Part One

One: Ambition — φιλοδοξία (Philodoxia)

Plague, set afoot by ambition, had ruined the land once reminiscent of glory. The land, once home to creatures of strength and variety, of caliber and potential, had been reduced to nothing more than barren wastes, hopeless and desolate. Hulking beasts abounded in vast hordes, malodorous as carrion, malignant as marauders. Apocalypse, in successive waves, had unleashed its wrath upon the planet, purging the land of prosperity. Man, with eyes of gold and hearts of flame, neither cared nor despaired of their dying land. Seething with reckless passion, Man relentlessly pursued his goals, his high-flown aspirations, until Man himself was destroyed. In a turn of events, Man’s dreams had concurred with downfall, and Man was obliterated from his man-made realm of misery. For Man’s ambition had been his own undoing.

Onto this grim scene descended a mythical being, an incarnation upon the land. An incarnation unlike any other, unlike holy Jesus or great Vishnu, yet an incarnation of wisdom and vigor. An angelic being, crowned with a laurel of triumph and adorned with the vesture of a tiger, he stood illuminated before the mighty sun and the blackened sky. His features were striking to the eye and heart, yet in all his greatness he was tarnished by the same flaw that had, a thousand years before, brought humans to their grave demise.

Philodoxia, the angel of ambition, had made his appearance upon the dying Earth.

Two: Hubris — ύβρις

Not even Man could be more astounded by his creations than Philodoxia was appalled by his very existence upon post-apocalyptic Earth.

“Sing in me, O Muse of Tragedy, and through me tell me the story of that man skilled in all ways of contending, the wanderer of mystic realms, the conqueror of savages, the champion of honor. Sing to me, O Muse Melpomene, and tell me of how this valiant man, this noble hero, was brought upon this despicable wasteland! For I, Philodoxia, mighty angel of ambition, was not born to die ion this Devil’s world. Tapered by his claws are the rugged peaks, and hollowed by his hooves are the broken caverns I see before me. What realm is this, be it not Hades itself, and what has great Philodoxia, Master of Ambition, to do here? To perish?

“Yet noble Julius Caesar, mighty being, and valiant Jason, I shall follow in your steps. O Caesar, fearless of danger or death, heedless of portents that vexed the lower man, you ascended beyond mere mortals and brought down your life’s conquerors. Jason, your bravery upon the Argo brought blessings to your soul. Thus I must not fear these infernal wastes, I must not bow down to the dangers before my eyes. I must continue. I must make my way through this devilish land, I must persist to seek pride and merit in this daunting realm. From such great men I derive my ambition, for their successes and blessings propel me to persevere. If the Fates themselves summon me to this place, I must obey, for Fate and Ambition are the makings of great Philodoxia himself.”

Turned by ambition to face the land before him, Ambition now turned to seek an alluring phantasm, a figment of his golden eyes. An ethereal creature rushing through the misty air, a silvery beauty drifting away as though it was just a fleeting dream. Philodoxia, enchanted by this mystical marvel, was carried away by ambition, devoted to pursue this dream.

Warily, he wondered, “Into what dangers would you lead me, spirit, that you would have me seek into myself for that which is not in me?”

Yet Philodoxia thought not twice as he raced across the Earth, in pursuit of dreams.

Three: Dreams — όνειρα (Oneira)

Dreams are like rainbows, and so Ambition pursued his pot of gold. Yet, like rainbows, dreams seem not too close nor beyond reach. Grasping blindly toward the mystical creature, Philodoxia failed to recognize a change in his surroundings. The barren wastes were no more to be seen; Ambition had lost himself in the depths of an enchanted forest.

Teeming with dense undergrowth, the forest was shrouded in shadows, cast upon the ground by the towering trees that loomed ahead. Faint whispers drifted through the treetops, as if heralding omens of darkness and doom. Yet Ambition, undaunted by the hurdles of the forest, pushed forth, chasing his dream. Leaping over leafy brambles, bounding over twisted vines, he was truly unstoppable.

At last, Philodoxia found himself within a circular clearing, a clearing unlike any other. Illuminated in silvery light, the graceful stallion now appeared before him, Ambition’s greatest dream. It shone with such a characteristic light that its true name instantly dawned upon him.

