#any damage comes from vere crashing into things as he tries to get them

[portsandstars]

It's a relief that they can't open doors

[dhiabori]

GRIEF IS A CUCKOO THAT SINGS TO ME ―

well,,, the series i planned hasn’t materialised yet, so my first original post is going to be something from one of my other wips, the sevenfold throne.

for some context: julien is the crowned prince (IE prince regent) of erymthia, a country which is being torn apart by civil war. not only is he suffering from an illness analogous to TB, but he’s been captured by tatian de carachelles, the scion of an ousted dynasty and leader of the opposition. tatian’s husband, camille, used to idolise julien, but now hates him due to a jousting accident that left camille needing to use a cane to walk.

CONTENT WARNINGS ― internalised ableism, collaring, burning/branding, illness

Tatian hasn’t said yes. But Tatian hasn’t said no, either, and he hasn’t made any attempt to hide Julien, not even bothering to lock the door. He doesn’t need to; the chains keep the crowned prince confined enough, mostly drifting in and out of fitful sleep.

Lingering in the doorway, Camille watches, tries to bite down the hatred bubbling in his chest. His hips ache — they always ache, but this ache sits differently, an acidic kind of pain. A bodily memory: his mother dragging him down the stairs, you will come to dinner tonight, falling — Tatian belongs in this ache as well, but hazier. His words of comfort can’t soften the screams etched into Camille’s damaged socket, scraped in by the ball: what have you done with our son?

He remembers the first time his father took him riding after the accident. The pain had been blinding, but he still wanted to please his father, smiling through tears, clinging on to that bloody horse even though the sound of its hooves echoed through his injuries. He remembers, that was the last time his father smiled at him.

That was the last time his parents loved him, and as much as Camille can say he hates them (he does, but it isn’t enough), he doesn’t need them (he doesn’t, he has Tatian, but it isn’t enough), his hips aren’t the only thing that aches. His heart does too, pulsingly, crying out for lost love.

What right did Julien de Vere ever have to take that from him? What right does he have now to sleep, curled into a corner as if the wall will provide him some kind of comfort?

Tatian hasn’t said yes, but Camille knows his husband, knows how careful he is. The absence of a no is good enough.

He steps into the room, leaning his cane against the bed. Of course, Julien’s chains don’t stretch that far, keeping him confined to his corner, but taunted by those luxurious furs, silk-soft sheets, oceans of blankets and pillows. It’s only what he would’ve been used to at Chatelet Cœurcheval, but some part of Camille thinks — hopes — the glimmer of unattainable hope makes his situation all the more miserable.

Still, Julien sleeps, I disturbed by Camille’s approaching footsteps. His breath comes in pitiful little gasps, ragged-edged and futile; if only that sound could evoke anything but concern in Camille’s chest, noticing how fever-sheened his skin is.

It’s what he deserves, says the pain in Camille’s hips, dull and unyielding. It’ll just make him easier.

“Wake up.” Camille tests the command; he isn’t used to working so directly. Usually, his little flock stain their fleeces for him — only the ones he wants to see unravel completely get a personal touch.

He isn’t expecting a response yet, much less Julien’s eyes snapping open, backing up against the wall. His mouth moves soundlessly, forming a word — Camille.

Now he’s got this far, he’s suddenly at a loss for what to do. Words crawl up his throat like broken glass, cutting words, you ruined my life. You crushed me, you made my parents hate me, you ruined my life so I’m going to ruin yours. A tide of hurt threatens to overwhelm him, but he can’t afford to let himself drown. Not when Julien is still watching him, wary, still somehow regal with a collar around his neck.

Glancing back at the bed, Camille has a sudden idea. He can’t crouch anymore, but he pulls up a chair, leaning back as if he can’t feel Julien’s terrified gaze.

“Would like a proper rest?” Keeping his voice low, he remembers, I was so hopeful. You built me up, you told me I was good. You didn’t stop me.

