The air in Kinsarvik is crisp, the scent of pine and damp earth heavy in the early morning. The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks capped with snow that seems eternal, even as the warmer months approach. Nevaeh stands in a small clearing deep within the woods, her breath fogging in the chilly air. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, casting long shadows that stretch across the forest floor.

She surveys the trees around her, each one a towering sentinel that has stood for centuries. It's quiet here, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant calls of birds. This place is nothing like the chaos of the city she left behind, or the storm that had raged within her. Here, in the solitude of the forest, there is a chance—however small—to start anew.

The cabin she now calls home is little more than a shack, nestled at the edge of the clearing. It's rough, rustic, and barely more than four walls and a roof, but it's enough. It's more than she deserves, perhaps. She's been here for a few months now, each day blending into the next as she throws herself into the work that once defined Helga's life.

Nevaeh grips the handle of her axe, feeling the rough wood beneath her fingers. It's an old tool, worn from years of use, but it still serves its purpose well. She takes a deep breath, centering herself, before bringing the axe up and over her shoulder. The muscles in her arms and back tense with the familiar motion, a perfect blend of strength and precision.

The first swing of the day connects with the trunk of a large pine, the blade biting deep into the wood. The sound echoes through the clearing, sharp and satisfying. Nevaeh doesn't pause to admire her work; she draws the axe back and swings again, her movements fluid and practiced. Each strike sends wood chips flying, the rhythmic sound of the axe cleaving through the tree becoming a steady beat that grounds her in the present.

It's hard work, but Nevaeh welcomes the physical exertion. There's something about the simplicity of it that appeals to her, something that calms the restless storm inside her. She may be strong—inhumanly so—but there's still a sense of humility in the act. Each tree she fells is a reminder that, no matter her strength, the world is bigger, older, and more enduring than she is.

The tree creaks, groaning under the force of her blows, before it finally gives way. With one last strike, the trunk splits, and the tree begins to topple. Nevaeh steps back, watching as it crashes to the ground with a thunderous crack that shakes the earth beneath her feet. She stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, her body alive with the energy of the work.

But there's no time to rest. The tree is down, but now it needs to be stripped of its branches and cut into manageable sections. Nevaeh sets to work with a steady determination, her movements precise and efficient. She's done this countless times over the past few months, and the routine has become almost meditative.

As she works, her mind wanders to Helga. The old woman would have laughed at the idea of Nevaeh taking up her profession, the once-proud warrior reduced to a mere lumberjack. But there's a sense of honor in it, too—a way of paying tribute to the woman who had been the closest thing to a friend Nevaeh had ever known.

Helga had taught her many things: humility, hard work, the value of silence. But most of all, she had shown Nevaeh what it meant to live as a human, with all the struggles and sorrows that came with it. Now, as Nevaeh swings the axe with practiced ease, she feels a connection to that life—a life that is far removed from the battles and bloodshed she once knew.

The hours pass in a blur of sweat and effort. The sun climbs higher in the sky, its warmth slowly melting the chill from the air. Nevaeh strips off her coat, tossing it aside as she continues to work, her skin glistening with perspiration. The physical labor is exhausting, but it's a good kind of exhaustion, one that leaves her muscles pleasantly sore and her mind clear.

She moves with the grace of a warrior, every motion calculated and efficient. Her strength makes the work easier, but she's careful not to rely on it too much. Helga's lessons are still fresh in her mind, and Nevaeh is determined to honor them. She wants to earn the blisters on her hands, the ache in her shoulders, the satisfaction of a job well done.

By midday, the tree is fully processed, its branches piled neatly to one side, and the logs stacked in a careful, orderly manner. Nevaeh wipes the sweat from her brow, her chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. She looks over her work, feeling a rare sense of accomplishment.

But there's still more to do. Always more. The forest is vast, and there are more trees to fell, more wood to chop, more work to be done. Nevaeh grabs the axe again, her grip firm as she approaches the next tree. She pauses for a moment, letting her gaze drift over the clearing, taking in the quiet beauty of the woods. It's a peaceful place, untouched by the wars and conflicts that have shaped so much of her life.

In this moment, she feels almost human. The thought is both comforting and unsettling. She doesn't belong here, not really, but for now, this is where she needs to be. The world outside may be chaotic, full of dangers and uncertainties, but here in the woods, there is only the work. And for Nevaeh, that is enough.

She swings the axe again, the sound of the blade meeting wood ringing out through the forest. The tree shudders under the impact, but Nevaeh doesn't stop. She pours all of her strength, all of her focus, into the task at hand, letting the physical exertion drive away the thoughts that threaten to overwhelm her.

This is her life now—simple, honest, and demanding. There's no room for arrogance here, no place for the pride that once defined her. She is just another worker, another soul trying to make a place for herself in a world that she's still learning to understand.

