers curling into the fabric. He inhales and exhales in shallow breaths, teetering on the edge of panic. 

The question arrives as a simple, silent scream in his mind: What am I going to do now?

Chapter Text

Morning wears thin and pale by the time Kal slips away from the palace. The gates open onto a broad esplanade of smooth stones, swept clean of dust by quiet androids that usually patrol the grounds in repetitive motions. Beyond the esplanade, a public park spreads toward the outer perimeter, its manicured lawns and ornamental trees parting way to the steel fence that separates the imperial palace from the industrialization of Metropolis. The park is empty at this early hour, the red sun rising low enough to cast long, distorted shadows across the grass. A few benches sit scattered along the pathways, their surfaces still warm from the early morning's muted light.

There, where a low rise of earth meets a row of tall trees, and the path narrows into gravel, he finds General Zod awaiting him. The general stands with his hands behind his back, his expression composed in that strict way which makes it difficult to tell whether he is angry, impatient, or merely thinking. Kal, meanwhile, has spent the entire walk trying to contain himself and failing. The memory of the night before keeps replaying in his mind: the servant’s insult, the gunshot, the blood on Lex’s face. Every time he tames his fear, the image returns etched deeper into his mind.

Neither of them speaks immediately.

"The grounds are clear," Zod says finally, in Kryptonese. The mother tongue feels like a secret whispered in a crowded room. "No listening devices within range. The magnetic fence generates enough interference to mask our words, so long as we do not raise our voices."

Kal nods. The words are hidden underneath his tongue, tangled with the fear and the fury and the cold, creeping dread that has taken up residence in his bones.

"You have five minutes. Maybe ten, if the guards are slow to change their shift. So, talk."

"I cannot go through with this engagement," Kal says at once, panic pouring out of him in Kryptonese with a force he scarcely cares to moderate. "I can't marry the prince! He murdered a person, a servant, in front of me just because the servant insulted me." He stops abruptly. His hands are trembling. He presses them flat against his thighs to still them. "I can’t imagine what he will do to me if I make him angry."

Zod listens. His face barely changes, though Kal notices the slight tightening around his eyes, the way he shifts his weight once, subtly, as if preparing himself for an argument he already expects.

"You’re overreacting," Zod says at last.

Kal looks at him in disbelief.

"He won't hurt you," Zod goes on once the disbelief leaves Kal’s visage. "You are his fiancée. That status confers protection, not danger. The man he killed was a servant, a nobody. The Terran prince demonstrated his commitment to you. He showed the household that you are not to be trifled with. Unpleasant? Yes. But not aimed at you, he aimed at them. He was acting in defense of you, in his Terran way."

Kal recoils. 'Of course,' he thinks hotly, 'a war general doesn't care about a person's life. The collective whole above all else. My life doesn't even matter.'

"This isn’t a game you can exit whenever you become uncomfortable," Zod retorts, perhaps, against Kal's thoughts. "You cannot afford to think only about yourself."

The frustration that had been simmering in Kal suddenly flares. "Only about myself?" he echoes incredulously. "You're justifying a murder."

"I'm explaining reality. You wanted to save Krypton. This is what saving Krypton looks like. It is not clean. It is not comfortable. It involves difficult choices. You are not on Krypton anymore, Kal El. The rules and morals are different here."

Kal turns from him quickly. He looks toward the trees, but he sees nothing there other than their sinuous branches against the morning. There are moments when a person discovers that a burden he imagined to be personal is, in truth, shared by many others; but there are also moments when one is to bear the burden of others’ survival as though it were one’s own spine, one’s own breath, one’s own moral center. Kal feels himself in that latter case now. He feels no grandeur in it. There is only pressure.

"Think about Krypton, your family. Think about what will happen if this agreement collapses."

Kal closes his eyes.

"Do you want to see your family dead?" Zod asks, and his voice is quiet now, almost gentle, which makes it worse. "Because that is exactly what will happen. The Terran Empire has been expanding for years. They have conquered a dozen solar systems. Krypton is next on the list. The Council bought us time with this arrangement. Your marriage buys us years, even decades. But only if you go through with it. Only if you make him want to keep you."

Kal opens his eyes slowly. Affliction settles at the bottom of his stomach. 

The wind blows through the trees around them, cold against the back of his neck. Somewhere, traffic hums through the city steadily. The ordinary sound of life continuing.

