Wander Wednesday: The Shape of a Hollow Story

On myth, meaning, and the bard’s burden to discern.

There are tales that carry warning, and tales that carry weight.
But now and then, we meet the ones that wear a story’s shape—
yet ring hollow when tapped.

They arrive dressed in legend, with the cadence of truth.
They speak of borders redrawn, of danger just offshore.
They name distant threats and cloak speculation in certainty.
They ask us to believe, but never to question.

I met one of those stories this week.
A thread woven of fact and fiction, twined so tightly the seam could barely be seen.
Maps redrawn. Waters renamed. Nations sold like whispers.
At first, it sounded like prophecy. But the further I followed the thread, the more it frayed.

Here is the danger:
When a story forgets its purpose—when it seeks not to reveal, but to rule—
it ceases to be a tale and becomes a tether.

And I say this as a bard not only of Mórradún,
but of the long and aching silence between verses:
Not every story is sacred simply because it is told.
Some must be held to the fire, and watched for what smoke they give off.

That is our work, wanderer.
Not only to speak but to listen deeply—
to know when the voice that calls itself truth is merely an echo of power.

You may feel the urge to fight such stories.
To set facts like stones in their path.
But remember: the fiercest answer is not always fire.
Sometimes it is simply not following where the story leads.

Tell yours with care.
Tend the ones that heal, and walk past the ones that seek only to rule the mind, not move the soul.

And if you find yourself in doubt—
listen for the hush.
That is where the true stories still live.

—
Lirian Ever-Weaver
Chronicler of Mórradún,
and the hush before the tale begins