Once, there was a valley, lush and vibrant, where streams ran clear as crystal, and every tree bore fruit in its season. The land flourished under the care of a loving gardener, but one day, the gardener departed, entrusting the valley to the council in the community. The gardner warned about stewards who wanted control but the council gave way to these seven over time- we now know these seven by their greek names: Hybris, Phthonos, Orgé, Acedia, Pleonexia, Gaster, and Epithymia.
At first, the valley prospered under their rule, for its bounty seemed endless. But as the years passed, the land began to wither. The stewards, so focused on their own desires, failed to see how their hands choked the life from the soil.
The seven gathered in the hall at the heart of the valley, a once-grand structure now crumbling with neglect. Dust hung thick in the air, and the light that filtered through the broken windows was weak and pale.
Hybris was the first to speak, her voice rising sharply as she gestured to the faded tapestries on the walls.
“This ruin is not my fault. I brought greatness to this land—look at the monuments I built! If the valley is barren, it is because the rest of you failed to uphold my vision.”
Phthonos, seated in the shadows, sneered.
“Your monuments? They were nothing but vanity projects, Hybris, meant to overshadow the work of others. You always claimed the best land, the richest soil, leaving me with scraps. It’s no wonder this valley is dead—you never shared enough.”
Orgé slammed his fist on the splintered table, his face red with fury.
“Enough with your whining, Phthonos! This decay is your fault—you sowed discord and poisoned everything with your envy. I tried to hold this place together, but you all pushed me to the edge!”
Acedia, lounging lazily in his chair, barely raised his voice above a murmur.
“Hold it together? Please. All your raging and shouting did nothing but stir up dust. The land didn’t die because of me—I simply let it be. Maybe it just… gave up, like the rest of us should.”
Pleonexia, her fingers nervously clutching a gold coin, smirked.
“The land gave up because it was drained dry. I only took what was necessary to sustain my share. If the valley couldn’t survive, it’s because there wasn’t enough to go around in the first place.”
Gaster shifted uncomfortably, wiping crumbs from his lap as he spoke.
“Not enough? Don’t be ridiculous, Pleonexia. There was plenty—until you hoarded it all. At least I didn’t pretend I had noble intentions. I just enjoyed the bounty while it lasted.”
Epithymia, leaning against the wall, sighed wistfully.
“The bounty? It was never enough. Nothing here could ever satisfy—not the streams, not the harvests, not the treasures. If the valley is a wasteland, maybe it was always meant to be. Nothing lasts forever, after all.”
As their voices echoed through the hollow hall, the wind outside began to howl, carrying with it the fine grit of the eroded land. The sun, once warm and golden, shrank behind a veil of ash. None of the stewards noticed the small figure standing in the doorway, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes hollow.
The boy had wandered far, searching for someone to restore the valley. But as he listened to their bitter arguments, he knew they could offer no help.
Softly, he whispered, “If only the land had a shepherd again. Someone who cared for it, instead of themselves.”
He turned and walked away, leaving the stewards to their barren dominion. Behind him, the wind carried the faint echo of a voice—gentle, soft, and offering a flicker of hope.
This is also a song:
No comments:
Post a Comment