Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark

The wind screamed as it raced through the barren landscape, carrying with it shards of ice that felt sharp even against Clark's Kryptonian skin. Snow stretched out in all directions, unbroken except for jagged outcroppings of black rock jutting like broken teeth. The sky above was gray, thick with clouds that promised more snow, blotting out any hint of sunlight. It was an alien world to him—cold, harsh, unyielding.

Clark took a cautious step forward, his boots sinking into the deep snow. Each step felt heavier than the last, the unfamiliar terrain forcing him to adjust his balance. This wasn't Kansas, with its flat plains and golden fields. This wasn't Metropolis, with its sprawling skyline and hum of life. This was... nowhere.

The figures ahead came into clearer focus as the snowstorm eased for a moment. Seven of them, wrapped in furs and leathers, faces smeared with dirt and soot. They looked like something out of a history book, primitive and worn by the elements. Each one carried a weapon—axes, spears, and bows—and their eyes glinted with suspicion and hostility.

They weren't soldiers, Clark realized. Not in the sense he was used to. These people weren't trained or disciplined. Their movements were rough, their weapons crudely made. Survivors, then. People who lived on the fringes, who fought to stay alive in this unforgiving place.

He raised his hands, palms out, the universal gesture of peace. "I mean you no harm," he said, his voice steady.

The leader, a hulking man with a fiery red beard, stepped forward. His breath steamed in the cold air as he sized Clark up, his eyes lingering on Clark's strange clothing. The man's expression was wary, his grip tight on the axe in his hand.

The others muttered among themselves, their voices low and tense. Clark couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear enough: fear, mistrust. He heard the faint sound of bowstrings tightening, and his eyes flicked to the archer among them, a woman with tangled black hair and a snarl on her face.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but the leader cut him off. "What kind of man walks into the Frostfangs without a coat?" His voice was rough, edged with suspicion. "And what are ye doing here?"

Clark hesitated. The Frostfangs? The word was unfamiliar, but it wasn't the first time he'd been stranded in a place with customs and languages unlike his own. He had learned to adapt, to observe, to listen before he acted. But now, with weapons pointed at him and fear thick in the air, there wasn't time for subtlety.

"I don't know where I am," he said finally, keeping his tone calm. "I... fell here. From far away."

The leader snorted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "Aye, and I'm the bloody King Beyond the Wall."

The others laughed nervously, but their hands didn't move from their weapons. Clark frowned, trying to piece together the man's words. A king? A wall? None of it made sense. But before he could ask, a piercing shriek cut through the wind.

Clark turned sharply, his senses sharpening. Something was moving in the storm, just at the edge of his vision. Shapes—pale and gaunt, like shadows come to life. The sound of cracking ice and shuffling feet followed, accompanied by a cold that made even this frozen wasteland feel warm.

The figures emerged slowly, shambling toward them. They weren't human—at least, not anymore. Their skin was gray and stretched tight over their bones, their eyes glowing an eerie blue.

Clark instinctively stepped forward, putting himself between the creatures and the group of strangers. He didn't know what these things were, but the darkness radiating from them was unmistakable. It was the same feeling he'd sensed in Zod, in Doomsday—a cold, lifeless hunger.

The red-bearded man barked an order, and the others scrambled to form a loose line, their weapons raised. But Clark could see the fear in their eyes. Whatever these creatures were, the people here didn't believe they could win.

One of the creatures lunged, faster than the others, its bony fingers outstretched. Clark caught it mid-air, his hand closing around its wrist. The creature hissed, its strength surprising, but it was nothing compared to his own.

He threw it back with a single motion, sending it crashing into the snow. The others froze, their glowing eyes fixed on him. Clark's own eyes narrowed, and heat flared in his vision. A moment later, twin beams of red light shot from his eyes, striking the creatures and reducing them to ash.

The storm fell silent.

Clark straightened, turning back to the group of strangers. They stared at him, their weapons lowered, their faces a mixture of shock and fear.

The red-bearded man was the first to speak. "What in the name o' the gods are ye?"

Clark met his gaze, unsure of what to say. These people didn't know him, didn't know Superman or Krypton or anything beyond their world. He didn't even know if he could explain it in a way they would understand.

"I'm here to help," he said finally. It was the only thing he could offer.