The Weight of Wings and the Warmth of Cradles

There’s something deeply satisfying about standing atop the rocky overlook, watching my tribe bustle below like industrious ants. The wind whips my braids across my face, carrying scents of roasting meat and freshly tanned hides. From up here, I see everything – children chasing each other between tents, elders trading stories near the central fire pit, warriors sharpening blades under the shade trees. It’s a view that fills me with quiet pride; every scar on my arms, every callus on my palms, has been earned protecting this scene.

My gaze lingers longer than usual today. Maybe it’s because I caught young Kaelen staring at me earlier, his eyes wide with what looked suspiciously like admiration. Or perhaps it’s the way old Graknar clapped my shoulder last night, muttering about ‘strong bloodlines.’ Truth be told, I know what they see: a woman built like a fortress wall, muscles coiled beneath sun-darkened skin, taller and broader than most men in our tribe. It would be easy to let that define me – to become just another broodmare for ambitious suitors. But I refuse.

Being guardian isn’t merely about swinging the biggest sword or roaring the loudest challenge. It means knowing when to shield with gentleness instead of steel. Like yesterday, when little Nira fell from the watchtower ladder and I caught her mid-air before she hit the ground. Her tears dried instantly against my chest, replaced by giggles as I lifted her high enough to touch a low-hanging branch. That moment of trust, that perfect weight in my arms… it whispered promises of a future beyond patrols and perimeter checks.

Mother’s words echo in my mind: ‘True strength lies in creating life, not just ending it.’ She rules our tribe with a ferocity that makes grown men tremble, yet her hands are equally capable of weaving cradle blankets or singing lullabies. One day, I’ll stand in her place – matriarch, leader, life-giver. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, part fear and part fierce anticipation. How many children will I bear? Will they inherit my height, my battle-scarred shoulders, my stubborn jaw? The questions swirl like embers in a campfire.

For now, though, I am content as guardian. My role allows me to nurture without commitment, to protect without possession. I can hoist entire families onto my back during floods or tuck orphans into spare furs during storms. There’s freedom in this liminal space between maidenhood and motherhood – the luxury of choosing when and how my body serves its purpose. Some nights, I trace the lines of my abdomen and wonder which stretch marks will come from battles versus birthing. Both seem inevitable, both sacred in their way.

So I’ll keep watching from this perch a while longer, feeling the sun bake my scales and the wind tug my horns. Let them speculate about my future – the suitors lining up like wolves scenting prey, the whispers about heirs and alliances. Today belongs to me alone: guardian of hearths, lifter of spirits, dreamer of cradles yet unmade. And when the time comes to trade sword for swaddle… well, let’s just say they won’t find me lacking.