Hammer
They say that a hammer can be used to build or to destroy. What they don't tell you is that the things you destroy with a hammer can't be fixed with one.
Just over a year ago the empire came to my village. The savage king's loyal soldiers. We tried to accommodate them, thinking they would move on after they accomplished whatever it was they came here for. They didn't. The longer they stayed, the less they cared, the more they drank. They took what they wanted and fought who they wanted. If they had continued on that way we wouldn't have had the resources to make it through winter. The last straw was when two soldiers got into a fight with one of the villagers. In their drunken carelessness they killed him by accident after lighting several buildings ablaze by mistake. We were forced to make a hard decision, and we decided to defend ourselves. That is when I picked up my hammer. I didn't have any other choice.
We fought, and we won. Or at least that's what they call it, winning. It didn't feel much like winning. I prefer to say we lived. After that we left to join the resistance, the rebellion. We had heard rumors that they had a mighty champion who could defeat the dark king. In any case, we couldn't stay here, not anymore. We left, we found them, and then we fought some more. What else could we do?
They say that when you are holding a hammer, that everything looks like a nail. But nails hold things together. Nails don't cave in like so much rotten cabbage when struck. Nails don't crumple to the ground and twitch. Nails don't scream and beg. Nails don't bleed. No. When you are holding a hammer, a bloody hammer, the last things you see are nails. And when you put the hammer down after the fight, you continue to see all the things that aren't nails. But sometimes you just don't get a choice.
I lost count after the third battle. Despite that fact, I could still see every face. The other men, they praised me as a hero. For who but a hero could slay hundreds with naught but a hammer and his might? They gave me command of a battalion, for who better to lead than a man who could do what I had done? A man who would do what so many were unwilling to do. What needed to be done.
I remember the songs the bards would sing about the heroes of old. The men in those songs, they fought and they won, and everyone remembers them for it. The songs told of honor and glory, of their feats and of enemies slain. The songs painted a picture of might and grandeur, of happily ever after. The songs never told the truth though. The songs never told of how their blood tastes as it splashes your face. The songs never told of the smell of death. The songs never told of the ghosts that haunt you at night, or the screams you still hear when the world is asleep. They never told of the numbness and fear that seeps into your every fiber. No. The songs were wrong. They were not written by those who did the deeds. The songs tell of what others choose see after those deeds, not what those heroes truly experienced. For the men who did those things would never think to sing of them, rather, they would strive to forget.
We fought our way across the corrupt king's land, and we made it to the capitol city. We attacked two days after we arrived, once the camp's defenses and the siege engines were set up. Nobody was completely rested, but we dared not wait any longer than necessary. My men and I fought hard that day, harder than any other battle. What other option did we have? After hours that passed as years our champion slew the evil king, and his army fell into disarray. Soon after hearing that news I lost my hammer. There were still enemies to subdue, so I pulled a spear from a body and used it finish the battle. I couldn't fight as well with the spear, but I didn't have to. We were almost done. I was almost done.
After we had rounded up the last of the soldiers and cleared the last of the buildings I went back to the camp. I dragged myself through the sea of tents. I am not sure how long I was standing in front of my tent before I realized it. I am not even sure how I got there. My eyes were focused on a point a mile away under the ground, and I could hear nothing but ringing. My mind was numb. It was the touch of my wife's hand on my shoulder that pulled me back to Earth. She took my hand and pulled me next to the fire, where she gently pushed me onto a stool. After putting a pot of water on the fire she brought me a wine skin, bread, and cheese. I set the food and drink aside and pulled her toward me as softly as I could, and I held her there, my head resting on her round belly. After a time she pulled away. Without words she retrieved a rag, removed the pot from the fire, and began to wash the battle from my limbs.
Later that night a young rebel, who I had seen but once and whose name I never learned, came to my tent. He had found my hammer. He had found my hammer and knew I must want it back. Why would I, the famed hero, not want back the symbol of my prowess? I thanked him of course, but thanks is not what I felt. He also carried a message. Our leader, the leader of the resistance, the new queen of the land, requested my presence at first light. I gave him my thanks again, still lying through my teeth.
As soon as the young man had gone I stood up and walked over to where he had left my hammer. I stood over it for a moment, staring at it. Then, attempting to appear as calm and whole as possible, I picked up the hammer. I could feel the weight of every soul it had claimed as I carried it back to the fire. It was a weight that I could almost not bear. The distance to the fire seemed to increase with every step, as if the fates would not allow me to rid myself of this burden. Nothing could stop me in this though, and I made it back to the fire and I threw in the hammer. I watched as the handle burned to dust and the head fell through the ashes to the ground below. I watched as the flames turned to embers. I watched until the embers turned to ash. I watched until the stars began to fade. Only when the east began to turn grey did I end my watch. I didn't have much of a choice.
The morning sun leaked in through the door flaps of her tent. She asked how I was feeling. I told her I would be fine. She nodded and said that was good. The she told me that I was to lead the conquest of the remaining cities in the empire. I looked up from the pool of ruddy orange light at her feet to meet her searching gaze. She explained how we needed to seize control of the remaining cities in the empire, how we must strike while the iron was hot. She went on about how we had won the war, but the hard work was far from over. She told me how lucky we were to have men such as myself, men who made this all possible. Men who would fight for what was good and just. She informed me about the regiment she was placing under my command and how they were all good men. She told me I would be leaving the day after next. The light pulled my attention back toward the ground. The orange rays had shifted to a soft yellow. Then she asked where my hammer was. I raised my eyes to meet hers once more. A few quiet seconds passed before I told her where my hammer was. I told her I had full confidence they would be able to finish this without me. I told her I was going home now. I told her I was done.
I had realized only a few hours earlier that I always had a choice. I looked back and I could see every single one that I made, even though none of them had an appealing alternative. The choice to fight, to leave, to join the rebels, to fight more. I knew that I chose to do those things, but what were the other options, the other choices? Is it really a choice if you must decide between dying and living? Now I had a choice, a real choice, with more than one real option.
The queen used every bit of silver tongued trickery that she knew in an attempt to persuade me to stay. I told her I had made up my mind and there was nothing she could offer me or threaten me with that would change it. She knew I was right and, after one final gilded attempt, admitted defeat. She gave me her blessing, and I left.
I am back home now. I am back home with my wife and my daughter and we are safe. When we got back here there was nothing left, the empire had burned the whole village to the ground. We rebuilt. Reluctantly I chose to take up a hammer again, a different kind hammer this time, and I built my family a house with it. With every swing I saw another face. The images of war still haunt me, but now the smell is of fresh air, the taste is of cider, and the sounds are of laughter. I am not sure if the faces will ever leave me, but with every day they grow less distinct. I made my choices, and they were the only ones I really had. They were the only ones because no other options led to this point in time, this one right here with my wife and my daughter. I know they were the right choices every time I see the smiles on their faces, and hear the burble of laughter and see the sun in their hair. Every day I look deep into their blue eyes and I know. I had options, but I made the only real choices I had.
This short story was written for the Elegant Literature contest #014. The final draft was completed on 28 November 2022.