His body aches, the deep, bone grinding ache that normally came with an Arkham breakout and zero rest for a week.
His chest burns, the familiar sensation of at least one or two broken ribs, purposely remaining unnoticed for now.
His knee creaks, absolute agony to move after the half dozen or so concrete walls he's been thrown through, but he presses down with it anyway, feeling some dark pit of satisfaction in his chest as the alien wheezes in protest, barely able to get even that sound out with the full weight of another man on his neck.
His arm trembles, but his grip on the spear, this last almighty weapon, an unholy Gungnir to be plunged into the heart of the High King Odin, remains firm.
(He will not shy away from what needs to be done, for mankind, for what little good still exists in this world.)
He shouts, snarling in defiance, in protest, in rage-
how dare you say that name how dare you bring her into this you will not use my mother against me
-and Lois Lane, in all her terrified glory, falls to her knees beside them, eyes wide and shiny with tears as she gasps in explanation "It's his mother's name! Martha is his mother's name!"
His grip on the spear goes slack, and it fall unnoticed from his fingers.
Martha
Mother
Dead
Dead? He said they would kill her if he-
Different person
Different mother
Mother
Martha
Our mother's names
Our mothers are both named Martha
The epiphany takes less than a second, but it's shockwaves threaten to send him to his knees alongside Lane and the false god who never claimed dominion over anyone except in the realm of his nightmares.
His boot lifts off of Clark Kent's neck, and the Kryptonian inhales greedily, gratefully, leaning his head back to enjoy the oxygen and Lane's fingers gliding across his face in equal measure.
For a moment, they focus only on each other. Neither take notice of the looming shadow that has drawn back a few paces, reading them, analyzing the humanity displayed before him that had been all but absent twenty seconds ago.
The alien's eyes have gone impossibly wide and terrified, drinking in Lane's unharmed features as if she would disappear with one blink. Even as she whispers his name, presses feather light kisses to his cheeks and lips and forehead, his gaze drifts, becomes distant and all the more fearful as he listens to something no one else can even begin to hear. "Mom. Where's mom?"
It was not the Kryptonite that had made Clark weak, powerless, scared; Lois' beautiful face, stretched into a relieved smile, and his absent mother's apparent proximity to danger, are all it takes to make Clark Kent bow like an obedient dog.
He never would have seen it without Lane's intervention. He never would have realized it without the name – Martha – being uttered in one last desperate prayer to save her.
Could he be forgiven for not realizing Clark Kent was a human being until he said his mother's name?
Perhaps not.
It doesn't matter.
Forgiveness has never been a particular goal of his anyway.
He doesn't even hear what he says next, he's so focused on Kent and Lane turning to face him, the latter glaring with the ferocity of a tiger and the former gazing up at him as if he himself is the god sent gift to humanity.
Plans are made, apologies are implied but not spoken; it is surprising how well they work when together instead of against each other.
Before he leaves, Clark places a hand on his arm, light, gentle, barely restrained. "Find her," the god begs a mortal man, "Please save Martha."
No such promise is said aloud, but he meets Clark's eyes with his own.
He would save Martha (this time) or die trying.
A/N: So who else is an absolute mess after that movie? Just me? Okay.
~Persephone