"I have heard rumors about your fiancé. He isn't the type to stay interested in one person for long. He has affinities. A multitude of them. His attention wanders. He may even find other lovers."

"You're telling me to hope for separation."

"I'm telling you to survive." Zod's hand squeezes his shoulder once, then releases. "You marry him and you keep Krypton safe. And then in a year or two, he grows bored with you. He finds someone else and sends you away, or back to Krypton as a ceremonial consort. You would be free. Not in the way you wanted. But you'll be free."

Kal turns this over in his mind. What Zod has said feels ugly somehow. Cold and practical in a way that strips all dignity from the situation. Yet part of Kal hates himself because the idea works on him anyway. The possibility of separation. Being eventually forgotten, surviving this arrangement quietly while Lex’s attention drifts elsewhere.

And Krypton will be safe.

A dozen images have already risen in his mind, one after another, like faces in a crowd. His mother floats first: her hands, her voice, her intelligence in navigating the spaceships with adept skills. Then his father, whose grief has a dignity in it that seems almost cruel, because it makes sorrow look like a noble inheritance. Then his uncle, who laughs too loudly when he is trying to be brave; his aunt, who always notices when no one else has done so; his cousin, whose confidence is too bright and too strong to follow the rules.

If this engagement fails, they all suffer for it.

And Kal knows, with a certainty that doesn't bring him confidence at all, that he loves his family more than he loves his own will. More than he loves freedom as a word. More than he loves the right to refuse.

Zod watches him carefully now, and Kal knows he can see the resistance weakening. The panic is still there. The fear is still there. But fear for himself is beginning to lose ground to fear for everyone else.

"Seek freedom later if you must," Zod says, adopting a tone of leisure. "For now, seek security. This alliance buys peace."

Kal exhales a quiet breath.

"I leave for Krypton this afternoon." A quiet beat, then, "Learn the rules of the court. Understand how these people think. Observe more than you speak. Do not make yourself a target. Do not draw unnecessary attention."

Kal lets out a sardonic chuckle. "A little difficult now, isn’t it?"

For the first time, something almost resembling sympathy flits across Zod’s features. "Then survive using your wits."

Kal watches as Zod turns and walks away down the stone path, his silhouette growing smaller against the brightening sky. The red sun lifts above the horizon, a swollen disc the color of old blood, pitching long fingers of light across the park's dew covered grass.

He returns to the palace afterward, right before the palace begins to sound itself awake. His shoes make no sound on the turf as he strides across the park, avoiding the open sweep of the esplanade. The guards will be drowsy at this hour, their night shift ending, their attention fixed on the outer perimeter rather than the palace grounds. He goes through a narrow breach beside the service entrance, hidden from the gaze of the main gates, and enters an empty garage where dust settles upon machines and abandoned crates.

No one sees him. The servants are occupied in the lower kitchens, preparing the morning meal. The guards face outward toward the city, their backs to the palace. He climbs the service stairs to the third floor, then takes the corridor to the fourth floor. His footsteps are light, barely a whisper on the marble floor. He passes no one.

His room stands at the end of a long hallway, its door seamless and bleached white, indistinguishable from the walls that flank it. He presses his palm to the sensor, and the door irises open with a soft click.

When he enters, he doesn't understand what he sees, or at least not at first, because Lex is already in the room.

The prince sits near the window with a dark leather-bound book resting easily in his hand, almost like he has occupied that chair long enough for the morning light to drift from one page to the next. His posture carries no effort: one leg crossed over the other, the book tilted at a familiar angle, his attention straying only by habit, never from impatience. 

The room bathes in muted rose and amber beneath the hazy morning light. Lex wears a simple buttoned up blue shirt; his pale blond hair lies slightly disarrayed, and his bare feet rest against the cold floorboards. In this early hour he appears younger, stripped of the august that usually surrounds him, less the heir to an empire than a man who has forgotten to be anyone other than himself.

"Morning, Kal," he says, closing the book with a thump. His voice sounds casual, easy. "Did you sleep well?"

Kal, who hasn't anticipated any company, feels the small shock travel through him before he can disguise it. He gathers himself quickly, as one does when caught off guard, and bows with more formality than he intends.

"Good morning," answers Kal, then hesitates, stammering across the title he has been told to discard. "Y-your, I mean, Lex."

