[hider=The Elder's Due (Wordcount: 1339)]
	“I hear you’ve been doing some jobs again,” he said casually, his voice crackling and soft as cigar smoke.

	“Yeah, I figured I could use the cash what with times being what they are,” the reply came, practiced and even with just the right amount of plausibility. 

	“Your dad’s been looking for you. Said you were getting into the wrong sort of trouble kid.”

	“Only one kind of trouble old man, and I ain’t in it.”

	“That a fact?” The question went unanswered for a time, while cold spirits went down and the old ghosts came up.

	“Kid, you’re in over your head.”

	“Like hell I am.” A distant roar of thunder punctuated his retort. Rain pattered on the roof of the bar, and the sound of the door ringing behind them was as raucous a noise as the bar had seen all night. Thump of boots. A seat taken by a leather jacket. Murmured order, followed by brisk service.

	“That fella’s got some height on you, I’d say you’re in over your head.”

	“He’s not here for me.”

	“How can you tell?” A long silence accompanied this question, of a different kind than the first. The rain fell harder, and flashes of lightning illuminated the face of a man betrayed.

	“Because he’s here for [i]you[/i], old man.” The whiskey ran smooth, and the tempest outside masked the storm inside the bar. The kid got up to leave, and when he did he placed his due and then some on the counter. “Job’s done, I ‘spect that’ll be plenty to cover the damages. You never saw me.” 

	“They’ll come for you too someday.” That crackling voice couldn’t mask the panic well.

	“Let them,” the kid said, voice dripping with arrogance. “I’ll always be ready.”

	And then the kid walked out of the bar into the tempest. The storm he left in his wake made the wind and rain look like an old man spitting in his own face.
	[hr]
	Alder sat on the porch of the small one-story house, pipe in hand, puffing away. It was only 5:10 AM and he couldn’t sleep. Sun was rising though, and as he felt its warmth the superficial chill on his skin lessened. Chill in his bones felt colder than ever, but that sort of thing couldn’t be helped. Not when you were lucky enough to wake up most mornings, to pull yourself out of bed, grimace at your ugly reflection in the mirror, and then go outside to think your thoughts.

	Alder switched hands with his pipe, scratching his face idly as he looked out on the valley. His cavernous, line-strewn face, so riddled with wrinkles that his scars almost hid between the folds. Almost. Alder took a pull, and breathed out long and quiet. He’d not spoken a word in years, even as he kept right on with the thinking. It got hard sometimes, when Alder couldn’t hear himself think above the gunfire, the screams, the sounds of rending flesh and spurting blood and sizzling…

	Pipe done and smoked, Alder got to his feet and went to work. His workshop lay just adjacent to his little house, the barn style doors opened just a crack, padlock strewn on the ground nearby.

	Unsurprising, Alder often drank late into the evening and forgot to lock up. He went in without bothering to close the door, and started to set his work station in order. It didn’t take too long, since he was the only one out here, and there was only so much disorder a single man could cause. He was able to put everything back in its proper place in no time, and then he sighed. Living all by himself way out here was peaceful, but not very energetic. That was fine and good for an old man like Alder, and as he picked out a chunk of butternut he contemplated his own bemusement at that. That a man of his violent past should find this tranquility to suit him so well smacked of an ironic jab.

	Alder didn’t ply his craft in the workshop. He hadn’t been apprenticed to a master carpenter as a boy, had never taken any formal classes in woodworking, hadn’t even ever really seen any fine wood pieces for the better part of his life. Alder’s hands worked the butternut, running with the grain of the wood running against the grain of Alder’s being. Or maybe not. It was true he hadn’t been at this so long, but his numerous pieces lining the workshop’s shelves attested to Alder’s persistence in this of all things. He examined them from his stool, remembering the experience of carving each one.

	The first piece was more of an object lesson in how far Alder had come, than anything else. A sharp, crooked piece barely resembling the intended product, all the cuts were angry and angular, most against the grain and trying to rip through the wood into the soul of what he had wanted to make at that time. 

	Many gradually improving pieces later, came the first [i]good[/i] piece. A fox, its form distinct, smooth, and competently formed. There were crooked lines one could spot, and imperfections too, but the theme of the piece came together in a unified concept. Alder wasn’t some sort of artistic expert, but he’d say that the sly fox of his was where his competency finally matched his vision. Many pieces came after the fox, each one more or less as he’d set out to create them.

	Today Alder felt different. When he ran his hands over the butternut wood, all cleaned and ready to be shaped, the form came to him. Just like that. Alder bowed his head, and began to carve. He opened his eyes from time to time, to ascertain just where exactly a line should end, or to make certain he didn’t cut himself like a damn fool, but for the most part he bowed his head, breathed in and out, and carved. The sounds of the birds in the trees seeped in from outside, and soon enough even with Alder’s eyes closed, an almost divine light shone in and filled his vision with gold rather than darkness. He heard nothing but the songs, smelled nothing but wood sealant, felt nothing but the soft grain under the pads of his fingertips.

	A crash from the back of Alder’s workshop rang out. 

	“Fuck,” A voice cursed quietly, coming from the same area as the sudden noise. Alder’s hand slipped, his focus broken. He opened his eyes and frowned. He’d cut himself by mistake. A few droplets of blood marred the otherwise beautiful figure that Alder’s own hands had carved. He got up abruptly, provoking more startled noises and sounds from the corner of his workshop. Alder went over to one of his worktables and got a rag to soak up the blood. He only lightly dabbed and otherwise let the fabric do its work. Relieved that no stain remained, Alder finally attended to his wound. There were bandages in the cabinet above him. He reached up and looked inside. To his dismay, the first-aid kit was missing. He realized he now probably knew where it resided, but as he turned to go and confront the intruder-

	BANG!

	The figure that Alder had carved fell to the workshop’s floor, landing on its side. Feet quickly thundered past it, jostling the butternut wood and causing it to roll into an expanding pool of blood. The liquid bled into the wood’s own reddish grain, irreparably staining the figure. 
[hr]
	An old man, with a deeply lined face, and a worn expression. A masterpiece of wood carving, mysteriously found and exhibited in many famous art museums. [i]The Elder’s Due[/i], connoisseurs tentatively titled the piece, whose creator hadn’t provided any name for the figure. Conservators tried to remove the stains, but found that the blood ran too deep, and they decided to leave it as it was. Thousands upon thousands of visitors see [i]The Elder’s Due[/i] every year.[/hider]