The pickaxe is heavy.
Gripped with white knuckles and trembling arms, it's lowered with hesitance - once; twice - and is followed by the choked sounds of sniffles being held back. It's lifted, over a shoulder; the world tilting precariously; swinging.
Its dull points meet flesh, bone, further staining its metal with red and black. In this moment, it has stopped being a weapon to end the life of Walkers before they begin; instead, in these hands, it has become a weapon of retribution; a tool to let loose the agony of its user. Memories are channeled into its wooden handle, thrumming through its head as it is brought down again and again. Words, fists; bruises, cries, split lips; sadness and tears; and then, fear. So much fear.
As minutes pass, it gets lighter, easier to wield, as it transforms: a sharp silver sword, glowing with the sunlight; something to prevent a monster from rising again to torment those within its reach. The strikes no longer end with a thunk but sing through the air with the call of release and relief and freedom, the blood on its head like holy water -
And then, it ends, and is passed back to where it began. The hands are rough with use; the grip comfortable; the arms steady against its weight.
The pickaxe is nothing, now, in these hands.
Heavy and silent, it mourns.