Lex sets the book on the small table beside the chair. He rises slowly, unfolding himself from the seat with a languid grace that seems unconscious, effortless. "Didn't I say," he says, crossing the room toward Kal, "that you and I have no need for formalities?"

Kal remains still, uncertain whether to step back or stay where he is, and the prince halts barely a hair's breadth away, close enough that Kal can smell the familiar scent. Lex reaches out and takes Kal's hand, lifting it gently, pressing the palm flat against his own chest. Beneath the soft cotton, Kal hears the steady, unhurried rhythm of Lex's heart. It beats without anxiety or remorse. It beats as if the world exists solely to serve its owner's convenience.

"You are my consort," Lex says, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of Kal's hand. "My fiancé." His other hand rises, fingers brushing against Kal's cheek with a featherlight touch, a whisper of contact that sends an involuntary shiver down Kal's spine. The touch is not demanding; it is exploratory, almost tender, as if Lex is learning the geography of his face.

"Yes."

Lex tips his chin upward. "Look at me, Kal."

Kal obeys. He lifts his gaze, meeting Lex's blue eyes, those clear, penetrating eyes that seem to see everything and reveal nothing. The prince stands so close that Kal can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the strong, angular line of his jaw. He forces himself not to flinch.

"Yes, Lex."

Lex smiles; it is but a slight, guarded curve of the mouth, so restrained it seems almost private. Yet this time it reaches his eyes, softening their habitual calculation into something quieter. Satisfaction settles upon his countenance, not in response to Kal’s acquiescence, but to something Kal cannot name, which lingers just beyond understanding.

"You need not fear me. I know what happened yesterday night may seem"—he raises his hand dismissively—"violent. But that's because I want to protect you, Kal. If you do not make an example, these servants will continue their behavior. They will act as if it's normal to speak to you like that. What that servant said to you was disrespectful to you, to Krypton, and most of all, to me. I will not tolerate disrespect. You understand that, don't you?"

Kal nods slowly. "I do," he answers, and the words are not entirely a lie. He knows, though hardly, the logic behind the violence, even if he cannot accept it. Knowing and acceptance are two different things; he has learned that lesson well in the past.

Lex watches him, and he seems to recognize the hesitation yet declines to name it, letting his hand fall from Kal’s chin without stepping back, while still holding Kal’s other hand against his chest, a tether more than touch.

"It is just that I am still new here. It may be cultural differences. But on Krypton, we value every living being. Every servant, every citizen. We do not solve problems with death."

Lex cocks his head, pondering. He looks thoughtful, almost curious. "I get it," says he with a nod. "I won't do it in front of you again."

Kal's eyes narrow before he can stop them. Suspicion in the shape of a crow presses against the dark of his chest. "Really?"

"Really."

Like a key turning in a rusted lock within him, the apprehension that has possessed his mind since the servant’s body struck the floor is tentatively mitigated. It's not yet a trust, but more like a relief. A small crack in the wall of dread. Lex's voice is calm, his touch gentle, his promise plausible. 'Maybe Zod is right,' thinks Kal. 'Maybe he deserves a chance, just to know him a little better, and just maybe, Lex is not as bad as he seems to be.'

Still, his rationality, that stubborn Kryptonian acumen that his father has taught him, warns him differently. It cautions him not to trust Lex at all, reminding him that the prince's hands are clean now, but they were not clean yesterday, and that a promise made in private can be broken in public, as power protects itself. The two emotions are warring within him: a warm, fragile assuage of his fear, and a cold, hardened scrutiny. He holds both like ropes in either hand, and he doesn't let them go.

Lex steps back at last, releasing Kal's hand. The absence of his touch leaves a strange emptiness, a cool patch on Kal's skin where the warmth was. The prince gestures toward the closet.

"Now come. We have to prepare for tonight's event. Our first public outing as an engaged couple."

"What event?"

"The Imperial Conference," Lex says it as if they explain everything. "My father insists on a public appearance with the media. You will need formal attire. I have taken the liberty of having several options set up for you." He pauses, his eyes skimming over Kal's clothes, the white tunic and blue pants. "You cannot wear that, obviously."

Kal looks down at himself. He feels a strange reluctance to remove it, for his home planet's attire is a shield, a small protection against the vast, unknown world he is being asked to enter. He nods anyway because there is no alternative he can see, and because refusal would require more courage than he currently possesses.

"I'll get dressed."

