In Every Lifetime [Human POV]

(Asal Sarawak, 1802)

I was born into the Mayang Longhouse, deep within the heart of Borneo's untamed jungles.

My earliest memories were of warmth, of the scent of burning wood, of the sound of bamboo floors creaking beneath bare feet.

A world far from the one I once knew.

My mother was a woman of grace and strength, her hands always busy with work—cooking rice over the fire, weaving mats from rattan, teaching me the ways of our people.

She had taught me how to cook, how to pound rice with a mortar and pestle, how to prepare food that would sustain our warriors before battle.

She taught me how to weave, my small fingers mimicking her own as we wove patterns into the mats that lined our longhouse.

She taught me how to respect the spirits—how to offer food to the unseen forces that protected us.

"Rindai," she would say, her voice calm yet firm. "A woman's hands are just as important as a warrior's blade. Without us, there is no home to return to."

And I believed her.

My father was a warrior.

He fought in the battles between our longhouse and the rivaling clans.

The Mayang warriors were feared, their strength unmatched, their brutality known across the land.

For us, war was not just survival—it was power, honor, and magic.

A warrior's greatest achievement was the taking of an enemy's head.

The more heads a warrior collected, the stronger the ritual of dark magic that bound us to our ancestors.

The more blood was spilled, the more powerful our spirits became, protecting our people from those who sought to destroy us.

This was our way.

This was the world I was born into.

As I aged, I learned my place as a woman of the longhouse.

There were expectations, traditions I had to uphold, duties that defined who I was meant to be.

Suitors came.

Warriors—young, eager, hoping to claim a wife.

They came bearing gifts—ornate beads, woven cloth, charms carved from bone and wood.

But I wanted none of them.

Marriage was not my desire.

I wanted something else.

A tattoo band—the mark of a true woman, one who had fulfilled all her duties.

A tattoo, inked across the forearm, just like my mother's—proof that I was strong, capable, worthy.

So I focused.

I worked.

Every day, I pushed myself, ensuring that no one could ever say I was not worthy.

I went to the riverbank each morning, helping to wash the clothes of our people, scrubbing the dirt from woven fabrics, letting the cool water soothe my aching arms.

I cooked, learning the delicate balance of spices and heat, ensuring every meal was nourishing for the warriors returning from battle.

I wove mats, my fingers moving quickly, creating intricate patterns that told the stories of our ancestors.

I tended the gardens, ensuring our crops flourished, that we had food beyond the hunt.

I prepared breakfast, lunch, and dinner—making sure the hearth never grew cold, that no one in the longhouse went hungry.