Oneira, pondered Philodoxia, in utmost awe.

Yet as he raced to embrace his dream, it vanished in a great gust of wind, just as quickly as it had appeared.

* * *

Speechless, gasping in dismay, tears of anguish now streamed down Philodoxia’s face as he lamented his loss, his lost love, his failure. Never before had Ambition cried, never before had he felt so hopeless, so forlorn. Drowning in despair, Philodoxia felt a feeling he had never felt before. Surely, he believed, his days of ambition, of boundless freedom, had reached their end.

Stooping one last time to gaze at the remnants of his dream, Philodoxia found in their place a mere stone tablet, gray as the gaping void within him.

Four: Forest Beings — δασικά όντα (Dasika Onta)

“You must go on,” whispered a tiny voice, so soft that it might not have spoken at all. “You are our Chosen One, our final hope. You must not let us down.”

Philodoxia began to stir, awakening from his misery.

“The prophecy, the Prophecy of Time,” whispered another voice, a rustling in the bushes nearby. “Shall it be him? Has he come for us?”

Caressing the stone tablet, Philodoxia gazed about through weary eyes, searching for the source of the subtle whispers drifting about the air.

“Our savior, he has come, he has come at last, at last, at last,” whispered yet another voice, spiraling in the air above. “At last hope shall be restored to our dying land, our land, our poor land.”

Perplexed and disturbed, vexed by frustration, Philodoxia suddenly cried out in distress. “Chosen One? Savior? Hope? What is it I hear, these spectral speakings, these whispers that drift through the trees? What is it I hear, these whispers of hope, when all hope is forsaken, eternally taken? Speak to me, creatures, console me. Speak to poor Philodoxia, who lost his heart in a vicious gale. Speak to me what thou art.”

Taking form in the magical mist of the forest, the spirits enveloped Philodoxia in a clear bubble, lifting him up into the air.

“We are the Dasika Onta, the heavenly beings of this enchanted forest, and we come to you to speak of the prophecy.”

Five: Prophecy — προφητεία (Prophetia)

“Timeless is the prophecy,” explained the spirits, “yet Time wears on, taking its toll upon our land. It has torn apart our forests, torn away our creatures, torn humans from their dreams, and torn the pages of our past, our history. Timeless is the prophecy, yet Time itself summoned us to this realm. A thousand years have worn by, a thousand dark, lifeless years … The prophecy calls now, for a savior, for a hero to counter Man’s ambition …”

Philodoxia, quite amused, scoffed. “For Ambition himself to counter ambition? How absurd! A prophecy of fools, being spoken by fools — what a jest!” he retorted.

The bubble quivered violently with his tremendous laughter, threatening to burst right there and drop him to the ground below. Yet Philodoxia continued to roar with mirth.

“Philodoxia!” exclaimed the spirits. “Angel of Ambition! If the Fates do err, they shall not bring you here …”

“Does he not see? Is he blind to this world, to himself? He is merely a man, a man upon this land. A man of ambition, wisdom, strength — yet still a man, just a man. Merely a man, yet he thinks he is greater, better than himself, stronger than the power he wields within him … yet still a man. Only Fate shall shape his future …” whispered one of the spirits.

“Fated is the prophecy,” interjected another. “Only great men can fulfill it.”

“Greatness is not defined by one’s strength, but rather by one’s character. I see the man within fails to pass this test.”

“The prophecy cannot be false! Prithee, I say he passes.”

“The man within holds nothing but failure, for words speak of true nature.”

“Do not judge man’s character by his words! For actions speak louder!”

The spirits quarreled amongst each other, growing louder by the minute. Attitudes grew turbulent, threatening to break apart the bubble and cast Ambition into downfall.

“Quiet!” demanded Philodoxia. “Tell me of this prophecy, wise spirits,” he requested in a sudden change of tone, now bowing before the omnipotent beings.

“Surely, for that is why we have come,” began the spirits. Drifting to a high mountaintop, they placed Philodoxia atop its peak, then coalesced once more to form a misty screen, a window to the unknown, depicting the Prophecy of Time in its true form.