“Camille, I’m sorry—” Even now, even raw and scared, Julien’s voice his laden with a pity that makes something vicious in Camille’s chest flare.

“Answer the question.” For a moment, he strains to keep his voice civil, swallowing down his throatful of broken-glass words. Then he shifts back to calm, almost honeyed, leaning in until he can feel the heat radiating from Julien’s skin. “Do you want a proper rest, on that bed? With those warm furs, that soft mattress?”

Julien swallows, barely masking the pained exhalation that follows.

“Yes. Please,” he murmurs, the second word tacked on clumsily, and this time Camille does get some paltry satisfaction from the fear in his eyes.

“Good.” Reaching out, Camille almost cups Julien’s cheek, withdrawing the comfort at the last minute. You let me do it. You told me you’d keep me safe. “If you behave, I’ll let you.”

Now Julien’s eyes fill with confusion, apprehension. He tries to back away, but there’s nowhere to go, the wall keeping him at Camille’s mercy.

I’m going to enjoy this, Camille thinks, because he has to. He needs to.

Tatian hasn’t been so cruel as to deprive Julien of warmth; despite the mountain chill biting at the window, there’s a fire crackling beside Camille, a poker sticking out of it. He reaches for it almost mechanically, realising his hand is trembling, the glowing tip wobbling.

You want this. The voice isn’t coming from his hips anymore, but from his chest, a hollow, gaping pain.

“Head up.” Julien does as he’s told. He’s  shaking as well, a vein in his neck straining as he tilts his head up, exposing where the collar has begun to chafe at his warm, dark brown skin. All the while, his eyes are fixed on the poker, pupils expanding to velvety pools of fear.

Camille brings the poker to Julien’s chest. Slowly, slowly; his breath is pent-up in his chest, unable to fill that hole but building, building, building, clamouring for a release —

As soon as the poker bites into his skin, Julien flinches away, a yelp of pain tearing from his lips.

“No, no, none of that—“ Hooking a finger through the ring of Julien’s collar, Camille drags him forward. He can feel the shudder that rocks the crowned prince’s body, practically taste his delirious terror. Yet what he doesn’t feel is any kind of ease, any salving of his burning chest. Perhaps he just isn’t hurting him enough. Not as much as Julien hurt him. “No screaming, either. I want you absolutely quiet.”

“Camille, please, I’m sorry—“ there’s that pity again, there’s that hot surge, don’t you dare, don’t you—

The poker bites into Julien’s skin again, rough, instinctual. He tenses, biting his lip against the pain, but he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t move away, only shakes, the smell of singed flesh filling air as Camille pulls the poker away.

Staring at the burn he’s created, an angry stain now mingling with faded scars, Camille still feels no better. The hole in his chest gapes, a beast unfed, or at least — unsatisfied.

More, it whines, a pulsing in his fingers, the poker hot in his palm. More, more. Make him understand.

“I used to look up to you,” Camille murmurs, allowing the poker to trace the collar.  “I used to want to be you.”

Julien shudders beneath him, the faintest whimper slipping past his defences.

“I said, none of that.” Tugging the ring again, Camille drags the collar over raw, newly burnt skin. He should be relishing the show: Julien desperately biting his lip, tears welling up and spilling over, body trembling with the screams building inside him. “You let me put my name forward for that joust. You let me ride into that ring. You let me get crushed!”

With each spilling of hurt, he jabs the poker into a new place, hoping to feel better, to feel something other than lost, scared, hurt. Even seeing Julien undone, tear-stained, not even trying to resist anymore, only opens a deeper chasm in Camille’s chest.

He can’t breathe; there’s nothing left to breathe with, only a hollow, a crack running right down Camille’s soul. He can’t breathe, because his throat is full of broken glass and it hurts, it burns and scrapes through his vocal cords, leaving him dumb. Blind to the room, blind to Julien, feeling like he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice, clinging to normalcy with cracked fingernails. There’s shame there too, bubbling like bile in his stomach, shame that this is all he is: a broken, terrified, hurting child.