As the day wears on, Nevaeh loses herself in the rhythm of the work. Each swing of the axe, each creak of the trees, each drop of sweat that falls from her brow—all of it merges into a singular purpose. She is not a warrior here, not a goddess or a hero. She is just Nevaeh, a woman with a past she can't escape, but with a future that, for the first time, feels like it might be her own.

The sun begins to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees. Nevaeh finally pauses, her body aching with fatigue but her mind strangely at peace. She wipes her hands on her trousers, looking over the work she's done. It's good, solid work—work that Helga would have been proud of.

The morning sun filters through the dense canopy of trees, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. The air is thick with the scent of pine and fresh earth, the silence only broken by the rhythmic thud of an axe splitting wood. Nevaeh stands in the clearing, her white tank top clinging to her sweat-slicked skin as she works, muscles rippling with each powerful swing. Her dark hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, sways with her movements, and her breath comes in steady, controlled bursts.

She's been at this for hours, the repetitive motion grounding her, keeping the storm of emotions at bay. Each strike of the axe is a release, each crack of wood a reminder that she's still here, still fighting, even if the battle has changed.

Unbeknownst to her, a pair of eyes watches from the edge of the clearing. Clark Kent stands just beyond the treeline, his tall frame blending into the shadows as he observes her in silence. He's found her after all this time, the woman who had knocked him clear off his feet with a single punch. The memory of that night, of the storm and her defiance, has lingered in his mind ever since.

Now, seeing her again, he can't help but marvel at her strength, her raw power. She's different, he knew that from the moment she sent him flying through the air. But there's something else too, something more than just physical strength. It's in the way she moves, the way she wields the axe as if it's an extension of herself. There's grace in her brutality, a fluidity in her motions that speaks of years—no, centuries—of experience.

Clark's eyes trace the lines of her shoulders, the way her muscles flex and release with each swing. The white tank top she wears reveals the sculpted definition of her arms and back, the hard-earned product of a lifetime of battles. He's seen strength before, in others like him, but this is different. This is something ancient, something that goes beyond the bounds of human or even Kryptonian.

For a moment, he considers turning back, leaving her to her solitude. But something holds him there, rooted to the spot. It's not just curiosity, though there's plenty of that; it's a deeper sense of connection, an instinct that tells him they're not so different after all. He has no idea who or what she is, but he knows one thing for certain: she's not human. At least, not entirely.

The thought of approaching her stirs something in him—a mixture of caution and determination. He takes a step forward, then another, his movements slow and deliberate as he crosses the clearing. He's only a few paces behind her when she suddenly stops, the axe poised mid-swing.

Without warning, Nevaeh pivots on her heel, her eyes narrowing as she locks onto him. In the blink of an eye, she hurls the axe toward him, the blade spinning through the air with deadly precision. Clark's reflexes kick in, his hand snapping out to catch the axe just before it reaches him. The impact reverberates through his arm, but he holds it steady, the weight of the weapon familiar in his grasp.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Nevaeh stands still, her expression unreadable, while Clark remains where he is, holding the axe aloft. The silence between them is thick with tension, each of them sizing the other up.

Finally, Nevaeh breaks the silence, her voice calm but laced with a subtle challenge, "Can I have that back?"

Clark considers her request, then with a small nod, tosses the axe back to her. She catches it effortlessly, not even a flicker of strain in her grip as she spins it once in her hand before lowering it to her side.

He's impressed—he won't deny that. But there's more to this woman than just physical prowess, and he's determined to find out what.

"You're strong," He says, his voice carrying just enough weight to show he means it as a compliment, but also as an observation.

Nevaeh snorts, a dry, humorless sound as she turns back to the log she's been working on, "You don't say."

With that, she drives the axe into the wood once more, splitting it clean in two with a single stroke. Clark steps closer, though he keeps a respectful distance, "You're different, too. Like me."

This time, Nevaeh doesn't hold back her laughter. It's a short, sharp bark, filled with disbelief rather than mirth. She pauses, resting the axe on her shoulder as she glances over at him, her eyes gleaming with something that's not quite amusement.

"You think you're anything like me?" She asks, her tone incredulous.

He shrugs, undeterred by her skepticism, " You're not from here, are you?"

Nevaeh's expression hardens, her gaze turning cold, "That's none of your business."

Clark raises his hands in a placating gesture, "I'm not here to pry. I just... I understand what it's like to not belong."

For a moment, she says nothing, her eyes narrowing as if she's weighing his words, searching for hidden motives. Then she lets out a slow breath, her posture relaxing slightly, "Not belonging isn't the same as not knowing who—or what—you are."

Clark tilts his head, genuinely curious, "And you do know?"

Nevaeh's grip on the axe tightens, her knuckles turning white, "I know enough."

