She took a step, and then her breath caught in her throat. Six strides from their doorway, he lay dead on the ground. His axe was still gripped in his hand, and as she knew he would, he had gone down fighting. Around him were three of the invaders, their heads crudely removed by his hatchet, and she was proud. He had always protected them, provided for them the best way he knew how, and he had given his life so she could have time to save their children. Her eyes turned glassy.

Another tiny wood-framed home burst into flames, the flash of the fire lighting up the night, and in the brilliance, she saw a glint of metal, shiny and deadly, near the remains of one her husband had killed. With all her strength, she tugged the weapon out from under the headless corpse.

The broadsword was cumbersome. Its blade long and its steel thick, it was meant for those much stronger than she, or so she thought. The hilt was wrapped in strips of leather, giving her confidence it would never slip from her hands. She held it out, and as her arms trembled from the weight, she was transported back in time.

The middle child of five, she had grown up with four brothers, and after livestock was tended to and fields were plowed, planted, or cleared, she and her siblings were allowed to play in the woods. They’d scramble for broken branches and become knights with mighty swords. And in clearings, atop boulders and broken stumps, they’d playfully boast as one after another was defeated by the better, which eventually became her. Although she didn’t have her brothers’ muscles, she had inherited her father’s height. Many in the village referred to him as a giant, for he towered over all others, so unable to use that to their advantage, her brothers thrusted and parried wildly, believing frenzy would lead to victory. She, however, was patient…just as she would be now.

That childhood game had taught her the poise to persevere, and her duties as a wife had given her strength. Every morning, with a pole balanced across her shoulders, she would make four trips to the stream. The first three would fill the trough for their cow and goats, and the last would refill the clay jugs inside her home for her to use to prepare her family’s morning porridge and nightly stew.

She never thought those walks were anything but necessary, but as she stood tall and held the sword in her hands, she was prepared to call on every ounce of strength she had to at least defeat a few before they took her life. Death was inevitable, but like her husband, she would go down fighting.