Nevaeh sits by the window of her small, modest home, the soft glow of the evening sun casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The room is quiet, save for the distant sound of birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves outside. It's a peaceful scene, one that should bring her comfort, but instead, it only stirs a deep sense of unease within her.

She's been alive for centuries, longer than she cares to count, and in that time, she has seen and done more than most mortals could ever imagine. She's fought in countless battles, slain enemies with a brutality that would make even the fiercest of warriors tremble, and led armies into the heat of war with a ferocity unmatched by any other. As Erika, she was a force to be reckoned with—a warrior, a leader, a Valkyrie.

But that life feels distant now, like a story she once heard but no longer remembers in full. It's as if Erika was someone else entirely, a different person with different desires and different beliefs. The name itself feels foreign on her tongue, a relic of a past she's tried desperately to leave behind.

Nevaeh leans back in her chair, her eyes drifting to the ceiling as she lets her mind wander. The memories come unbidden, a flood of images and sensations that she's spent centuries trying to bury. She remembers the thrill of battle, the rush of adrenaline as she charged into the fray, sword in hand, her heart pounding in her chest. She remembers the cries of her enemies, the clash of steel against steel, the blood that stained the ground beneath her feet.

And she remembers the glory—the sense of purpose that filled her every time she rode into battle, the knowledge that she was doing something important, something that mattered. In those moments, she felt invincible, like she was part of something greater than herself, something that would last long after she was gone.

But that glory is gone now, lost along with the life she once knew. Asgard is a distant memory, a place she no longer belongs to, and Valhalla... Valhalla is a dream that will never be hers. The thought is a knife in her heart, a wound that will never heal, no matter how many years pass.

Nevaeh closes her eyes, trying to push the memories away, but they cling to her like a shadow, always just at the edge of her mind. She doesn't want to remember, doesn't want to think about the life she's lost, the glory that was once hers. She doesn't want to be Erika anymore, doesn't want to be the warrior who lived and breathed battle, who reveled in the bloodshed and the thrill of victory.

She just wants to be Nevaeh.

She wants to be the woman who lives quietly in a small village, who helps her neighbors and spends her days chopping wood and tending to her home. She wants to feel normal, to feel like she belongs somewhere, even if it's just in this tiny corner of the world. She wants to leave the past behind, to forget about Asgard and Valhalla and all the things that came with them.

But deep down, she knows that's not possible. The past is a part of her, woven into the very fabric of her being. No matter how much she tries to bury it, it will always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to remind her of who she used to be.

She opens her eyes and looks out the window, her gaze distant as she stares at the setting sun. The light is fading, casting the world in shades of gold and orange, and for a moment, she allows herself to get lost in the beauty of it. It's a fleeting moment, but it's enough to bring her some measure of peace.

Nevaeh sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of centuries, and rises from her chair. She moves to the small wooden chest at the foot of her bed, her steps slow and deliberate, as if she's dreading what she's about to do. She kneels before the chest, her fingers trembling slightly as she reaches for the latch.

Inside is a collection of relics from her past—a sword with a blade as sharp as the day it was forged, a helmet dented and scarred from countless battles, a small, intricately carved figurine of a pegasus. Each item is a reminder of who she used to be, of the life she once lived, of the warrior she once was.

She picks up the figurine, holding it gently in her hands, her thumb tracing the smooth curves of the wood. It's a symbol of the Valkyrie she used to be, a symbol of the glory she once knew. But now, it feels like a weight around her neck, a reminder of a life that is no longer hers.

Nevaeh stares down at the figurine, her mind awash with conflicting emotions. Part of her wants to smash it, to throw it against the wall and shatter it into a thousand pieces. But another part of her, a quieter part, wants to hold onto it, to keep it as a reminder of where she came from, of who she used to be.

In the end, she does neither. Instead, she sets the figurine back in the chest and closes the lid, shutting away the memories once more. She stands and walks back to the window, her eyes drawn once again to the fading light.

As she watches the sun sink below the horizon, she feels a deep, aching sadness settle in her chest. It's a sadness that comes from knowing she will never again ride into battle, never again feel the thrill of victory, never again know the glory of a warrior's life. But it's also a sadness that comes from knowing she will never belong anywhere, not in Asgard, not in Valhalla, not even here on Earth.

She's caught between worlds, a relic of a past that no longer exists, a warrior without a purpose, a Valkyrie without a home. And that, more than anything, is what hurts the most—the knowledge that she will never truly belong anywhere.