He waits, sensing that there's more she wants to say. When she doesn't continue, he takes a step closer, his voice gentle, "Maybe you can help me understand, then. I've been searching for answers, for... something. I don't even know what, exactly. But it feels like I'm just stumbling around in the dark."

Nevaeh stops her work entirely, letting the axe drop to her side as she turns to face him fully. The air between them is thick with unspoken tension, the weight of their shared otherness hanging heavy.

"Knowledge is a burden," She says quietly, her voice edged with a bitterness that surprises him, "Once you learn the truth, there's no going back."

Clark meets her gaze, his blue eyes steady, "Maybe. But it's a burden I'm willing to carry."

She regards him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she turns away and raises the axe once more, bringing it down with a force that seems to echo through the clearing. The conversation is over as far as she's concerned.

Nevaeh plants her axe into the tree stump in front of her, the blade sinking deep into the wood with a satisfying thud. She wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her eyes still on Clark. He's just standing there, watching her like some kind of sentinel, his presence both imposing and oddly comforting. She's not sure what to make of him—this man who seems so out of place, yet so determined to stay.

"If you're not leaving," She says, her voice laced with irritation, "you could at least make yourself useful."

Clark doesn't hesitate. He nods, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There's a quiet confidence in his demeanor, a steadiness that contrasts with the tempest of emotions she's been battling for what feels like an eternity.

He walks over to a massive log that hasn't yet been split into smaller pieces, the sheer size of it dwarfing everything else in the clearing. It's the kind of log that would take her several swings to break down, and even then, it would be a struggle to move. She watches him approach it, curious to see what he'll do.

"Don't hurt yourself," She says, a hint of sarcasm in her tone, "It's heavy."

Clark doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he bends down, wraps one hand around the log's thick trunk, and with a single effortless motion, lifts it into the air. The sight is almost surreal, like something out of a dream. He doesn't even break a sweat as he carries the log over to where she's standing.

When he drops it at her feet, the earth beneath them trembles from the impact. Nevaeh's eyes widen slightly, but she quickly masks her surprise, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Their gazes lock, a silent challenge passing between them.

"I'll manage," Clark says simply, his voice calm, as if what he just did was the most natural thing in the world.

A moment of silence stretches out between them, thick with tension and something else—something unspoken, yet palpable. Nevaeh studies him, trying to piece together this puzzle of a man who seems so ordinary on the surface, yet clearly isn't.

"What kind of accent is that?" She asks, her tone more curious than confrontational.

Clark blinks, momentarily thrown by the change in topic.

"American," He replies after a beat, "I'm from Kansas."

"Kansas," Nevaeh repeats, rolling the word around in her mouth as if it's foreign to her. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she narrows her eyes at him, "Where are you from originally?"

The question lingers in the air, heavy with implication. Clark's expression falters, his usual steady composure cracking just enough to reveal the uncertainty beneath. He hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the question.

"I have no idea," He admits quietly, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

There's a vulnerability in his voice that surprises even him.

Another moment of silence follows, this one filled with the weight of shared unknowns. Nevaeh watches him carefully, her mind racing with possibilities. She knows what it's like to be adrift, to wander through life with questions that have no answers. But this man—he's different. He's not just searching for answers; he's searching for himself.

"You really don't know what you are, do you?" she asks, her voice softer now, almost pitying.

Clark shakes his head, his eyes dropping to the ground as if the truth of it is too heavy to bear.

"No," He murmurs, "I don't."

Nevaeh lets out a slow breath, her gaze drifting away from him, out to the forest that surrounds them. She's silent for a long time, lost in her thoughts. When she finally speaks again, her voice is low, almost resigned, "It's better that way."

Clark looks up at her, frowning, "How can you say that?"

Her tone is bitter as she replies, "Once you know, you can't un-know. You can't go back to being ignorant. And sometimes, it's easier to live in the dark than to face the light."

Clark studies her, trying to read the emotions behind her words. There's something deeply wounded about her, something that goes beyond the surface. He wants to ask her more, to understand what she's been through, but he knows better than to push. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he changes the subject, sensing that they've reached a point where they need to step back before they can move forward.

"So," He says, gesturing to the pile of logs behind her, "need a hand?"

Nevaeh glances at the wood, then back at him. For a moment, she seems to be considering his offer, weighing the pros and cons. Finally, she gives a small nod.

"Sure," She says, her voice carefully neutral.

Clark smiles, a genuine one this time, and steps forward to help. They work in silence for a while, the only sounds being the rhythmic thuds of the axe and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. Despite the tension that lingers between them, there's a sense of camaraderie in the shared labor, a connection that neither of them fully understands but both can feel.

As they continue, Clark finds himself sneaking glances at her, admiring the way she moves with such precision and power. There's a raw beauty in her strength, a fierce determination that he can't help but respect. He's met many strong people in his life, but none quite like her. There's something ancient about her, something that goes beyond the physical.

