The gossiping brook, murmuring and whispering the deepest truths of the world in a language as old as the ground it crossed, ignored all suitors who ventured near. The long years of its life had made it weary of the intentions of those who called upon its shores. They would present themselves in awe of its beauty, praising the curves and hues the stream had been blessed with, but in truth they only wished to position themselves close enough to discern the ramblings of its ancient tongue.
From its bed, the brook watched the seasons change, never ceasing its incessant chatter. The splattered colors of autumn covered the forest canopy, harried and hurried along by the reaching fingers of winter’s chill. The bare branches swayed violently as clumps of snow released their hold and crashed to the still frozen ground when the first warmth of spring began to spread. Vibrant green flares erupted as leaves shivered in the light summer breeze, the sun filtered through the dense foliage and sent tendrils of light and rainbow prisms spiraling into the shadows. Warm days gave way to cooling winds and the greens faded as summer drew to a close to make way for the coming fall.
Year after year, passing as an eye blinks, and the brook stayed the same. Mysterious. Alone. Stoic. Fragile. It wondered at its own mortality at times. It pondered the truths it alone seemed to understand. It continued to refuse all advances and prospects of love. Until, eventually, it realized that it had a grand purpose in protecting the archaic language and the secrets held within, and it quieted its whispering until it ceased talking altogether.
The suitors stopped calling, and, in time, the brook, the language, and the oldest truths of the very nature of the world were lost. The bed turned to dust. The trees withered and died. The seasons continued to pass but none witnessed the magic. None cared. None remembered the magic had ever existed to begin with.