The days blur together as Nevaeh navigates the labyrinth of her grief, each one dragging her further into the depths of a sorrow she can neither escape nor fully embrace. It is as though time has lost its meaning, the passing of days marked only by the shifting of the sun in the sky and the changing of the seasons. Two years have passed since she last saw Clark, since she last felt the warmth of his embrace, the strength of his arms around her, and the loss has not lessened. If anything, it has only grown heavier, a burden she carries with her every moment of every day.

Some days, she manages to find a semblance of peace. She wakes early, her body moving on autopilot as she tends to the small farm she has built for herself. She feeds the chickens, milks the goats, and harvests the vegetables she has grown with her own hands. There is a simple pleasure in the routine, in the quiet, repetitive tasks that keep her grounded, that remind her she is still alive, still capable of something, even if it is only this.

On those days, she feels almost normal. She forces herself to smile at the villagers who pass by, to nod in greeting as they wave to her. They know her now, know the woman she has become since Clark's absence, and they treat her with a cautious respect, as though they sense the storm that brews just beneath the surface.

But then there are the other days, the dark days, when the weight of her grief becomes too much to bear. On those days, she doesn't rise with the sun. She stays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind trapped in a loop of memories she cannot escape. She sees Clark's face, hears his voice, feels the ghost of his touch on her skin, and the pain is so intense it feels like a physical wound, a knife twisting in her chest.

On those days, she finds herself in the tavern, nursing a mug of ale as she sits in the corner, her eyes distant, her thoughts elsewhere. The tavern is always bustling with life, the clatter of mugs and the murmur of voices filling the air, but Nevaeh remains apart from it all, an island unto herself. The villagers avoid her on those days, sensing the danger in her silence, the barely contained rage that simmers just beneath the surface.

It is on one of those dark days that she finds herself in the tavern again, the familiar weight of the mug in her hand, the bitter taste of the ale on her tongue. The tavern is crowded, the usual patrons gathered around the tables, laughing and talking as though the world outside doesn't exist. Nevaeh tries to lose herself in the noise, in the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, but it does little to ease the ache inside her.

She takes another long drink, the ale burning a path down her throat, and for a moment, she allows herself to forget. To forget the pain, the loss, the emptiness that has become her constant companion. But it is only a moment, and then the memories come rushing back, flooding her mind like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.

She clenches her fists, the muscles in her arms tensing as she fights the urge to lash out, to break something, anything, just to release the pressure building inside her. But she doesn't. She has learned to control it, to keep it contained, even on the worst days. Instead, she takes a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm, to keep the storm at bay for just a little longer.

But then she hears it—a voice, sharp and mocking, cutting through the haze of her thoughts like a knife, "There she is, the fallen Valkyrie. What's the matter, lass? Lost your wings?"

The words hit her like a blow, and she looks up, her eyes narrowing as she locks onto the source of the taunt. It's a man, one of the regulars, his face flushed with drink, a sneer curling his lips as he stares at her with a mixture of contempt and amusement.

Nevaeh's heart pounds in her chest, the blood roaring in her ears as a familiar anger rises within her. She knows she should ignore him, should let it go, but the pain inside her is too much, too raw, and she can't stop herself.

She rises from her seat, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor as she pushes it back. The tavern falls silent, the other patrons watching her with a mix of curiosity and fear, knowing what she is capable of, knowing the strength she possesses.

Nevaeh steps forward, her eyes locked on the man who dared to mock her, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. The man falters, the sneer slipping from his face as he realizes his mistake, but it's too late.

She reaches him in two strides, her hand lashing out to grab him by the collar, lifting him off the ground with ease. The room holds its breath, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself is trembling.

Nevaeh stares into the man's eyes, her own burning with a cold fury.

"Do you think this is a game?" She hisses, her voice low and dangerous, "Do you think you can mock me, and there will be no consequences?"

The man chokes out a wordless sound, his eyes wide with fear, and for a moment, Nevaeh considers ending it, letting her rage consume her, letting it all go. But then she sees it—something in his eyes, something that reminds her of the countless lives she has taken, the blood that stains her hands, the faces of those she has killed flashing before her eyes like a grim parade.

She releases him, letting him drop to the floor in a heap, gasping for breath. The tension in the room eases, the other patrons exhaling in relief, but Nevaeh doesn't care. She turns on her heel, her hands trembling with the effort of restraining herself, and strides out of the tavern, leaving the stunned silence in her wake.

