A flower grew in a high, remote crag. On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, a boy in the village was sent to pick one and bring it back to the elders, as was tradition.
He forded rivers, climbed mountains, was hunted by wild animals, and had his every limit tested. But eventually he found his prize and returned home with it.
“So,” the newly-minted adult asked. “What does it do?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not a rare herb, or powerful reagent?”
The elder sighed. “Sometimes it is the deed that is important. The flower’s just a flower.”

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