“On the far side of this world, beyond the barren wastes of mankind and the enchanted forest of life, beyond the dark skies and the misty air, there lies a timeless realm, the Realm of Time. Known to humans as the Ancient World, it had since been sealed by the heavens and the Earth, before the Great Apocalypse, the scourge of Man … To this day, it holds the vestiges of mankind, those spared from the corruption of society. Yet the Realm of Time is well-guarded, flanked by the very beasts humans spawned in the wake of the Apocalypse. Concealed not far beyond these beasts, with their powerful jaws and ponderous hooves, lies a Golden Gate, the Chrysi Pyli, the threshold to a new realm.

“And it is prophesied that the Chosen One, the Eklektos, savior of all humanity, shall pass through. A man of infinite ambition, of courage and determination to assist him on his travels, he shall traverse the hills and valleys, he shall embark on a winding journey to the city of Thebes, home to the oracle Tiresias, where he shall hear wise words to counter ambition itself …

“This is the prophecy, and it is yet to be fulfilled.”

Six: Golden Gate — χρυσή πύλη (Chrysi Pyli)

In the wake of the prophecy’s revelation, the misty screen of spirits shattered. Its pristine shards of water descended upon Philodoxia, sweeping him off the mountain in a gleaming river of crystals. Carried gently atop a tranquil bed of sweet-scented waters, immersed in purity and pleasure, Philodoxia was brought down into the world below.

Yet life is not a bed of roses. The mighty river tapered off into a trickling stream, which emptied into a dark basin near the end of the barren wastelands, near the end of the known world. Open-mouthed, Philodoxia gazed into the distance, watching the distant gray sands dance to the rhythm of pounding feet growing closer. Monocled monsters, their purplish, decaying brains exposed to the smoky air, lurched toward him. With tremendous tools lodged into their skin like toppings atop a moldy pizza, their oversized, pockmarked bodies tumbled forth, as their shriveled wings withered away behind them. In their eyes there was not the slightest semblance of hope, for in ambition, they had brought ruin to their future.

Humans, thought Philodoxia, horrified. What have they done to themselves? To have come so far, to have discovered the world, only to turn against themselves? The disturbing thought sent quivers down his spine.

Yet I must not falter, thought Philodoxia. I must not succumb to Fate, my maker yet a breaker of my solid will. With ambition, I shall find a way, a way to succeed, to achieve the impossible.

In the guise of a tiger, Philodoxia roared in a thunderous voice, advancing toward the monstrous beasts. “Who dares tempt Philodoxia, sole Master of Ambition, foul brutes? Tempt me no farther, monsters, bait not me. For terror lies not in your threats — in thee!”

Luring them toward him, the crafty hero slipped below their heavy feet as the beasts mindlessly stampeded away. Not far ahead was the Chrysi Pyli, shimmering brightly in the radiant evening light. Racing toward it, Philodoxia felt enlightened as the sun, emerging at last from the dark clouds, warmed him, heralding better days to come.

Seven: Know Thyself — γνῶθι σεαυτόν (Gnothi Seauton)

Yet as he entered through the gleaming Golden Gate, darkness enveloped Ambition. Amidst Chaos, the deity of darkness, Ambition stumbled upon a rock, falling to the ground. Slipping from his arms was the forgotten stone tablet, which split into two on impact with the solid ground. Fumbling for the fallen object, the tablet itself became illuminated in a halo of light. Above it appeared an ancient inscription, old as Time itself:

Η φιλοδοξία λειτουργεί ενάντια στη φιλοδοξία.

“Ambition works against ambition,” echoed a deep voice within the tablet itself.

Shuddering in fear, haunted by the ominous phrase, Philodoxia, eyes wide open, stared into the glowing message to find his own reflection gazing back at him. A mere man, fallen to the ground … A weak being, inferior to himself, stared through the message, his image spiraling in endless circles through his mind … 

Still a man, just a man. Merely a man, yet he thinks he is greater … still a man, just a man … The words of the spirits, of his pride, of his hubris, reverberated through his mind.