Outside, the air is cool and crisp, the sky darkening with the approach of night. Nevaeh walks quickly, her steps echoing in the empty streets, her heart still pounding with adrenaline. She doesn't know where she's going, doesn't care. She just needs to get away, to escape the darkness inside her that threatens to consume her.

She reaches the edge of the village and keeps walking, her feet carrying her into the woods, the trees closing in around her like a cocoon. She walks until she can no longer see the village behind her, until the only sound is the rustle of leaves and the distant call of an owl.

Finally, she stops, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself together. She sinks to the ground, her back against a tree, and closes her eyes, letting the tears she has been holding back finally fall.

She hates this—this weakness, this pain that she can't seem to escape. She wants to be strong, to be the warrior she once was, but she can't. Not without him. Not without the one person who made her feel whole, who made her believe that there was still something good in this world.

But he's gone, and all that's left is the emptiness, the grief that gnaws at her like a hungry beast, tearing away at her soul bit by bit until there's nothing left.

Nevaeh wraps her arms around herself, as if she can somehow hold herself together, keep the pieces from falling apart. But she knows it's a losing battle. The grief is too strong, the pain too deep, and she is only one person, one broken soul trying to survive in a world that seems determined to break her.

She stays there, in the darkness, the weight of her grief pressing down on her like a physical force. She wants to scream, to rage against the gods, against the universe, but all she can do is cry, the tears flowing freely now, soaking into the earth beneath her.

And so she sits, alone in the darkness, the sound of her sobs the only thing breaking the silence, as the world continues to turn, indifferent to her pain, her suffering.

This is her life now—a constant struggle between the light and the dark, between the desire to be good and the overwhelming urge to give in to the anger, the despair. She knows she must find a way to move forward, to live with the grief, but she doesn't know how. Not yet.

The night is heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, the air cool and thick, clinging to Nevaeh as she stumbles through the narrow alleys of the village. The cobblestones beneath her feet are slick, threatening to send her sprawling with every uneven step. She doesn't care. She barely feels the cold wind nipping at her skin, or the drizzle dampening her clothes. She's long past caring about anything.

Her mind is a fog, clouded by the effects of the alcohol that burns through her veins. She had intended to drink just enough to dull the pain, to quiet the relentless voice in her head that whispers of failure, of unworthiness. But as always, she had gone too far. Now, the world spins around her in a dizzying blur, and every breath feels like a struggle.

The tavern is long behind her, its noisy warmth left for the solitude of the night. She doesn't know where she's going, only that she needs to keep moving, needs to outrun the demons that have haunted her for too long.

But there's no escape from them. Not really. The shadows of her past cling to her like a second skin, the weight of her exile, her loss, pressing down on her like a crushing burden. And then there's Clark—his absence is a wound that refuses to heal, a gaping hole in her heart that nothing can fill.

She rounds a corner, nearly losing her balance, and leans heavily against a wall, her head spinning. She closes her eyes, willing the world to stop its sickening tilt, but it doesn't. The alcohol has her in its grip, and all she can do is ride the wave of nausea and disorientation until it passes.

A voice cuts through the haze, low and steady, like a knife slicing through the fog in her mind, "Nevaeh Hunt."

Her eyes snap open, and she pushes herself off the wall, her senses sharpening despite the alcohol still clouding her thoughts. The voice is familiar, but not in the way that brings comfort. It's a voice she's heard before, a voice that carries a weight of authority, of knowledge.

She turns slowly, her eyes narrowing as she searches the shadows for the source of the voice. And then she sees him—standing a few paces away, his tall frame almost blending into the darkness, but not quite. The rain glistens off his black coat, the collar turned up against the wind, and his face is partially obscured by the shadows.

Bruce Wayne.

Of course, it would be him. The man with the seemingly endless resources, the man who knows too much about too many people. It's almost fitting that he would find her here, at her lowest, in the middle of the night, with no one else around.

"What do you want?" Her voice is slurred, rough from the alcohol and the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

She doesn't have the patience for this, not tonight. Not ever.

Bruce takes a step forward, but his posture is careful, non-threatening, as though he knows how close she is to snapping. He's always been good at reading people, at knowing just what buttons to press—or avoid pressing, "I came to talk."