“Saints, why don’t you—“ Camille’s breath hitches, tears spilling over, the poker wobbling dangerously. “Why don’t you fight back? Why don’t you scream?” Because you asked him not to, whispers that same, demanding voice, and now Camille screams, raw, frustrated. “Do you know what happened to me after you’d washed your hands of me? My parents wouldn’t look at me! They wanted the old me back. They wanted a son you killed!”

He’s still teetering, gasping through tears, chest burning with years of pain. Fumbling over the poker, Camille hears it crash to the floor, but the sound barely registers, fingers closing around thin air.  

“It’s your fault!��� Nothing to hit with anymore, so he just punches him, wild, so giddy he misses the first time. Even watching Julien reel, gasping for breath, does nothing to close the gaping maw of anger and pain.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knows what this is. Grief. A monster he’s nurtured for years, birthed prematurely but nursed back to full, roaring health by his pain. Somewhere in the back of of his mind, he registers that Julien has started coughing, shoulders shaking with the effort of suppressing a wrenching fit. But the thought is only a whisper, drowned out by the screaming monster, his mind-cuckoo: more, more, more, more.

He has no more to give. No more anger, no more pain. Only exhaustion.  

Slumping forward, Camille shudders with sobs, hardly aware of Julien’s struggle for breath. After all this; he’s back where he started, still feeding that monster, letting it’s two-note song of anger and inadequacy ring in his ears.

“This was supposed to make me feel better,” he chokes out, to nothing more than his own tear-blurred knees.

The hands come from nowhere — or rather, a space beyond Camille’s awareness, tender, folding him into an embrace.

Julien.

Camille can still feel his abdomen spasming with coughs, eventually petering out into frantic, shallow breaths. The grief-cuckoo screeches its indignation, calling the comfort pity, but by now he’s too drained to care.

There’s a hand in his hair, rocking him gently as he cries against Julien’s shoulder. If it didn’t feel so wrong, it would almost be soothing, almost be enough to drown out that grating song.

“I’m sorry, Camille.” Julien’s voice sounds far-off, painfully hoarse. “I mean it. I should’ve stopped you, I knew how dangerous it was, and I just — I let you do it, because I wanted to make you happy—“

A breathless beat.

“What I mean to say is, you’re right.”

Camille’s head snaps up. Only Tatian had said that to him, you’re right, your pain is right. He doesn’t want to accept it, but — he’s tired. Tired of anger, tired of grief, tired of it all, every corroding drop in a river of pain. A river that’ll never completely run dry, no matter how many dams he builds.

As bitter as it is, he feels a little lighter, sobs beginning to recede into wobbly breaths. A headache grumbles behind his eyes, but for one blessed moment, his mind-cuckoo is silent.

Slipping out of Julien’s embrace, Camille’s shaky, done — though he isn’t teetering anymore. He knows where he stands, and it’s on solid ground.

Only now does he glance back at Julien, still kneeling, arms dropping to his sides with a kind of numb detachment. Camille’s eye immediately goes to the burns, pink and livid; the skin around them is slick with sweat, wracked by pathetic little shivers. Pity, then, can work both ways, because he realises it’s the emotion settled uncomfortably on his shoulders, telling him Julien needs rest, probably a physician.

There’s a power in pity. Even more than in dealing out pain, there’s a power in shoving the poker back into the fire, knowing he could turn it on Julien at any moment but he won’t, because —

The voice beyond the cuckoo scream says the pain will never leave, not truly. His hips will always ache, worse as he stands; his chest will always be at least one fifth hollow. But the same voice insists he won’t find any healing with the poker.

“You held up your side of the bargain,” he says, kindness coming clumsily. Julien glances up, at first disbelieving. Then he collapses in relief, fearful tension dissipating.

Camille pulls a key from his doublet, unlocking the chains. Clink, clink, they fall away — and he doesn’t feel like he’s made a mistake.