Nevaeh turns away from the window, her expression hardening as she pushes the sadness away. She's spent centuries surviving, centuries burying her emotions, and she's not about to let them consume her now. She's Nevaeh now, not Erika, and she will find a way to live this new life, even if it means burying the past for good.

But as she moves through her home, the weight of her long life pressing down on her, she can't help but wonder if she will ever truly escape the shadow of who she once was, or if she's doomed to carry it with her for the rest of her days.

Nevaeh's muscles move with a steady, practiced rhythm as she brings the axe down, splitting the thick log into two even pieces. The sharp crack of wood echoes through the clearing, followed by the soft rustling of leaves as the wind sweeps through the trees. Sweat glistens on her brow, but she doesn't pause to wipe it away. Her mind is focused, her movements precise, each swing of the axe a testament to the strength and skill honed over centuries.

The tree she felled earlier lies in segments on the forest floor, each piece of wood neatly stacked into a growing pile. It's a task she could complete in mere moments if she truly let her strength loose, but she chooses to do it slowly, methodically. There's a certain satisfaction in the repetition, in the feel of the axe in her hands, in the weight of the wood as she lifts each piece and sets it aside. It's a simple task, mundane even, but it grounds her in a way few things can.

She's doing this for the old man who lives on the edge of the village, the one with the bad back and the gentle smile. He's too proud to ask for help, but Nevaeh noticed the way he winced when he tried to lift the axe, the way he struggled just to bend over and pick up a piece of firewood. She offered to help him before he could protest, and he finally relented with a grateful nod, though his pride kept him from saying much more.

Now, as she stands in the clearing, the scent of fresh-cut wood filling the air, she feels a strange sense of contentment. It's not the thrill of battle or the rush of victory, but it's something different, something quieter and more profound. Helping someone else, even in such a small way, stirs something inside her that she's not entirely sure she understands.

She pauses for a moment, her gaze drifting to the old man's cottage a short distance away. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, and she can just make out the faint clatter of dishes from inside. He's busying himself in the kitchen, preparing tea as a way of thanking her. The thought brings a faint smile to her lips—such a small gesture, but it feels significant in its own way.

Nevaeh returns to the task at hand, lifting another log and setting it on the chopping block. The axe swings down with a satisfying thud, and the wood splits cleanly in two. She works steadily, the pile of firewood growing larger with each swing, until finally, the tree is reduced to a neat stack of logs ready for the old man's hearth.

She straightens, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her breath is steady, her body hardly taxed by the effort, but there's a sense of accomplishment in what she's done. She gathers up the split wood, cradling the heavy logs in her arms as if they weigh nothing, and carries them to the cottage.

The old man is waiting for her at the door, his weathered face lighting up with a warm smile as he sees her approach. He steps aside, opening the door wider to let her in, and gestures toward the fireplace where the flames flicker gently. Nevaeh kneels by the hearth, carefully stacking the logs beside the fire, making sure they're within easy reach for him.

"Thank you, Nevaeh," The old man says, his voice rough with age but full of sincerity.

She nods in acknowledgment, her expression neutral, though there's a flicker of something softer in her eyes.

"It's nothing," She replies, her voice low and even, "You needed help."

"Still," He insists, "it means a lot to me. Can't do much myself these days, not like I used to."

There's a wistfulness in his tone that she recognizes all too well, a longing for the strength and vitality that age has stolen from him. It's a feeling she's known in a different form, the loss of something that once defined you, that once gave you purpose. She glances at him, studying the lines of his face, the way time has etched its mark on him, and feels a pang of empathy.

The old man steps into the small kitchen, the clink of porcelain signaling that the tea is ready, "Sit down. You've done enough work for the day. Let me make you some tea."

She hesitates for a moment, not used to accepting such simple gestures, but finally relents and sits at the small wooden table near the window. The chair creaks softly under her weight, a sound that somehow feels comforting in its familiarity. The old man pours the tea with careful hands, his movements slow and deliberate, and sets a steaming cup in front of her.

The tea is fragrant, its scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the firewood. Nevaeh wraps her hands around the cup, the warmth seeping into her skin, and takes a sip. The taste is strong and slightly bitter, but there's a comforting quality to it that she finds herself appreciating.

For a few moments, they sit in companionable silence, the crackle of the fire and the soft ticking of a clock the only sounds in the room. Nevaeh's gaze drifts to the window, where the late afternoon light filters through the glass, casting long shadows on the floor. There's a peacefulness here that she's still getting used to, a quiet that's so different from the chaos and noise of the life she once led.

