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In a deep glade far to the north of the Mythic lands where light seldom reached, there was once a circle of druids who worshiped the Ashen Oak. Their ancestors had carved hymns into stone. No stone was left uncarved if it was found in their forest. Every dusk the druids would chant the words as they were taught. The hymns were old, far older than any of their memories, and none ever dare question them. The druids were very proud of this, saying: "Our roots are deep, for we repeat what was spoken by the ancestors." Yet not one among them understood what the words meant. Seasons passed, and the Ashen Oak itself began to wither. Its bark split and oozed black blood. Raven nested in its hollow heart. Still the druids sang the hymns, loud and louder, believe the power of repetition would save their god-tree. A young druid, restless in spirit, crept one night to the stones. She pressed her ear against them and heard worms moving within, feeding on the carved letters. She realized the hymns were rotting, just as the Ashen Oak was rotting, because the words had been left untouched, unquestioned, never renewed. When she told the circle what she had heart, they sewed her mouth shut and cast her from the grove. "The hymns are sacred," they hissed. "To question them is blasphemy!" But the rot spread. The Ashen Oak toppled, the stones crumbled, and the circle's voices faded into silence. Only the acolyte survived, carrying the lesson with her into other lands: "Even sacred words rot when left unquestioned. Renewal comes not from blind repetition, but from asking why the words were sung at all." | |