Falteringly, Julien stumbles to his feet, lurching forward as his legs almost give way beneath him. He’s unsteady as a newborn foal; Camille finds himself having to put a hesitant hand on his arm, steering him towards the bed.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, over and over again as he all but collapses onto it, nuzzling into the furs. “Thank you, I’m sorry—“

What can Camille say? He can’t just accept the apology, some part of him clinging to his hatred of Julien de Vere, the arrogant, dazzling crowned prince — but another part of him can muster at least pity, if not something softer, for Julien who’d held him, told him he was right to be a grey.

“Sleep.” Is all he can come up with, collecting his cane from the side of the bed. All they’ve done is change the field of war; many more battles are brewing, he knows, the mind-cuckoo starting to whine again. Yet — the stakes have been lowered. Fight to hurt, not to maim.

Perhaps they could reach a truce one day.  

[silence-like-sleeping]

Idk but I really thought Rara would be the one to spoil the reveal because Narrative Purpose, maybe. So like this fic assumes Lex was actually playing the Long Game and not just jumping off the lowest branch in the crazy tree. Less angst, maybe, ultimately, but I think Rara deserves A Point To Her Existence.

Also let's pretend Rara knows she didn't kill Kara mostly because I forgot until after I wrote this HAHAha...

Also also this got long and idk how to do cuts in mobile so WELP

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Lena can't say that she's surprised.

An embossed letter from Lex Luthor himself could only ever result in a Darth Vader invitation to join the evil family business. What surprises Lena is that Lex thought she would agree, like she'd really stand there in the Oval Office and declare, "Yes, despite all I've done to this point, why not give world domination a try." Why not throw her morals to the wayside and become a supervillian, and perhaps get in a good cackle along the way.

Lena rolls her eyes to think of it. Absurdity.

But what really surprises her is the presence of Red Daughter. The Haran-El copy looks exactly like Supergirl, down to the little notch scar on her forehead (which Lena has always imagined came from before, during a childhood mishap on Krypton, when the hero was human and allowed to bleed). She can't know for certain, because the topic has never come up between her and Supergirl, but. Well.

It's awkward to discuss halcyon days when the world's ending, and Lena mostly sees Supergirl in times of great peril. She wishes sometimes-- more recently nowadays-- that she could have a heart-to-heart with the hero, peel back some of that invulnerable skin. They've patched things up. They might as well become friends.

(Not Kara Danvers level of friendship, but still, more than acquaintances. More than... Lena snickers at the thought: co-workers.)

So when Red Daughter flies through the open South Lawn window in a familiar blur with familiar windswept hair and that same little scar, it takes Lena a second to be scared. Reflexively, she's reassured.

But Lex flaps a dismissive hand. "Take her away. Don't let her out of your sight."

Heavily accented, Red Daughter agrees, "Yes, Alex."

Red Daughter's eyes, blue as Supergirl's suit, shift to Lena. And it surprises Lena, too, to see them soften, just around the edges. It's a flicker, and when she blinks, it's gone, but it was an unmistakable glimpse.

Of warmth, of heart, of goodness. Of fondness, even. It stokes embers of ideas in Lena's mind, and her fear ebbs once more.

She doesn't struggle when she's gathered up in strong arms that could bear her weight for a century without tiring. It's a familiar embrace, too-- she's been held like this before. Supergirl's arms have never failed to make her feel safe, and Red Daughter's elicit the same support.

Whatever else Red Daughter may be, she's Supergirl at heart, and Lena's pretty sure she has a knack for reaching that.

She doesn't struggle. She just closes her eyes against the sudden rush of wind.

.

They end up in a holding cell not far away from the White House. It's benign as cells go, and Red Daughter doesn't even bother locking the door. She just stands on the threshold, arms crossed on her chest, face determinedly set like steel.

Her eyes betray her, though. They flick over Lena a little too often, like she can't quite believe Lena's here or solid or even real. It's hungry, almost.