"Hard to believe a young woman like you has so much strength," The old man remarks, breaking the silence, "You could chop wood for days and not even break a sweat."

Nevaeh smiles faintly, though there's a hint of sadness in her eyes.

"I've had a lot of practice," She says simply, not elaborating on the centuries of battle and bloodshed that have made her who she is.

He nods, seeming to understand that there's more to her than she's willing to share.

"You're a good soul," He says after a moment, his tone gentle.

The words catch her off guard, striking a chord deep within her. She's spent so long running from her past, from the person she used to be, that she's never stopped to consider who she is now, what she's become. The idea that she could be seen as good, that she could be something other than the warrior she once was, feels foreign to her.

"I don't know about that," She murmurs, her gaze dropping to the cup in her hands.

The old man chuckles softly, a sound full of warmth and understanding.

"You'll find your way," He says kindly, "We all do, in time."

Nevaeh doesn't respond, but his words linger in her mind as she finishes her tea. There's a part of her that wants to believe him, that wants to think that maybe, just maybe, she can find a new path, a new purpose. But there's another part of her, the part that remembers the blood and the battles and the glory, that doubts she'll ever truly escape the shadow of her past.

As she stands to leave, the old man thanks her again, his gratitude evident in the way he clasps her hand in his. Nevaeh nods, offering him a small smile before stepping outside into the cool evening air.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, and Nevaeh breathes in the crisp air, letting it fill her lungs. She glances back at the cottage, the warm glow of the fire visible through the window, and feels a strange sense of contentment settle over her.

Helping someone, doing something good—it's a feeling she's not used to, but it's one she thinks she might like. It's not the thrill of battle or the rush of victory, but it's something else, something quieter and more enduring. And as she walks back toward her own home, she can't help but wonder if this is the path she's meant to take, if this is where she belongs now.

For the first time in a long while, Nevaeh feels a flicker of hope, a sense that maybe she's not as lost as she thought. Maybe, just maybe, she can find a way to reconcile the person she used to be with the person she's becoming. And as the last light of day fades from the sky, she lets that hope guide her steps, one small, uncertain step at a time.

Nevaeh walks down the narrow dirt path, the worn soles of her boots pressing into the earth with a steady rhythm. The fading light of the evening bathes the landscape in a soft, golden hue, and a gentle breeze rustles through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and freshly cut wood. She has a faint smile on her face, a rare expression of contentment as she reflects on the events of the day. Helping the old man, sharing a simple cup of tea—these small acts have left a warmth in her chest that she's still trying to understand.

The cottage she calls home is just ahead, nestled at the edge of the forest, its roof barely visible through the thick canopy of trees. The sight of it brings a sense of comfort, a feeling of belonging that has eluded her for so long. But as she takes another step, something shifts in the air, a subtle change that sets her on edge.

She slows her pace, her instincts sharpening. There's a feeling that washes over her, a sensation of being watched, of not being alone. Nevaeh's smile fades as she stops in her tracks, her gaze sweeping over the trees, searching for the source of the unease. The breeze dies down, leaving the forest unnervingly quiet, and her senses prick with heightened awareness.

Then, she looks up.

A dark silhouette hovers in the sky above her, just beyond the reach of the trees, the figure outlined against the deepening twilight. Nevaeh's breath catches in her throat as the figure begins to descend, moving with a slow, deliberate grace. The fabric of a long, flowing cape flutters in the air, the color unmistakable even in the dim light.

Red.

Her heart pounds in her chest, a sudden rush of emotion surging through her—shock, disbelief, anger, and something else, something deeper and more complicated. She watches, rooted to the spot, as the figure lands lightly on the ground a few feet in front of her, the cape settling around broad shoulders.

Clark.

His presence is commanding, his figure imposing even in the soft light of dusk. He stands tall, the iconic 'S' emblem on his chest catching the last rays of the sun. His suit, a deep blue that contrasts starkly with the red of his cape, clings to his muscular frame, a symbol of the hero he's become. His face is clean-shaven, his jawline sharp, and his dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.

Superman.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The world seems to hold its breath, the silence between them heavy and charged with unspoken words. Nevaeh feels a storm of emotions roiling inside her, each one vying for dominance—anger, hurt, longing, love. She clenches her fists, the leather of her gloves creaking under the pressure, as she fights the urge to let the anger consume her.