Lex shuffles toward the door, then stops. He turns back, one hand upon the frame; his gaze clings to Kal’s visage a moment longer than courtesy permits, held there by some reluctant thought. With a small smile that is contained yet not unkind, he retreats into the hallway and is gone with the door closed shut, leaving Kal alone with a stack of wardrobes.

Kal looks at the mirror before him and submits to the fate that has been laid upon him. 'Survive with wits,' he thinks, 'for Krypton.'

"Would you like to have a quiche?"

Kal shakes his head with a quiet smile, and the waiter walks away. He stands half-concealed beside a column near the eastern wall, watching the tableau playing out before him. The hall swarms with bodies draped in velvet worth more than a Kryptonian earns in ten years; silks and jewelries imported from planets beyond the Milky Ways. Faces turn beneath the chandeliers; smiles appear too blithe, rendering too perfectly. Even the press section gleams with calculated significance, its insignia bright beneath the lights, its recording devices blinking and flashing.

Most of the guests are not royalty. They belong instead to that rank just beneath it: media barons, oligarchs, and socialites. They are here to witness power, to applaud it, and, above all, to be seen near it.

Kal notices this immediately upon entering, even though he says nothing of it. The towering ceilings, the wash of lights across polished stone, the unnerving precision with which every guest appears placed rather than gathered: it all betrays the true purpose of the occasion. This is no private celebration like the evenings before. It is theatre: a pageant where the wealthy perform their worthiness for the powerful.

Kal feels their glances slide across him like cool fingers. They do not approach; the palace protocol forbids it. He is an unknown quantity, a foreign element inserted into their calibrated world. They do not know how to address him, what tone to take, whether to bow or nod, or pretend he doesn't exist. Most choose the latter. He might as well be a piece of furniture, a decorative vase standing empty of flowers, placed here for visual rather than purpose.

Emperor Lionel ascends the podium slowly, his old age so plain in the careful drag of his steps, his silver hair catching the light beneath the narrow gleam of his golden circlet. Upon the dais, Princess Lena collects herself, her hair arranged in an intricate knot, her green gown falling about her with elegance. She doesn't turn her attention to the crowd. It rests upon Kal.

Not openly, never so apparent as that, yet he feels it with the same surety as the pulse beating against his ribs. She appraises him coolly, as though he were an exotic specimen newly delivered into her keeping. Her watchful eyes fasten upon the smallest particulars: the set of his shoulders, the movement of his hands, the brief sparkles of emotions within his eyes.

Three times since the conference began, he catches her watching him, and not once does she look away. 'Just ignore her,' Kal thinks, 'it's not the time to worry about that.'

The emperor raises a hand, and the orchestra falls silent. The guests turn toward him, their faces set in rapt attention.

"Citizens of the Empire," the emperor begins, his dry rustle of voice amplified by the hall's acoustics, "we gather tonight to celebrate not merely an engagement, but a future. The union of the Terran Empire and Krypton marks an era of cooperation and mutual prosperity."

He pauses, a polite ripple of applause spreading among the guests. Kal watches the Emperor's face, seeking out any sign of sincerity, but finding none. The old man's eyes scan the crowd, assessing and never resting.

"In the coming days, I will be traveling to Lexor1 . Negotiations will continue regarding resource allocation, security arrangements, and trade deals. Lexor is critical to the Terran Empire's development, and where partnership exists, there must also be clarity of expectation."

More applause, this time stronger. Kal catches a twitch of Lex's jaw. The prince’s expression schools itself into neutrality, yet something glints in his eyes: annoyance, that or the irritation born of hearing his father’s plan announced to him, rather than sought from him.

"We do not enter such agreements lightly. Lexor offers strategic value; we offer armament. In exchange, we expect compliance with shared frameworks that ensure prosperity does not become disorder."

A small pause follows, during which cameras adjust, and a few attendees shift their weight.

"Let it be understood," Emperor Lionel adds, "that the strength of this Empire is measured not only in force, but in the discipline of its alliances. Lexor will understand this, as others have understood it before them..."

The emperor continues for another five minutes, selling the promises of cultural exchange initiatives, infrastructure investments, and the prosperous future awaiting Lexor once the treaties are signed. Behind him, Princess Lena returns her green gaze to Kal with a regularity that unsettles more than it flatters. He wonders what she sees.

'Why is she looking at me?' Kal thinks. 'Is there something else I don't know between Lexor and Krypton?' 

