[DEO Headquarters, Memorial Terrace — July 2017, 5:52 AM]
The pyre had been built according to Daxamite tradition.
Mon-El had described the specifications to J'onn—the arrangement of materials, the height of the platform, the orientation toward the rising sun. The DEO had constructed it overnight on the headquarters' ceremonial terrace, a space usually reserved for official events and dignitary visits.
Today, it would serve a different purpose.
Lar Gand's remains had been recovered from the command ship—what remained after the crash and the lead saturation. Not much. A body already broken by his wife's blade, then burned and scattered by the destruction that followed.
Enough. Enough for proper rites.
Mon-El stood before the pyre in clean clothes—not ceremonial robes, which he didn't have, but simple black that felt appropriate. The DEO team gathered behind him—Kara, Alex, J'onn, Winn, even Eliza Danvers, who'd driven through the night from Midvale when she heard.
The sun broke the horizon.
Mon-El began to speak.
The words were ancient Daxamite—death prayers his tutors had taught him as a child, phrases he'd never expected to use. They felt foreign in his mouth after so many months speaking English, but they came anyway, rising from some deep place where old traditions lived despite everything.
"Var'el tom'asha kri'vel..." The formal opening, acknowledging the passing of a noble soul. "Lar Gand, son of Mal Gand, of the House that bears his name..."
His voice broke. He paused, steadied himself, continued.
"...walked the long path with honor. He died protecting what he loved. He died choosing courage when fear would have been easier."
The words transformed as they flowed—formal phrases giving way to personal truth.
"My father wasn't perfect. He served a system that oppressed people. He stood beside my mother while she planned terrible things. For years, he compromised with evil because that was easier than fighting it."
Mon-El's hands clenched at his sides. "But in the end, when it mattered most, he chose differently. He fought through an army of his own people to reach me. He disabled the bombardment systems. He stood against my mother and told her she was wrong."
The fire crackling, hungry for fuel it hadn't yet received.
"He died for it. She killed him for it. But he died the man he should have been all along—the father I needed him to be."
Mon-El lifted the torch J'onn had given him. The flame danced in the dawn wind.
"On Daxam, we send our dead to the stars. We believe the fire transforms flesh into light, and light travels forever through the void." He stepped toward the pyre. "My father will never see the stars from here. But maybe that's fitting. He died on Earth, protecting Earth. Let Earth receive him."
He touched the torch to kindling.
The fire caught instantly—accelerants carefully prepared by DEO technicians, ensuring a clean burn. Flames rose, engulfing the pyre, transforming everything on it to ash and light and memory.
Mon-El watched his father burn.
Something shifted inside him as the flames climbed higher. The grief didn't disappear—it settled, took root, became part of his foundation instead of the thing threatening to drown him. His father was gone. His mother was gone. His entire world was gone.
But he was still here.
Be braver than I was.
"I will," Mon-El whispered to the fire. "I promise."
---
The ceremony ended. The team dispersed—duties calling, cleanup continuing, a city still requiring attention. But they didn't leave immediately. Each one stopped by Mon-El first.
Winn hugged him awkwardly, too hard, not long enough. "I'm sorry, man. If you need anything..."
"I know. Thanks."
Alex stood before him, her expression complicated—months of hostility giving way to something softer. "Your father made the right choice," she said. "In the end. That counts for something."
"It counts for everything."
She nodded once, then walked away. They weren't friends yet. Might never be. But they understood each other in a way they hadn't before.
J'onn gripped his shoulder—the gesture that had become familiar over months of training and partnership. "Your father would be proud of the man you've become."
"I hope so."
"I know so." J'onn released him. "Take whatever time you need. The city will survive. Right now, you need to heal."
Eliza Danvers was last.
She approached slowly, wrapped in a coat against the morning chill, her expression carrying the particular warmth of a mother who'd lost and found and lost again. She stopped before Mon-El, studied his face, then pulled him into an embrace.
"You're family now," she said quietly. "Whatever happens. Whatever you need. You're family."
Mon-El couldn't speak. His throat closed around the words he wanted to say. He just held on, accepting comfort from a woman who'd already given him more than she knew—acceptance when others had doubted, kindness when he'd been struggling, a reminder of what family could be.
"Thank you," he managed finally.
"Don't thank me." She pulled back, smiled with wet eyes. "Just come to Midvale sometime. I'll make you breakfast."
The fire burned down behind them. The sun climbed higher. Eventually, the pyre collapsed into embers, and the wind carried the ashes away—out over the city, out toward the ocean, out into the world Lar Gand had died protecting.
Mon-El watched them go.
"What now?" Kara asked, appearing at his side.
"Now we rebuild." He turned to face her. "Now we honor them—my father, everyone who died—by protecting what they gave their lives for." His jaw set. "My mother killed my father. My people tried to conquer this world. I can't change that. But I can make sure it never happens again."
"How?"
"By being better." He looked at his hands—hands that had held his dying father, hands that had fought his own mother, hands that had helped end an invasion. "By being the hero this world needs."
Kara took his hand. "Not alone."
"No." He managed a small smile. "Not alone."
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