The battleground is chaotic, a storm of clashing forces and desperate attempts to restrain a man who was once a beacon of hope but now stands as a force of unparalleled destruction. Superman—Clark—is unrecognizable, his eyes blazing with confusion and anger, his power unchecked and wild. The Justice League is scattered around him, their efforts to contain him proving futile. Even Diana, the mighty Wonder Woman, struggles to hold her ground against him, her strength and skill pushed to their limits. The ground trembles beneath their feet, the air crackling with the energy of their clash.

Clark is a tempest, his fists colliding with the Earth, sending shockwaves that ripple outward, shattering concrete and upending the very ground they stand on. His breath is heavy, labored, as though the very act of breathing is foreign to him. His eyes—once so gentle, so full of life—are now cold, lost in a haze of forgotten memories and raw, unbridled power. The man who fought for truth and justice is gone, replaced by something primal and terrifying.

The League is running out of options, their unity fraying under the weight of this impossible task. They cannot hurt him, cannot contain him, and every moment brings them closer to the brink of defeat.

And then, from above, a shadow moves across the sky, cutting through the chaos below. It's fast, too fast for most to notice at first, but then she descends—like a bolt of lightning from the heavens, a figure cloaked in shadow and light, her presence undeniable.

Nevaeh lands with a thunderous impact, the earth beneath her feet cracking and splintering from the force. She strikes the classic superhero pose, one knee bent, the other leg extended, her hand pressed to the ground to steady herself. Her armor gleams in the faint sunlight that filters through the dust and debris—a fusion of black and white, intricate and otherworldly, etched with symbols of a forgotten time. Her dual swords are strapped securely to her back, their hilts just visible over her shoulders.

Slowly, deliberately, she rises to her full height, her movements fluid, purposeful. Her hair, done in small, neat box braids, flows down her back, each braid catching the wind and swaying with a life of its own. Her eyes, sharp and focused, lock onto Clark's, and in that instant, the world seems to pause, the chaos around them fading into the background.

Clark stops. His fists, clenched and ready to strike, fall to his sides as his gaze fixes on her, confusion flickering across his features. The rage that has consumed him seems to ebb away, replaced by something softer, more human. His breathing slows, the tension in his muscles easing as he stares at her, his eyes searching, desperate to find something familiar, something to anchor him to reality.

Nevaeh takes a step forward, her boots crunching over the rubble beneath her. Her expression is calm, though her heart pounds in her chest, the sight of him—alive, but not himself—sending a wave of emotions crashing over her. She pushes them down, focusing instead on the man before her, the man she loved, still loves, despite everything.

She reaches up slowly, her hand extending toward him, not to strike, not to subdue, but to connect. The gesture is simple, but it holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words, a thousand unhealed wounds.

Clark's eyes widen, his breath catching as her hand nears his face. He doesn't move, doesn't resist, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of memory, the shards of a life he no longer remembers. And yet, in the midst of the storm that rages within him, there is a calm—a sense of peace that he cannot explain, but that he feels to his very core.

Nevaeh's fingers brush against his cheek, and it's like a spark igniting a flame. His body relaxes, his eyes softening as the fog of his confusion lifts, if only for a moment. He remembers the warmth of her touch, the softness of her voice, the way she made him feel whole, even when the weight of the world bore down on him.

Tears well up in Nevaeh's eyes as she feels him begin to return to her, the man behind the power, the heart behind the hero. Her thumb brushes across his skin, wiping away a speck of dirt, and she steps closer, her other hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

The world around them fades into insignificance, the battle, the destruction, the chaos—all of it is forgotten in the space between them, in the connection that is as undeniable as it is unbreakable. For Nevaeh, this moment is a lifeline, a tether to a life she thought she had lost forever.

Clark's hand comes up to cover hers, his fingers trembling as they curl around hers. His eyes, so full of confusion, begin to clear, recognition dawning like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night. He knows her—he knows her soul, her strength, the love that has anchored him through the darkest times.

For the first time since his resurrection, Clark smiles—small, tentative, but real. His hand tightens around hers, a silent promise, a vow that even in this new, uncertain existence, he will find his way back to her.

Nevaeh's breath hitches, her chest tight with emotion. She doesn't speak, doesn't need to; everything she wants to say, everything she feels, is conveyed in the way she looks at him, the way she holds him close. This moment is fragile, delicate, and she is afraid that if she lets go, it will shatter into a million pieces.

But Clark doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls her closer, his arms wrapping around her with a gentleness that belies his immense strength. He holds her as if she is the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing that makes sense in a world turned upside down. His breath is warm against her hair, and she can feel his heartbeat against her own, a steady rhythm that soothes the ache in her soul.

For a moment, they just stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace, the world around them forgotten. Nevaeh closes her eyes, leaning into him, her body relaxing in his hold. She breathes in his scent, the familiar mix of earth and sky, of something uniquely Clark, and it calms the storm within her, if only for a little while.