He abruptly becomes conscious of himself, how entirely he fails to make a change on Terra as a Kryptonian. The very thought leaves a quiet bitterness behind it. For a moment he wonders whether anyone here sees him as a person at all, or merely as the living symbol of an alliance between powers.

Tinge of loneliness seeps deeper into him, familiar now, yet no less painful for its familiarity. It has accompanied him since the moment he stepped onto the shuttle that brought him here, the second he watched Krypton shrink to a blue dot in the viewscreen and then disappear altogether. Here, among strangers who eye him with morbid curiosity and disdain, that loneliness grows sharp enough to wound. Anxiety rolls through his stomach like a parasite. He folds his hands behind his back to conceal their trembling.

Then a hand slips into his.

The touch is warm, unexpected. Kal turns and startles, looking down to find Lex's fingers intertwined with his own. The prince stands beside him, his blond hair swept back from his face, his formal attire a deep navy that makes his blue eyes seem almost violet in the chandelier light. He faces forward, his attention seemingly fixed on his father's speech, but his hand holds Kal's with a grounding strength.

The anxiety in Kal's chest loosens, just slightly. The anxiety unfolds a little, retreating into the shadows of his mind. Kal lets himself draw a full breath for the first time since entering the hall.

He allows himself a small, grateful smile. Lex returns it, not with his mouth, but with his thumb, stroking across Kal's knuckles. A reassurance. A promise.

Across the hall, cameras adjust: the prince and his Kryptonian consort, hands clasped, outlined against the glittering hall. Shutters click and whir. Kal lets Lex hold him, allowing the cameras to record what they will. The press will have their photograph, a symbol of unity, proof that the engagement is more than a political transaction. 

The emperor finishes his speech to sustained applause. He steps down from the podium, and Lena descends with him as she takes her father's arm. The orchestra strikes up a waltz, and the guests disperse into conversation, their voices rising to fill the space the Emperor's words have left behind.

Lex turns to Kal, his hand still clasping Kal's. "We should go around and answer some questions. The press will expect it."

"Of course."

They navigate through the crowd, Lex guiding him gently, directing him toward a cordoned-off area where journalists gather behind a velvet rope. The prince carries himself with confidence, offering nods to familiar faces, exchanging brisk pleasantries with dignitaries, never once letting go of his hold on Kal. Once they draw near, the journalists press forward, their badges marking them as reporters for various publications: Daily Star, Gotham Post, Daily Planet. 

Questions rise at once, overlapping and pressing forward, each refusing to wait its turn, yet Lex answers the first batch of questions with patience shaped by years of experience. A reporter from the Daily Star asks after the wedding date; Lex deflects, noting that arrangements are still underway, nothing yet fixed in stone. A reporter from the Gotham Post inquires about the honeymoon; he answers with a reconstructed smile, saying only that no decision has been made.

Kal stands next to him in a hush, his face set into what he trusts will pass for cordial poise, even though it sits on him like a mask. He understands well enough what the reporters are doing: how they probe and circle, how they seek to turn every implication into explicit meaning, but he is not permitted to answer them. He is only a consort, and that title binds his tongue tighter than any guards.

Despite it, he knows why he is here. His presence, his obedience to the role assigned to him, signals stability, suggesting Krypton is safe as an ally to the Terran Empire. He repeats this to himself like a mantra.

"There has been an unexpected death of a male servant from the palace," a Caucasian woman shouts out her questions amongst the reporters. Her ID badge shows the name Lois Lane. "The suspect has yet to be apprehended. What can you tell us about the investigation, Your Royal Highness?"

Kal’s heart jumps. Instantly he finds himself hard to breathe or think; he stands utterly still, the memory hijacking him; the image of blood spreading across the marble tile.

A brief pause follows. Lex does not react immediately; when he does, his expression is carefully neutral. "Our police department is conducting a thorough investigation. They are fully committed to identifying the perpetrator and ensuring that justice is carried out appropriately."

The lie slides from Lex's lips, smooth and calm and utterly false. The very breath in Kal's throat is trapped. He knows, and he cannot say anything to expose the truth without destroying everything Krypton sacrificed to build. He stares at the floor, afraid that his face will reveal everything.

"There have been increasing incidents of death within the palace grounds," goes on Lois. "What measures are being taken to ensure the safety of those who serve here?"

