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When a Valkyrie Grows Weary

I walk the earth the way a Valkyrie crosses the battlefield —
silent, steady, unshaken by the thunder beneath my feet.
My armor remembers every blow I’ve taken,
every night I stood guard while my own heart trembled.

They call for me when the sky darkens.
They reach for my strength as if it costs me nothing,
as if my wings are not heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken battles.

But even when my soul aches like a wound that never closes,
I descend into myself —
into the deep, ancient place where fire still lives —
and I rise again.

A Valkyrie does not crumble.
She endures.
She carries the fallen, even when she feels like one of them.
She stands in the storm until the storm bows first.

I am tired —
tired in the marrow, tired in the myth of me —
but I do not fall.
I lift my chin, tighten my grip on the sword of my own becoming,
and let the world see what it means
to be chosen by the storm and still choose to stand.

If they ask how I keep going,
I will answer with the truth only a Valkyrie knows:

“Because I was born of battle.
And battle remembers its daughters.”