But the world doesn't stay forgotten for long. There is still a battle to be fought, still a world that needs saving, and Clark—Superman—is needed. Nevaeh knows this, understands it on a level that goes beyond mere duty. She knows he must leave, knows that he has a responsibility that goes beyond their love, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Clark pulls back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. The confusion is gone now, replaced by clarity, by the man she knows so well. He cups her face in his hands, his touch gentle, his expression full of something so deep, so profound, that it takes her breath away.

He leans down, his lips brushing against her forehead in a tender kiss, and it's as if the world stops spinning, just for a moment, just for them. When he pulls back, his eyes are full of unspoken words, of promises made and promises kept. He doesn't say goodbye; he doesn't have to.

Then, without another word, Clark lifts Nevaeh into his arms, holding her close to his chest as he rises into the sky. The world blurs around them as they ascend, the wind rushing past, but all Nevaeh feels is the warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart against hers.

They soar together, higher and higher, the ground below falling away until it's nothing more than a distant memory. The sky is vast, endless, but in his arms, Nevaeh feels safe, anchored, whole.

The flight to Kansas is a blur, the wind rushing past, the world beneath them nothing more than a patchwork of greens and browns. Clark holds Nevaeh close, his arms steady around her as they soar through the sky, the air cool against their skin. She can feel the tension in his body, the weight of uncertainty, of fragmented memories that flicker and fade like a distant dream. Yet, despite the confusion, there's a sense of purpose in the way he flies, an instinct that guides him home.

As they approach the Kent farm, the landscape shifts, the rolling fields giving way to familiar sights—rows of corn swaying gently in the breeze, a weathered barn standing tall against the horizon, and the old farmhouse nestled between them, its white paint peeling in places but still standing strong. The sight of it tugs at something deep within Clark, a feeling that he can't quite place but that pulls him closer, urging him to land.

They touch down softly in the yard, the ground firm beneath their feet. The air here is different—calmer, quieter, filled with the scent of earth and grass and the faint, lingering aroma of hay. For a moment, they stand in silence, taking it all in. The house before them is simple, modest, but to Clark, it feels like a beacon, calling out to a part of him that has been lost.

Nevaeh watches him closely, her eyes tracing the lines of his face, the way his brows furrow in concentration, his gaze fixed on the house as if searching for something he can't quite grasp. She doesn't say anything, doesn't rush him—she knows that this is a moment he needs to process, to let the memories come to him in their own time.

Clark's hand tightens slightly around hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as if grounding himself in her presence. He takes a step forward, then another, his pace slow, deliberate, as if each step is drawing him closer to something familiar, something important. The porch creaks under his weight as they ascend the steps, the old wood groaning in protest, but it holds firm, just as it always has.

The door is unlocked, the way it always was in this small town, where neighbors were friends and the concept of fear was a distant one. Clark hesitates for a moment before pushing it open, the hinges squeaking in a way that's both familiar and comforting. The air inside is warm, tinged with the faint scent of apple pie and wood polish, and the sight that greets them is one of quiet simplicity.

The living room is just as it always was, a cozy space filled with well-worn furniture, the kind that invites you to sink into it and stay a while. A quilt drapes over the back of the couch, one that Martha Kent stitched by hand so many years ago. There are photos on the mantel—small, framed moments of a life lived with love and care. A younger Clark grinning in a baseball uniform, Jonathan Kent with a hand on his son's shoulder, Martha smiling as she holds a freshly baked pie.

Clark's gaze lingers on these images, his mind reaching out to grasp the memories they represent. He can feel them there, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue that refuses to be spoken. There's a sense of warmth here, a deep, abiding love that permeates the walls, the very air itself. It's familiar, but distant, like a melody he once knew by heart but has since forgotten.

He steps further into the room, his eyes scanning the space, his fingers trailing lightly over the back of the couch, the arm of a chair, the edge of the table. Every touch brings a flicker of something—an image, a feeling, a whisper of a time long past. He remembers laughter here, the sound of Martha's voice calling him to dinner, the steady, reassuring presence of Jonathan by his side.

Nevaeh follows him silently, her heart aching as she watches him struggle to piece together the fragments of his past. She knows this is hard for him—knows how much it hurts to feel so lost, so disconnected from the person he once was. But she also knows that he's strong, stronger than anyone she's ever known, and if anyone can find their way back, it's him.

Clark's footsteps lead him to the kitchen, where the old wooden table still stands, a testament to years of family meals and quiet conversations. He reaches out, his hand brushing over the surface, and for a moment, he's back there—sitting at that table with his parents, the smell of freshly baked bread filling the air, the sound of Jonathan's deep, rumbling voice offering advice on life and work and everything in between.