Lex's smile tenses. The feigned amiability that had softened his features moments ago evaporates, replaced by a cold temperament. "The palace has rules and regulations in place to protect all who serve within its walls. Every death is investigated thoroughly." He hesitates, sweeping his gaze across the journalists. "If there are no further questions, I believe my consort and I should continue our rounds."

He begins to turn, pulling Kal with him.

"One more question," she says, and her smirk flashes quickly like a blade. "This is for the consort."

Kal freezes. The journalists lean forward, their microphones extended, their recorders running. He becomes aware, all at once, of the cameras zooming in on him. 

"Your engagement to His Royal Highness comes in the wake of reports concerning Krypton’s political instability. Do you believe this union strengthens the relationship between Earth and Krypton, or do you believe Earth will, in practice, treat Krypton as a vassal state under the appearance of partnership?"

Kal glances toward Lex, but the prince offers no guidance, save for Lex’s fingers, which clutch around his hand with a grip almost painful in its intensity.

His voice comes out rehearsed without rehearsal. "My engagement to Prince Lex is a symbol of peace between Earth and Krypton. It represents the commitment of both worlds to mutual respect and cooperation." There is a pause. He can't say he loves Lex, because that would be untrue; he also doesn't say that he trusts this arrangement, because that would also be untrue. What he knows, more clearly than anything else, is that his presence here is tied to the survival of others, and that this fact outweighs his uncertainty. When he gets his tongue, he says, "I have come to care for the prince, as someone whose well-being matters to me. Our union is not merely political; it is a choice, freely made, to build something new together."

Lois studies him for a moment longer, then steps back. Her smirk fades, replaced by something more complicated: respect, or disappointment, or simply the recognition that she will get nothing more from him tonight. The press begins to shift again, questions resuming their earlier rhythm, though the focus has changed.

Lex leans close to Kal's ear. "Well done," he whispers so that only Kal can hear. "Let me introduce you to some of my acquaintances and friends."

He steers Kal through the crowd with a hand pressed firmly to the small of his back. The gesture appears protective to the onlookers, maybe even tender, but Kal feels the subtle tension in these fingers, a possessive grip that permits no deviation.

Wherever they go, people incline their heads, raise glasses, and smile. The reactions differ in warmth but not in caution. Some guests look upon Lex with admiration, others with fearful reverence; above all else, all seem aware that proximity to power requires exact behavior.

Kal follows closely at his side, aware of every movement he makes. They approach a gathering of Caucasian men by the western windows. Afar, Metropolis gleams like a castle upon the hill, with its tall towers and twirling lights stretching toward the horizon where the sky and earth meet.

"Gentlemen," Lex says, "allow me to make the introduction."

The men turn. Kal recognizes none of their faces, not that he tries to.

"This is my fiancé and future consort, Kal El." Lex picks out one man from the group. "Kal, this is Oliver Queen of Queen Industries."

Oliver is a thirties-something man with a casual smile and sun-bleached hair, exuding the carefree stance of someone who has never been told no. He dips into a half bow, a cheeky grin tugging at his mouth. "Welcome to Terra," he says, "where all your dreams come true."

"Thanks."

"Bruce Wayne from Wayne Industries." Lex gestures with his open palm toward the man next to Oliver Queen. Bruce, dressed in a tenebrous suit and collected himself in sobriety, nods. "And Ted Kord, Kord Industries."

"Your planet's crystal technology is fascinating. I've read everything the scientific attachés have released."

"My father will be glad to hear it."

"Last but not least, Morgan Edge, head of WGBS."

Morgan studies Kal a moment before bowing, his gaze glued to him with the same cool scrutiny Kal has endured all evening. "A pleasure to meet Terran Empire’s future consort."

As soon as the introductions are over, the men return to their previous conversation: trade agreements, military expenditures, transport routes, market unrest, the same subjects Kal knows well enough, and is growing tired of hearing repeated. Oliver speaks with casual confidence about energy sectors; Ted occasionally interrupts with humor that makes Bruce snort faintly through his nose in something nearly resembling amusement. Morgan discusses public sentiment regarding Lexor's trading routes.

Kal listens for a time but soon feels himself drifting away from the discussion. He edges away from the group, first step, then the next, until he stands far away from the crowds and into the hall.

Not one person stops him. Lex notices, certainly, but grants it for the moment.

Kal takes it as permission and maunders toward the quieter galleries beside the ballroom, following a long corridor lined with portraits and marble statues.