For what, Lena can't say. But she'd be damned if she didn't take advantage of the opportunity.

"What Lex is doing is wrong, you know." She'd also be damned if she minced words.

Red Daughter scoffs.

"He's using you," Lena presses. "He already pretended to kill you, for god's sake. All he wants is power in the end. Do you see Kasnia in control here? No. Lex is in control here. Lex only ever fights for Lex. When he's done with you, he'll kill you for real without batting an eye."

Red Daughter's lips twist. "Alex vill do no such t'ing," she replies. Her gaze studiously shifts elsewhere, fixating on the plain gray wall.

Lena tries a different tack. "Why do you call him that? 'Alex'?"

"Because zat is 'is name," Red Daughter says, audibly doubtful of Lena's intelligence.

"Technically, I suppose," Lena concedes. She shakes her head of that. "Never mind. You've seen the choice he gave me, right? And how he treated me for disagreeing to his madness? I'm his sister, Red Daughter. He's willing to cast aside and imprison family. What makes you think you'll be any different?"

Red Daughter shakes her head, too, blonde waves rustling. "No, no, zis vill not vork. I am not ze same as 'er, you know. I am not your Kara Danvers."

That strikes several chords in swift succession.

"My Kara Danvers?" Lena echoes. Heat flares up her neck, but it's short-lived and quaffed by the bucket of ice water roaring down her spine. "Wait, why did you bring up Kara? You haven't-- you haven't abducted her again, have you? She isn't here, is she? Kara!" she concludes in worried shout.

Lena lurches to her feet on instinct, makes a run for the door, but Red Daughter is better than a wall. Catches onto Lena's lapel, not with enough force to lift or choke, but enough to keep her in place.

"No, she is not 'ere," Red Daughter says, looking once again like she fears for Lena's sanity. "But do not t'ink you can seduce me wit' your vords, Lena Lut'or. I am not your best friend."

Lena can't be bothered with this hogwash. "Of course you aren't. You're a copy of Supergirl, not--"

Lena stops mid-sentence. She's suddenly aware of a distant flapping, as of a thousand red flags. It unfurls like the ocean's roar as it surges from the depths of her head.

Red Daughter beats that tide to land. "And Supergirl is Kara Danvers, yes. Zat is my point exac'ly."

The wave crests and crashes, crashes, crashes. Lena blinks, delicately, as if even such a tremulous motion will shatter her entirely. "Supergirl is Kara Danvers," she repeats, hoarse.

"Yes?" Red Daughter tilts her head, and oh, god, Lena can see it now-- "As she 'as alvays been." A pause. "Vere you not avare of zis?"

Lena falters backwards across the cell until she can sink, boneless, on the bench. Her throat works several times before she croaks, "No. No, I... I was not."

Red Daughter frowns. At first it's just with her lips, but then it reaches her eyes, and the empathy there is a gut punch for Lena-- another gut punch. She's used to that expression, or used to it framed by glasses.

How was I so blind?

"Ah. Yes," Red Daughter murmurs. "I knew zis. I just forgot I did."

Lena finds enough space in her throat to wonder, "How would you possibly know that?"

Red Daughter looks surprised, briefly, before the concern washes back: another tide. She ventures closer, broad shoulders turned in like a dog tucking its tail in apology. "I 'ad to study 'er, to become 'er. I read 'er journals at length." Another hesitation. She's reached Lena's side. She shuffles her boots before perching on the very edge of the bench.

Lena can't process, her brain's a gnarled mess, but she has enough clarity to be cognizant of the other woman's presence and to be perplexed by it.

Red Daughter skims her hands down her thighs, clears her throat. "Kara Danvers speaks very 'ighly of you-- or writes as such. You are 'er most precious person, like unto 'er own Alex. I vas fascinated by ze passages attributed to you, Lena. The power of ze emotion, it leapt off ze page. I felt it 'ere, in my own chest," she concludes, pressing fingers to her heart.