“Know thyself,” echoed the voice once more. “Know thyself …”

Part Two

Eight: Mentor — Μέντωρ

From past to present, from medieval to modern, from history to mystery, the Realm of Time held secrets lost to the ages. Bearing relics prized from the dawn of mankind, the Realm preserved them far beyond demise. A land of infinite prosperity, a universal utopia, it was a vast realm of nature, of ancient trails, of citadels, of all Time had taken from the realms of ages past. The Realm of Time held bygone marvels, but only in anticipation for a brighter future.

In the depths of this realm dwelled an aged, bearded man of times past. In life, he had been a friend of Odysseus, a tutor of Telemachus, and a helper of humanity, bearing wisdom and experience. Being knowledgeable, he knew his Fate and Time’s prophecy well. Awaiting the savior, he had settled within an earthen hollow, slumbering in dormancy for millennia … 

* * *

Now approached a weary traveler, harried for years on end, after he breached the golden threshold to the boundless Realm of Time. Utterly lost, he had scoured the world for a stepping stone to find the oracle, Tiresias, but in vain. Staggering toward a flowery dell at the foot of a grassy hill, he tumbled at once, crashing into what seemed to be a mysterious wooden door, smooth as soft paper yet gray from ages of neglect.

The door fell through, and weary Philodoxia found himself at last within the home of Mentor, the aged man of wisdom.

“Come in,” boomed a mighty voice from within. “Unless you are not the Eklektos.”

Philodoxia, charged with hubris, retorted, “Why shall I enter this caveman’s shanty, overrun by brush and lowly plants, when Tiresias, great oracle, awaits me?”

Peering into his soul, Mentor observed, “I see you are tarnished with the purplish hue of pride, deep as a peacock’s stunning feathers, yet blacker than the haughty lion’s mane. Tiresias awaits no one. Enter with me to learn of his presence, but first do tell of your adventures.”

Philodoxia descended into Mentor’s home, where he was offered to rest upon a leafy couch besides an earthen furnace. Yet he refused, vowing always to stand tall before the wizened man to narrate his tales of adventure.

“For long years past, I had been traveling the snowy mountains and the sunlit valleys, the rugged canyons and the grassy plains, searching hopelessly for the lost city of Thebes I was told of. Yet in recent years, my discoveries have been much greater. One fateful night, I stumbled upon a mighty palace, the sanctuary of mankind, with its striking rectangular turrets and great stone walls of steel. Captivated, I was propelled to enter, to explore this spectacular structure. With magnificent rooms filled with tools of sorts, with bubbling liquids and whirling vases, this castle was unlike any I had ever seen before. They called it a ‘facility,’ their ‘final hope,’ yet to me, it felt like home. Their ‘experiments,’ their ‘pioneering technologies,’ seemed beyond the limits of man; their supreme endeavors beyond ambition itself …”

Mentor pondered aloud, wisdom shining through his words. “I know the ways of Man. For ten years I watched them, struggling for supremacy over a single woman deprived of her husband gone to war … For ten years I watched them, eating up the land of another, bringing down all that lay in their way … Mankind strives for ascendancy, for power and possessions, for material wealth. Ambition rules their souls, for ‘twas ambition that spelled their downfall …

“Philodoxia, you must not follow in their path. You must not let ambition possess you, destroy you … You must remain upon the golden path; you must not stray, you must not fall to temptation … Or I foretell a grave future, a Moiraios, yet to come …”

Nine: Fatal Fate — μοιραίος (Moiraios)

* * *

The journey upon the winding golden path was arduous and tiresome, yet Philodoxia pursued, ambition throbbing within his heart. Only success mattered to him now; the very thought illuminated images of glory within his mind, propelling him to continue.

Yet deep within his mind, Ambition heard an enticing voice, distant yet so close, calling for him. The voice, insistent yet so calm, forceful yet so small, summoned him from afar.

Philodoxia, Master of Ambition, come … O great hero, master of realms, come … Hesitate not, think not twice, just come … To be the one you desired to be, to be the angel of your dreams, come now, come, think not twice, great hero, Master of Ambition, come …

Heedless of Mentor’s forebodings, Philodoxia, his hubris fulfilled by the enchanting voice, was drawn away from the golden path of goodness. In the distance loomed the facility, with its gray walls and towering buildings, illuminated in an aura of purple light. Ambition’s dream awaited him — in a leap of pride, he bounded toward the building, just as he had embraced Oneira all those years ago … 

Yet overambition proved deceptive once more. An illusion! The facility vanished with an explosion of purple, of hubris … At once, Philodoxia was enclosed about by the hulking beasts, the monsters he had once toppled with ease, spurred by ambition. He had lured them into a stampede, upon which they trampled themselves, falling like fools upon one another … 

The beasts pounded closer, their evil, monocled eyes fixed hungrily upon his ashen face. Could he stop them now? Did he have courage, the strength to carry on?