The art rooms extends out one after another, vast and hushed. Portraits climb the walls in heavy gilded frames so intricate they draw the eye as much as the paintings themselves. Overhead, the ceilings curve high above him, painted with sapphire skies and faded gold constellations. Marble sculptures stand between the canvases on black pedestals, their pale surfaces glowing softly beneath the lights.

Next to the sculptures, portraits of ominous looking men and women stare down at him, their painted eyes following his progress. He slows his steps before a sculpture of a man on horseback, the bronze darkened with age, the inscription identifying him as Emperor Lachlan, the conqueror of a thousand planets.

He is studying the horse’s carved mane when someone collides with him, causing Kal to stumble and catch himself against the pedestal before he turns toward the younger Caucasian man who is rubbing his shoulder.

"Oh, I’m sorry."

"That’s fine." The man is shorter than Kal, perhaps three years younger, with shoulder length dark hair and blue eyes that seem perpetually alert. "You are?"

Kal holds out his hand. "Kal El."

The young man's eyebrows rise. He takes Kal's hand with a firm shake. "Ah. You're the Kryptonian consort." He releases Kal's fingers and offers his own name without a question. "Dick Grayson. Bruce Wayne's ward."

Kal smiles widely. "Nice to meet you, Dick."

Dick returns the smile, although inwardly he feels a spark of surprise. By every rule of court etiquette, people either bow too deeply when introduced to Kal or avoid his gaze altogether.

Dick does neither. He looks at him directly and pauses at what he finds.

Most consorts, when introduced only by their name, would bristle at the insult. They would correct it immediately with a pointed mention of rank, family, or status. Kal simply offers his name, as if that alone is enough. He doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, nor does he carry the pride Dick expects from someone in his position. He carries himself with an openness that feels almost disarming, kind and sincere in a way the palace rarely allows.

Gentle, Dick thinks. Not fragile, far from it, but untouched by the quiet cruelty woven into court life.

"You’re interested in the paintings and sculptures?" Dick asks suddenly.

"Yes." Kal glances back toward the portraits. "They’re quite interesting."

Dick gestures toward the painting behind Kal, a full length portrait of a man in imperial robes. "These are the emperors before Lionel. That one is Lachlan. He ruled for forty seven years and doubled the size of the Empire."

Kal turns back to the portrait, studying the solemn face, the hard mouth, the eyes that hold no warmth. "So these are His Majesty's family."

He strolls down the corridor, Dick following, past Queen Lilian with her stiff posture and cold smile, and Queen Eliza whose painted hands rest on the shoulders of a child whose face has been polished. The portraits continue for a while, and then they stop. The remaining walls contain landscapes, battle scenes, hunting paintings, but no further members of the imperial line.

Kal turns back toward Dick, puzzled. "What happened to the rest of His Majesty's family?"

A faint amusement touches one corner of Dick’s mouth, but nothing in it is pleasant. He steps closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that barely stirs the air. "There are no more. You must not know how Emperor Lachlan came to the throne."

Kal looks at him with curiosity and concern. Before he can respond, another voice cuts across the gallery.

"Kal."

He turns. Lex stands at the gallery entrance with one hand inside his pocket. The lighting from the corridor catches the sharp lines of his face and turns his blond hair almost silver. 

His expression is fixed, his smile amicable enough, yet his eyes tell another story. They are flat and cold, the blue drained of all warmth. He glances at Dick; a flash of recognition passes between them.

Kal smiles automatically, relieved to see him. "Lex."

Lex approaches slowly. "I was looking for you everywhere." His voice remains even, almost gentle, but Kal hears the sharpness beneath it, the steel wrapped in silk.

"Sorry, I was looking at the paintings," Kal answers quickly. "It’s fascinating to see His Majesty’s sculptures and portraits."

Lex slides an arm around his waist, a gesture that might pass for affection, yet it sits like a shackle. He doesn't look at Kal; his gaze instead fixes on Dick, who stands with his arms folded across his chest, watching Lex with open insolence.

"I was worried you had gotten lost," Lex says, and the words are for Kal, but the glare is for Dick. "I'm glad to see you are in good company with Bruce's ward."

Dick bows his head in a shallow display of manners. "Your Royal Highness."

"Dick." Lex imitates a smile. "How are you and Barbara doing?"