He remembers—just a little, just a fragment, but it's enough to bring a soft smile to his lips. He turns to Nevaeh, his eyes still clouded with confusion, but there's a spark there now, a glimmer of recognition that wasn't there before.

He frowns slightly, as if trying to reconcile the man he was with the man he is now. The memories are coming back slowly, like the first rays of dawn after a long night, but they're still fragmented, incomplete. He remembers the love, the warmth, the safety of this place, but the details are hazy, blurred around the edges.

They move through the house together, each room sparking a new memory, a new piece of the puzzle. The small bedroom where he spent his childhood, the barn out back where he learned to work the land, the fields where he ran faster than any boy should be able to. Each memory is a thread, weaving together the tapestry of who he is, who he was.

And then, as they stand in the doorway of his old room, something clicks. He remembers her—not just as she is now, but as she was then, standing beside him, her presence a constant in his life. He remembers the way she smiled at him, the way she believed in him, even when he doubted himself. He remembers the way she made him feel—strong, capable, loved.

Clark turns to Nevaeh, his expression softening, the fog in his mind lifting just enough for him to see her clearly, to see her as she truly is. The memories come rushing back now, filling in the gaps, painting a picture that is as vivid as it is profound. He remembers their first meeting, the way she challenged him, pushed him to be better. He remembers the quiet moments, the way she held him when the weight of the world became too much, the way she stood by him through every battle, every hardship.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, a genuine smile, one that reaches his eyes and lights them up with a warmth that Nevaeh hasn't seen in what feels like an eternity. He steps closer to her, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin.

"I told you," He says softly, his voice filled with a quiet certainty.

Nevaeh's brow furrows in confusion, her heart pounding in her chest, "Told me what?"

Clark's smile widens, his eyes never leaving hers, "That you're a hero."

The words hang in the air between them, heavy with meaning, with the weight of everything they've been through, everything they've lost and found again. Nevaeh's breath catches in her throat, her eyes welling with tears as the full impact of his words hits her. She's fought so hard to be good, to be worthy, and hearing those words from him—knowing that he sees her as a hero, even when she doubts herself—is almost too much to bear.

She doesn't speak, can't speak, the emotions too overwhelming, too raw. Instead, she closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. Clark responds immediately, his arms encircling her, holding her tight against him. It's a reunion that's long overdue, a moment of healing for both of them.

For a long time, they just stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace, the world outside the farmhouse forgotten. In that moment, nothing else matters—just the two of them, together again, whole again. Clark's memories are still fragmented, still incomplete, but he knows one thing for certain: he loves her, and he always will.

But their work has only just begun.

The air is thick with tension, the kind that buzzes through the veins and electrifies every sense. The battlefield stretches out before them, a wasteland of scorched earth and ruined structures, where the remnants of ancient ruins stand like the skeletons of forgotten gods. The sky above is a swirling vortex of dark clouds and red lightning, a storm brewed by the presence of evil itself. Steppenwolf, towering and menacing, stands at the center of it all, his axe glowing with an unholy light as he surveys the gathered heroes with disdain.

Nevaeh stands among them, her breath steady, her pulse quickened but controlled. The armor she wears gleams in the dim light, a dark silver that catches the fire of the storm and reflects it back in sharp, brilliant flashes. It's the armor she once wore in battle, the armor of a Valkyrie—a symbol of death and honor, of justice meted out in the heat of war.

To her right, Clark stands tall in his black suit, a stark contrast to the man of hope he has always been. The suit clings to him like a second skin, sleek and dark, absorbing the light around him. His cape flutters in the wind, a shadow trailing behind him as he squares his shoulders, his eyes locked on Steppenwolf. There's a fire in his gaze, an intensity that matches the storm overhead, a quiet but fierce resolve to end this, to protect the world he loves.

The rest of the Justice League fans out around them, each a force in their own right. Diana, her armor glinting gold, holds her sword at the ready, her expression one of grim determination. Arthur wields his trident with the confidence of a king, his eyes narrowed in defiance. Barry, vibrating with barely-contained energy, stands poised to sprint, the lightning of the Speed Force crackling around him. Victor, his cyborg enhancements glowing with power, readies his systems for the impending clash. Together, they form a line, a united front against the darkness.

Steppenwolf's laughter booms across the battlefield, a sound filled with arrogance and malice.

"You think you can stand against me? Against Darkseid?"

His voice reverberates through the air, a dark promise of destruction.

"I will take this world and deliver it to my lord. You are nothing—mere insects to be crushed underfoot."

But there is no fear in Nevaeh's heart, no hesitation in her step as she unsheathes her swords, the blades singing as they slide free. She's been in battles like this before—fought against creatures of darkness, against impossible odds. This is what she was made for, what she was trained for. And even after all these years, after all the time spent in exile, she knows that this is where she belongs.

Clark takes a step forward, his voice low and resolute, "You won't take this world."