He left.

And now he's here, standing before her as if nothing has changed, as if he can just reappear in her life and expect her to understand.

Her breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps as she struggles to keep her emotions in check. She wants to yell at him, to demand answers, to make him feel the pain she's carried since the day he walked away. But as she stares into his eyes, those familiar, piercing blue eyes, something inside her softens, a deep ache surfacing from the depths of her heart.

She hates him for leaving, for abandoning her when she needed him most. But she can't deny the overwhelming relief she feels at seeing him again, alive and whole, standing in front of her like a living, breathing paradox.

Clark remains silent, his expression unreadable, though there's a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt. His hands hang at his sides, the fingers curling slightly as if he's unsure of what to do with them. The tension between them is palpable, a thick, almost tangible force that seems to vibrate in the air.

The silence stretches on, each second feeling like an eternity. Nevaeh's gaze never wavers from his, searching for something, anything that might explain why he's here, why he's come back. But all she sees is the man she once loved, the man she still loves, despite everything.

Her mind races with a thousand thoughts, a thousand questions, but none of them make it past her lips. Instead, she takes a slow, deliberate step forward, her boots crunching softly on the gravel beneath her feet. She moves as if in a trance, drawn toward him by a force she can't resist, a pull that defies reason.

Clark's eyes widen slightly as she closes the distance between them, but he doesn't move, doesn't speak. He watches her with a mix of apprehension and anticipation, as if he's waiting for her to make the first move, to decide what happens next.

Nevaeh stops just inches away from him, her gaze locked onto his. She can feel the heat radiating off his body, the familiar warmth that once brought her comfort, now a painful reminder of what she lost. Her heart hammers in her chest, her pulse quickening as she slowly reaches up, her hand trembling slightly as it hovers just above his chest.

For a moment, she hesitates, her mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. The anger, the hurt, the love—they all clash and collide, leaving her torn and uncertain. But then, as if some invisible barrier shatters, she lets go of the anger, the hurt, the confusion, and allows herself to feel the one emotion she's been trying to suppress.

Longing.

Her hand presses against his chest, over the emblem that marks him as Superman, but in this moment, it's not Superman she's touching. It's Clark, the man she knows, the man she loves. Her fingers curl slightly, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Clark's breath hitches at the contact, his eyes darkening with something that mirrors her own emotions. He doesn't pull away; he doesn't push her back. Instead, he stands perfectly still, his body tense, as if he's bracing himself for whatever comes next.

Nevaeh's heart aches with a longing so intense it feels like it might consume her. She wants to say something, to break the silence that hangs between them, but the words catch in her throat, strangled by the emotions she's fought so hard to keep at bay.

And then, without warning, she closes the gap between them, her lips finding his in a kiss that's anything but gentle.

It's a kiss born of desperation, of need, of all the emotions she's been holding back since the moment he left. Her hands fist in the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer as if she's afraid he'll disappear again if she lets go. There's an urgency to the kiss, a raw intensity that speaks of everything they've left unsaid.

Clark stiffens for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the suddenness of her actions, but then he responds, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against him. The kiss deepens, becomes more demanding, more fervent, as if they're both trying to make up for lost time, for all the moments they've missed.

The world around them fades into nothingness, the only thing that matters is the feel of his lips on hers, the taste of him, the way he holds her like she's the most precious thing in the world. There's a familiarity to it, a sense of rightness that makes her heart swell with something she's almost forgotten—hope.

But there's also a newness, a different kind of intensity, born from the time they've spent apart, from the pain and the longing that have shaped them both. It's a kiss filled with contradictions, with love and anger, with desire and fear, with everything they are and everything they've yet to become.

When they finally pull away, both of them are breathing hard, their chests heaving with the force of their emotions. Nevaeh's lips are swollen, her heart racing, and as she looks up at him, she sees the same conflict reflected in his eyes.

They stand there, still locked in each other's embrace, the world around them slowly coming back into focus. The wind whispers through the trees, the sky darkens as the last light of day fades, but neither of them moves, neither of them speaks. They just stare at each other, the silence between them now filled with a different kind of tension—one that's more fragile, more vulnerable.

Nevaeh feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back, refusing to let them fall. She won't cry, not now, not when she's finally found him again, not when there's still so much left to say.

Clark's hand comes up to cup her cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. His thumb brushes over her skin, wiping away the tear that managed to escape, and for a moment, she leans into his touch, allowing herself to take comfort in it.

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