Dick's mouth pulls thin, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His voice utters out of gritted teeth: "I am just fine."

"Good," Lex says, and the single syllable drips with false cheer. "Give Barbara my regards." He turns to Kal, his hand tightening on Kal's hip. "You look tired. Let us go home."

"Yes," Kal answers softly. "Thanks."

He dares not look back toward Dick as he feels the younger man’s gaze trailing across his shoulders. Instinct tells him Lex dislikes the interaction between him and Dick, the reason for which escapes him.

They step out onto the terrace, leaving the noise and the light behind. The cool night air washes over Kal's face, carrying the faint scent of night blooming flowers from the gardens below. With Lex's hand still resting at Kal's waist, Kal waits until they are alone and the music from within has dwindled to a distant murmur.

"Who is Barbara?" Kal asks quietly.

"Dick’s girlfriend," Lex answers, then corrects himself with visible satisfaction. "Well, former girlfriend. Barbara Gordon is the daughter of Police Chief James Gordon. They were the topic of every magazine and gossip." He pauses, his thumb tracing idle circles on Kal's hip. "They didn't last for long. These things rarely do when one party lacks ambition."

The sneer curls at the corners of Lex's lips again. Kal takes it in, noting how Lex reduces Dick’s entire existence to a single flaw. It becomes increasingly clear that the prince can’t stand anyone who might draw Kal’s attention away from him.

Servants stand waiting near the staircase descending into the courtyard. Upon seeing Lex approach, they immediately bow and move to open the doors of the black limousine stationed beneath the palace lamps.

Lex rests a hand lightly against Kal’s back as they descend the steps together. "You handled the evening well," Lex remarks.

Kal turns toward him with mild surprise. "I did?"

"Yes, you did."

The quiet praise leaves Kal unexpectedly pleased.

When they reach the limousine, one servant opens the door at once. Lex enters first, then stretches his hand out toward Kal without hesitation. Kal accepts it readily.

The limousine glides through the nocturnal streets. The cityscape flies past the tinted windows, while a privacy screen separates them from the driver, sealing Kal and Lex inside a capsule of dim light and soft leather.

Kal stares at his own reflection in the window. "When I was looking at the paintings," he starts, "Dick told me quite a bit about His Majesty's predecessors. Emperor Lachlan, specifically."

Lex rests one hand on the armrest, the other draped across his knee. He smiles, but it stops short of his eyes. "My family history is a complicated subject. I am afraid I would bore you with the details."

Kal reaches over and takes Lex's hand, threading their fingers together. "Not at all. You are my fiancé. I want to understand your side of things. Your perspective."

"You have met my younger sister."

"I have." Kal chuckles softly. "She is quite a character."

"She is. As you know, my mother passed away when I was younger."

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. Terran isn't invulnerable to diseases, even with the technologies."

"Neither are Kryptonians." There is a momentary hush that was only broken by Kal's soft intrusion of a question. "What about your grandparents?"

Kal can pinpoint the moment Lex's countenance shuts down. His gaze turns toward the darkened glass beside him, where the city reflects in fractured patterns of gold and white, and Kal realizes at once that he has crossed into forbidden territory.

"I’m sorry," says Kal. "You don’t have to answer."

Lex gives a slight shake of his head.

"My grandfather was an ambitious man. We rarely spoke of him when I was growing up. In history, he is remembered as a cruel usurper. But to me, he was just a man. Like any other. He loved my grandmother with devotion. He loved this planet, believed he was saving it from incompetence, from weakness. He did what he thought was right, what he thought would protect the people he cared about." Another pause, longer this time. "He loved all of us. His children, his grandchildren. Does that justify his actions? History says no. But my memory of him remains fixed on his love."

He turns back to Kal, and his eyes hold a vulnerability Kal has not seen before, whether calculated or genuine, he cannot tell. "I'm afraid my answer is not a good one. Not the kind of story you deserve."

Kal glances down at their joined hands for a brief instant before lifting his eyes again to meet Lex’s blue eyes. "That’s all I wanted," he says earnestly, "your honesty."

"I will never lie to you, Kal. Never."

The promise falls into the silence and remains there. A faint warmth rises to Kal’s face, stirred by a pledge whose hold on him he cannot fully explain.

He lays his head gently on Lex’s shoulder and holds on to his hand, the limousine passing through Metropolis’s maze of streets and carrying them toward the distant palace.