Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Tormund

Hardhome wasn't the kind of place where miracles lasted long.

The Free Folk didn't trust easy, and for good reason. Life beyond the Wall was brutal, shaped by hunger, cold, and the endless shadow of the dead. Yet, Clark's presence had begun to shift something in the air.

Tormund saw it in the way the villagers looked at him. Men and women who'd have gutted a crow without a second thought now watched Clark with something closer to reverence. The boy he'd pulled from the burning hut followed him around like a pup, his wide-eyed wonder a stark contrast to the hard stares of his elders.

It unnerved Tormund.

He'd led men long enough to know what happened when people placed their faith in things they didn't understand. Faith turned to hope, and hope turned to desperation. Desperation made people foolish—and foolishness could get them all killed.

Clark didn't seem to notice, or maybe he didn't care. The man—or whatever he was—spent his days helping where he could, hauling wood, reinforcing the crumbling shelters, even hunting alongside the others. He was stronger than any man had a right to be, lifting logs that would've taken three men to move without breaking a sweat.

The Free Folk didn't miss it.

---

Clark

Clark was beginning to understand the wildlings—slowly, but surely.

Their lives were hard, but their resilience reminded him of the farmers back home in Kansas. They were rough around the edges, fiercely independent, and protective of their own. It was a sharp contrast to the polished politicians and idealists he was used to in Metropolis, but Clark found himself admiring their grit.

Still, the divide between them was stark.

When he offered to help rebuild a broken hut, the villagers watched him warily, their eyes flicking to his hands as if expecting him to summon fire or crush the wood to splinters. When he hunted, their whispers followed him into the forest: He doesn't need a bow. He just runs them down.

Clark tried to bridge the gap, speaking plainly, avoiding displays of his powers whenever possible. But no matter how hard he tried, the distance remained.

It was Ygritte who finally broke the silence.

"You're making them nervous, you know," she said one evening, her voice low and laced with amusement.

Clark glanced at her as he worked, hammering a fresh beam into place on one of the larger huts. "I'm just trying to help."

"Aye," she said, leaning against the wall. "And that's the problem. Help's not a word we trust much up here."

Clark frowned. "Why?"

"Because it always comes with a price," she said simply. "No one gives anything for free. Not even the gods."

Clark paused, the hammer still in his hand. "I'm not a god."

Ygritte tilted her head, studying him. "No, but you're not a man, either. Not one like us, anyway."

"I'm just someone trying to do the right thing," he said, echoing his earlier words.

She snorted. "You've got the heart of a hero, I'll give you that. But heart won't save you when the dead come for us."

Clark's gaze sharpened. "Then we'll find another way."

---

Tormund

It started small—subtle shifts in the way the village worked.

When a hunting party returned empty-handed, Clark offered to go out alone. He came back an hour later with enough game to feed the camp for days. When one of the older men fell ill, coughing blood, it was Clark who carried him to the healer and sat with him through the night, his steady presence calming the man's fevered fears.

The villagers began to seek him out, their initial wariness giving way to cautious respect.

"Clark," a woman called one morning as he helped patch the roof of her hut. "Can you fix the water barrels? The ice has split them."

"Clark," a man shouted that evening. "The sled's stuck. We need a hand getting it out of the drift."

It wasn't long before they were coming to him for everything.

Tormund watched it all with a mix of admiration and unease. Clark wasn't just helping—he was becoming a pillar of the community, someone the Free Folk were beginning to rely on. And that was dangerous.

"What happens," Tormund muttered to Ygritte one night, "when he's not there? When the dead come and they're lookin' to him instead of their own strength?"

Ygritte shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Then he'll fight. And if he dies, we'll fight without him."

Tormund grunted. "Not much of a plan."

"It's the only one we've got," she said simply.

---

Clark

The shift became undeniable when Tormund approached him one cold, gray morning with a small group of men.

"We've got a problem," Tormund said without preamble.

Clark set down the bundle of wood he'd been carrying. "What is it?"

"Some of the younger hunters went to check on a cache we left near the cliffs," Tormund said. "They've not come back."

Clark frowned. "How long?"

"Two days," Tormund replied. "It's not unusual for them to be late, but... with the dead wandering about, we can't take chances."

Clark nodded. "I'll help you find them."

Tormund hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "We're not asking for your magic tricks, understand? Just your strength."

Clark met his gaze evenly. "Whatever it takes to bring them back."

---

The search party set out at dawn, the snow crunching underfoot as they trekked toward the cliffs. The wind was sharp and unrelenting, but Clark barely felt it.

Tormund kept a wary eye on him throughout the journey, his axe in hand and his expression guarded. Ygritte, however, seemed more amused than anything, her sharp gaze flicking between Clark and the horizon.

"Don't suppose you could fly us there?" she asked casually as they paused to rest.

Clark shot her a sidelong glance. "I don't think that would help anyone trust me more."

She grinned. "Maybe not. But it'd save my legs."

Tormund snorted, but his amusement was short-lived. The tracks they were following led into a narrow ravine, the cliffs rising high on either side like jagged teeth.

Clark's senses prickled as they moved deeper into the shadows. The air felt wrong, heavy with an unnatural stillness.

"Tormund," he said quietly, his voice low. "We're not alone."

The words had barely left his mouth when the first wight lunged out of the snow.