Lena's jaw creaks, useless. Blood pounds in her ears, her neck. Is she flushing from secondhand embarrassment? Anger? Pleasure?

Red Daughter barrels onward, fingers fisting. "And she wrote for pages, too, about 'ow she couldn't tell you. 'Ow she vanted to tell you, but alvays, she vorried for your safety. Alvays, she vorried for your 'appiness."

"She could've just told me," Lena finally spits, bitter. "If she wanted me safe and happy, she should've told me my best friend was a superhero!"

Red Daughter is quiet at that. She's quiet for a long time. Eventually, she offers, "It agonized 'er. Ze ink, it was smeared at times. From tears, I t'ink."

Lena jolts to her feet, no more stable this time. Worse, even. She's stuttering like her joints have forgotten how to bend. "Don't tell me that! Don't tell me she-- she cried over this! How am I supposed to hate her if she cried over it?"

Red Daughter jumps up, too, and is in front of Lena with superspeed. But not, as it seems, to curtail her escape-- Lena's mind is far from that right now. But just to steady. Her hands rest on Lena's shoulders, and Lena barely feels the pressure. For all that strength and power, this touch is only gentle.

That's familiar, too. But then these hands are Kara's.

Lena shudders. Tears slip free.

Red Daughter's hands flex, careful. A bracing, strengthening squeeze. "You say I should 'ate Alex for vhat 'e 'as done, vhat 'e plans to do. Per'aps you are right about zat, I do not yet know. But if you are right, zen 'e 'as done terrible t'ings and plans to do far vorse. Kara Danvers 'as only tried to protect you ze best she knew 'ow."

Another shiver ripples through Lena's frame, dealing more damage to her foundations. "I wish she would've just told me," she weeps. "Why didn't she just tell me?"

Red Daughter appears at a loss, as agonized as she claimed Kara to be.

It surprises Lena to her core when Red Daughter wraps her in an embrace, cradled in unbreakable arms. Fingers sift, clumsy but comforting, through raven locks of hair.

You're a kind-hearted, brilliant, beautiful soul.

I'm not going anywhere. I will protect you, always.

The words bubble up and burst. "She really was just trying to protect me?"

The press of Red Daughter's head against Lena's temple is the same. The warmth of her body, too. Kara always had inexplicably been a furnace.

Stupid Kryptonians and their solar energy, Lena sneers inwardly without any real bile. She doesn't have the heart to whet the edges sharp enough to cut.

"She 'ad no reason to lie in 'er journal," Red Daughter states. It's matter of fact. But it is a matter of fact. Why would she, indeed.

The turbulence in Lena's chest eases. It's far from calm, it's still blustery and wild, but the storm no longer looms apocalyptic. She dares to venture that maybe, in time, she'll find fair seas again.

Red Daughter loosens her hold, and Lena wishes, viscerally, that she wouldn't. That she'd step back and be a rock again. But the other woman has other plans, and lifts the tears from Lena's cheeks, drop by drop.

"I do not know," Red Daughter admits as she works, "if Alex is evil as you say. I am conflicted about zat. I vill need proof. But I do know zat you are certainly not. You are ze farthest t'ing from it. And it seems to be a veakness of zis body," she adds with a self-deprecating little laugh as her thumb brushes gentle along the angle of Lena's cheek, "to vant to t'row avay life and limb for your sake."

The back of Lena's neck prickles again. She swallows, sniffles, says, "I, uh... does that mean you're going to help me? To help us? Defeat Lex?"

"I told you, I do not know yet." Red Daughter chases down the last tear. "But I vill return you unharmed to your Kara, so you may reconcile. From zere, ve vill see."

Not a lot surprises Lena Luthor. She's too cunning, too clever, too ready with sharp eyes and keen analysis to be caught on the back foot.

But all she's done is stumble today.

"Th-Thank you," she manages.

Red Daughter smiles. It's more than familiar. It's exactly the same, ablaze with a thousand cheerful suns.

Lena can't help but smile back.

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