"Talk?" She laughs bitterly, the sound harsh and humorless, "About what? About how you think you can recruit me for your little league of heroes? Is that it?"

His silence is answer enough. She shakes her head, the motion making her dizzy, and she presses a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself, "You don't know anything about me, Wayne. You don't know what I've done, who I really am. You're wasting your time."

"I know more than you think."

His voice is calm, unyielding, like the steady beat of a drum, "I know you're strong. I know you've faced things most people can't even imagine. And I know you're capable of helping us."

She clenches her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fights the urge to lash out, to make him leave her alone. But she doesn't. Not because she doesn't want to, but because a part of her—a small, quiet part—knows he's not wrong. That she could help, that she could do more than wallow in her own misery.

But that part is buried deep beneath layers of guilt, of anger, of self-loathing. And right now, those layers are too thick, too impenetrable.

"You don't know me," She says again, her voice shaking with barely restrained fury, "You don't know who I am. You know the name Nevaeh Hunt, but that's not who I really am. That's not who I was before... before everything."

Bruce's gaze doesn't waver, his eyes steady and unwavering, "Then tell me."

She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. As if she could explain everything, as if she could make him understand what it's like to be cast out by the very gods she once served, to be left to wander the earth, alone and purposeless. As if she could make him understand the depth of her grief, her guilt, her unworthiness.

But she doesn't laugh. She just shakes her head, her shoulders slumping as the weight of it all threatens to crush her.

"I'm not worthy," She says quietly, the words barely more than a whisper, "Not anymore."

He steps closer, his presence somehow both imposing and reassuring, a contradiction she can't quite reconcile, "Worthy of what?"

She meets his gaze, and for a moment, she sees a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding, perhaps. Or maybe it's just pity. She doesn't know, and she doesn't care.

"Worthy of anything," She says, her voice stronger now, fueled by the anger and frustration that burn inside her, "Of being a hero, of fighting for something bigger than myself. Of—"

She cuts herself off, the words choking in her throat as she thinks of Clark, of the life they could have had, of the future that was ripped away from her.

Bruce studies her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods, as if coming to some decision, "We all have our demons, Nevaeh. We all have our pasts, our regrets. But that doesn't mean we can't make a difference."

She laughs again, but this time it's softer, almost sad, "You really don't get it, do you?"

He doesn't respond, just waits, giving her the space to speak if she wants to. And for a moment, she considers telling him—telling him everything, about her true identity, about Odin, about her exile, about the things she's done. But she doesn't. She can't. It's not something that can be explained in a few words, and even if it could be, she's not sure he would believe her.

Instead, she takes a step back, putting more distance between them, "Go home, Bruce. Find someone else to fight your battles. I'm not the person you're looking for."

He doesn't argue, doesn't try to persuade her further. He just nods, a gesture of understanding, of acceptance, "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

She doesn't answer, just turns and walks away, her steps unsteady, but purposeful. She can feel his eyes on her back as she goes, but she doesn't look back. She can't. Not now. Not ever.

As she leaves him behind, the darkness swallowing her whole, she feels a strange mixture of emotions—relief, that he didn't push her further; guilt, that she couldn't bring herself to help; and a deep, abiding sadness that she can't quite put into words.

She knows she's not worthy, not after everything she's done, everything she's failed to do. And until she can find a way to make peace with that, to forgive herself, she can't be the hero Bruce Wayne wants her to be.

For now, she'll continue as she is, lost and wandering, searching for something she's not even sure exists. But she knows one thing for certain—she's not ready to be a part of anything bigger than herself. Not yet. And maybe, just maybe, not ever.

The morning air is sharp and crisp, the kind that bites at exposed skin and turns breath into puffs of mist. The forest surrounding Nevaeh's small cabin is quiet, the trees standing sentinel in the early light, their branches heavy with the remnants of last night's rain. It's a peaceful scene, one that should bring a sense of calm, of routine.

But today is not like other days.

Nevaeh stumbles out of the cabin, her movements clumsy, her footing unsteady. The door slams shut behind her with a jarring bang, and she winces at the sound, her head pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat. The hangover is fierce, a throbbing reminder of the countless drinks she downed the night before, and the night before that. Her hand grips the handle of her axe tightly, the familiar weight of it grounding her, but not enough to dispel the fog in her mind.