The battle erupts with a force that shakes the very ground beneath their feet. Clark launches himself forward, a blur of black and power, meeting Steppenwolf head-on. Their clash sends shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, the impact so intense that the earth cracks beneath them. Nevaeh is right behind him, her swords flashing as she leaps into the fray, her movements fluid, precise—every strike calculated to deal maximum damage.

Steppenwolf is strong, his blows heavy and relentless, but the Justice League fights with a tenacity born of necessity, of the need to protect the world from a threat it cannot understand. Diana's sword clashes against Steppenwolf's axe, the sound ringing out like a bell of war, while Arthur's trident thrusts forward, aiming for the chinks in the armor. Barry moves like lightning, darting in and out of the fight, delivering quick, stinging blows that disorient the enemy. Victor's systems fire off blasts of energy, targeting weak points with deadly accuracy.

Nevaeh moves like a shadow, her swords a blur as she dances through the chaos. Every movement is a memory, a muscle memory ingrained in her from centuries of battle. She pivots on her heel, one sword parrying a strike from Steppenwolf while the other slashes across his exposed flank. He roars in pain and anger, turning his attention to her, but she's already moving, ducking under his swing and bringing her blades up in a deadly arc that forces him back.

Clark is relentless, his fists pounding into Steppenwolf with a fury that could shatter mountains. There's no hesitation, no holding back—just raw, unbridled power. He grabs Steppenwolf by the arm, twisting and throwing him into the air before rocketing up to meet him, his punch sending the would-be conqueror crashing back to the ground. The impact sends dust and debris flying, but Clark doesn't stop, landing beside Steppenwolf with the force of a meteor.

Nevaeh is there, her swords flashing as she strikes down, one blade driving into Steppenwolf's shoulder, the other aimed for his neck. He catches the second blade with his gauntlet, the metal grinding against her sword, but she pushes forward, using all her strength to force the blade closer. Steppenwolf's eyes blaze with fury, and he swings his axe, but Nevaeh is faster, ducking under the strike and delivering a powerful kick to his chest that sends him stumbling back.

Diana and Arthur press the attack, their combined might pushing Steppenwolf to his limits. Barry's speed keeps him off balance, while Victor's blasts chip away at his defenses. And through it all, Clark and Nevaeh fight as one, their movements synchronized, each covering the other's weaknesses, each strike more powerful than the last.

Steppenwolf is formidable, his power immense, but against the combined might of the Justice League, he is slowly but surely being worn down. His armor is cracked, his movements slower, more labored. But he fights on, driven by a fanatical loyalty to Darkseid, by a desire to prove himself worthy.

But Nevaeh is relentless. This is her first battle since her banishment, and she fights with a fury that has been pent up for far too long. She is a Valkyrie, a warrior of Asgard, and she will not be defeated. She spins, her swords cutting through the air with deadly precision, and in a fluid motion, she drives one blade deep into Steppenwolf's side, twisting it to inflict maximum pain. He howls in agony, but she's already pulling the blade free and delivering a crushing blow with the hilt of her other sword, sending him reeling.

Clark takes advantage of the opening, his eyes glowing red with heat vision. He unleashes the beams, striking Steppenwolf's axe and shattering it in a burst of molten metal. The force of the blast sends Steppenwolf to his knees, his weapon destroyed, his strength waning. But still, he tries to rise, to fight on.

Nevaeh doesn't give him the chance. With a battle cry that echoes across the battlefield, she leaps into the air, both swords raised high. She brings them down with all the strength she can muster, the blades slicing through Steppenwolf's armor and embedding deep into his shoulders. He roars in pain, but this time, there is no escape.

Clark is there in an instant, his hand wrapping around Steppenwolf's throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air. For a moment, their eyes meet—Clark's filled with determination, Steppenwolf's with desperation. And then, with a final, powerful throw, Clark sends Steppenwolf hurtling across the battlefield, his body crashing into the ground and skidding to a stop at the edge of a fiery pit.

The Justice League gathers around, their weapons at the ready, but Steppenwolf doesn't rise. His body is broken, his spirit crushed, and as he looks up at the heroes who have bested him, there is a flicker of fear in his eyes.

Nevaeh steps forward, her swords still gleaming with the blood of battle. She stands tall, every inch the warrior she once was, the warrior she still is. The storm above begins to calm, the red lightning fading, the clouds dissipating. The battle is over, the day won, and as Nevaeh sheathes her swords, she feels a sense of peace settle over her.

Clark moves to her side, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. There's a quiet understanding between them, a shared acknowledgment of the fight they've just endured, of the victory they've achieved together. He looks down at her, a small smile playing on his lips, and for the first time since his resurrection, there is no confusion in his eyes—only clarity, only certainty.

The rest of the Justice League gathers around them, their faces reflecting a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. They've done it—they've saved the world.

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