For her part, Nevaeh is keenly aware of his presence, the way he matches her pace without breaking a sweat. It's both irritating and intriguing. She's used to being the strongest, the fastest, the most capable. But this man—this stranger from Kansas—seems to be her equal, at least in some ways.

The crackling fire is the only sound between them, the flames casting flickering shadows against the walls of the small cabin. Nevaeh sits across from Clark, a simple wooden bowl of stew cradled in her hands. The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her features and the weariness in her eyes. Clark, seated on an old stool, watches her carefully, noting the way she grips the bowl a little too tightly, as if grounding herself with its warmth.

The silence is thick, but Clark doesn't mind. He's learned that sometimes silence says more than words ever could. Still, he can't shake the feeling that there's more to this woman than meets the eye. He's spent enough time around people to know when someone's carrying a heavy burden, and Nevaeh's is practically visible in the way she carries herself—in the way her shoulders are always tense, her gaze always guarded.

"So..." Clark begins, trying to keep his tone light, "how long have you been out here?"

Nevaeh doesn't look up, her gaze fixed on the stew as she stirs it absentmindedly.

"A while," She replies curtly, her voice devoid of any interest in continuing the conversation.

Clark waits for her to elaborate, but when it becomes clear that she won't, he tries another approach.

"It must get lonely," He says, taking a sip of his own stew, "Being out here by yourself."

Nevaeh's jaw tightens, her grip on the bowl tightening even further.

"I manage," She says, her tone clipped.

He can sense her walls going up, can almost see the barriers she's erected around herself. But he's not deterred. There's a gentleness to Clark's persistence, a quiet determination to break through the armor she's so carefully crafted.

"What brought you here?" He asks, his voice soft, non-threatening, "I mean, a place like this isn't exactly where most people choose to settle down."

Nevaeh finally looks up at him, her eyes narrowing as if trying to discern his intentions.

"Most people don't choose the life I've led," She says sharply, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Clark winces slightly at her tone but doesn't back down. He's seen this kind of defense mechanism before—the need to push people away before they can get too close.

"I didn't mean to pry," He says gently.

The word seems to strike a nerve. Nevaeh's eyes flash with something—anger, maybe, or pain—before she looks away, her expression hardening once more.

"I'm not interested in sharing my life story with a stranger," She snaps, her voice laced with bitterness.

Clark's quiet for a moment, absorbing the sting of her words. He's about to apologize when Nevaeh suddenly sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," She mutters, more to herself than to him, "I don't mean to be... like this. I just can't help it sometimes."

Clark's brow furrows in concern. He doesn't take her outburst personally—he can see that it's more about her than about him.

"It's okay," He says softly, "We all have our days."

Nevaeh shakes her head, setting her bowl down on the ground beside her.

"Helga always said I needed to learn how to be kinder," She murmurs, almost as if she's speaking to herself.

Clark leans forward slightly, intrigued, "Helga?"

Nevaeh's eyes flicker with a mixture of fondness and sorrow.

"She took care of me," She says simply, " But... she wouldn't be proud of the way I turned out."

Clark watches her carefully, noting the way her hands tremble slightly as she speaks.

"I'm sure she'd be proud of the strength you have," He says, choosing his words carefully.

Nevaeh laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"Strength," She repeats, the word bitter on her tongue, "What good is strength if it only brings pain?"

Clark doesn't have an answer for that, so he just lets the silence stretch between them. He knows better than to try to offer hollow platitudes or meaningless reassurances. Instead, he searches for something, anything, that might connect with her.

After a long moment, he decides to take a different approach.

"You know," He begins, his tone casual, "I heard a story once about the Valkyries of Asgard. They were warriors, strong and fearless, who chose the souls of the bravest soldiers to bring to Valhalla."

Nevaeh's reaction is immediate. Her eyes widen in disbelief, her breath catching in her throat. She stares at him, the shock evident on her face.

"How did you know?" She whispers, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

Clark blinks, genuinely confused, "Know what?"

Nevaeh blinks rapidly, her mind racing. She realizes she's said too much, that she's let her guard slip.

"Never mind," She says quickly, her voice tense.

For a moment, she considers telling him. But then she remembers the burden of that knowledge, how it's shaped her life in ways she can't undo. She remembers the pain of knowing who she is, and what she's lost because of it.

Clark studies her, noting the way her eyes have hardened once more, the way she's retreated back into her shell. He doesn't understand what she's hiding, but he knows enough to respect her boundaries. He nods, accepting her words, even though he knows there's more to the story.

She picks up her bowl of stew again, taking a slow, measured bite. The warmth of the food does little to chase away the cold that's settled in her bones.

As the fire crackles on, casting long shadows across the cabin, Clark decides that he's not going to give up. He's going to stick around, no matter how much she tries to push him away. Because he knows that, deep down, she needs someone to believe in her. And maybe, just maybe, he can be that person.

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