She makes her way to the chopping block, the logs stacked high beside it, waiting to be split for the fire that will keep her warm through the long nights. Her breath is ragged, each exhale a shaky sigh as she forces herself to focus on the task at hand. But her hands are trembling, her grip on the axe unsteady, and she can feel the alcohol still coursing through her veins, dulling her senses, making everything harder.

The world tilts slightly as she raises the axe, her vision blurring at the edges. She blinks hard, trying to clear her head, but it only makes the dizziness worse. She lets out a growl of frustration, setting her stance wider, trying to find balance. Her legs feel like they're made of lead, heavy and uncooperative, but she grits her teeth and lifts the axe over her head.

The first swing is wild, the axe head missing the log entirely and slamming into the chopping block with a dull thud. The force of the blow sends a shockwave through her arms, and she stumbles backward, nearly losing her balance. A string of curses tumbles from her lips, the words slurred and incoherent, but laced with venom.

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, trying to ignore the way the world seems to sway around her. She's chopped wood a thousand times before; it's a simple task, something she can do without thinking. But today, her hands won't cooperate, her mind won't clear, and the frustration bubbles up inside her like a volcano ready to erupt.

She swings again, this time catching the edge of the log, but the axe glances off at an angle, sending it flying out of her hands. It lands a few feet away, the blade buried in the dirt. She stares at it, her vision swimming, and for a moment, she just stands there, panting, her chest heaving with the effort of simply trying to stay upright.

"Gods, why can't I just... why can't I just do this?" She mutters to herself, her voice thick with emotion.

She knows why. She knows exactly why. She's not in control—not of her body, not of her mind, and certainly not of her life. The alcohol is a crutch, something to dull the pain, to make the endless days and nights more bearable. But it's also a thief, robbing her of her strength, her clarity, her sense of self.

With a growl of frustration, she lurches forward, retrieving the axe from the ground. Her hands are shaking, her vision still blurred, but she sets her jaw in determination. She needs to do this, needs to prove to herself that she's still capable of something, even if it's just splitting a log in two.

She takes another swing, putting more force behind it, and this time the axe connects with the log. The wood splinters, but doesn't split, and she has to yank the axe free with a grunt of effort. Sweat beads on her forehead, despite the chill in the air, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, the movement unsteady.

Again, she swings, and again the log resists, the wood only cracking slightly. A scream of frustration tears from her throat, the sound echoing through the silent forest, and she lifts the axe high above her head, bringing it down with all the strength she can muster.

This time, the log splits in two, the pieces falling to the ground with a satisfying thud. But the victory is hollow, and the effort leaves her breathless, her arms trembling with fatigue. She drops the axe, letting it fall to the ground beside the chopped wood, and takes a step back, her legs threatening to give out beneath her.

She sinks to her knees in the dirt, her head hanging low, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world feels too heavy, too loud, the weight of everything pressing down on her until she can barely breathe. She can feel the tears welling up, the sting of them in her eyes, but she blinks them back, refusing to let them fall.

But it's no use. The dam breaks, and the tears come anyway, hot and angry, spilling down her cheeks in silent streams. She presses her hands to her face, trying to hide from the world, from herself, but there's no escaping the reality of what she's become.

She's strong, yes. Stronger than any human, capable of feats that would leave others in awe. But right now, she feels anything but strong. She feels weak, broken, a shell of the person she once was. The weight of her grief, her guilt, is too much to bear, and she's drowning in it, the alcohol only serving to push her further down.

She cries for everything she's lost—for the home she can never return to, for the love that was ripped away from her, for the purpose she can't seem to find. She cries for the person she used to be, before the world turned its back on her, before she became a shadow of herself.

When the tears finally subside, she's left feeling hollow, drained, the sobs replaced by a deep, aching emptiness. She lifts her head, wiping her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, and looks at the pieces of wood scattered around her. It's such a small thing, chopping wood, but today it feels like a monumental task, one that has left her exhausted and defeated.

She knows she can't keep doing this, can't keep drowning her pain in alcohol, can't keep pretending that she's fine when she's anything but. But the alternative—facing her demons, confronting the past—feels impossible. She doesn't know if she has the strength to do it, doesn't know if she even wants to try.

All she knows is that she's tired. Tired of fighting, tired of failing, tired of being human. She's not supposed to be like this—weak, fragile, mortal. But here she is, broken and bleeding, a god reduced to a shadow, a warrior brought to her knees by the weight of her own existence.

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