You must not let ambition possess you, destroy you … The beasts lurched closer, mere feet away. Had he been an angel, an all-powerful Master of Ambition, he could have fended them off, even destroyed them … Yet he was just a man, merely a man, a man and no more. Finding it impossible to escape, Ambition cowered amidst his conquerors, shuddering in fear …

You must not stray, you must not fall to temptation … What had he done? What had ambition, once his emblem of success, brought him to?

A torrent of torturous thoughts flooded his mind. Merely a man, yet he thinks he is greater, better than himself, stronger than his power … The man within fails to pass this test … Ambition works against ambition … Know thyself! Know thyself! … A grave future, a Moiraios, yet to come … 

Desperately, Philodoxia mustered all his strength, his resolve, his power, whatever he had left. Yet he found no strength within himself, no ambition to carry on …

Bellowing in agony, Ambition plunged into eternal darkness, never to see the world the same way again.

Ten: Rebirth — αναγέννηση (Anagennisi)

* * *

“O Holy Healing Herbs, channel life into this dying soul,” recited a voice, beseeching the Gods above. “O Holy Herbs Divine, revive this man, purge his corpse of wounds, bring psyche to his mind and heart. Revive this man …”

Philodoxia gradually awakened, gazing into the bearded face of the man above him. “Mentor?” he wondered aloud, in disbelief.

“’Tis I, indeed,” responded the aged man. “These healing herbs have done you well … I see you now approve of them, is that so? For the bounties of Nature are truly wondrous. Nature’s beauty, its natural power, prevails over the caliber of Man. For what the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Prometheus molded Man, provided him with fire, fueling his ambition. Yet Man, in desiring to cultivate Nature in his man-made tools of ambition, destroyed himself. For Nature holds true power, ascendancy above this world.”

“Nature, thou art good indeed …” murmured Philodoxia apologetically, contemplating his very first words to Mentor, his hubris and pride. “Sorry …”

“Rest now, Philodoxia,” instructed Mentor, wrapping herbs around Ambition’s wounds. “You must muster strength, ambition, for the journey that lies before you …”

Eleven: Tiresias — τειρεσίας

The golden path stretched far ahead, yet Philodoxia, master of his soul, did not capitulate, did not cast down his weary self. With firm constancy, he endured the pains of his aching wounds, trudging down the winding path of success.

“Philodoxia, Master of Ambition, come to me, come …” The alluring voice repeated countless times within his mind, yet Philodoxia had mastered his emotions, conquered his hubris and ambitions. Tempt me no further, he thought in return, for I can stand thy lure.

Descending into a deep cavern at the world’s end, the golden path ended at an altar, a votive pit, upon which Philodoxia sacrificed a black lamb to hear the wise words of Tiresias, prince of Thebes. From the plumes of sacrificial smoke, from the sweet incense of the burning beast, arose Tiresias, the man of seven lives, older than Mentor himself. Draped in ancient garb, bearing a cane of stone, he gazed down upon Philodoxia, who stood kneeling below.

“Welcome, Ambition, you have come at last,” spoke the great Theban oracle.

Twelve: Whispers — ψίθυρος (Psithyrus)

* * *

“Whisper into the ears of Man, good soul,” instructed the wise oracle, “to counter the ambition that lies within. Speak softly, yet with strong words that turn the mind of Man. If you succeed, I prophesy glory upon this world, for Man shall come to live amongst nature and not against it. Yet if Man’s ambitions are not countered, if his rash endeavors are not ceased, demise shall befall this land, for Man shall lay siege to his own existence. And all this shall be just as I foretell.”

Tiresias departed from the flames, his shade retiring lordly to the halls of Death below. In his place appeared a portal, a window through time, casting the words of a thousand years past upon Man in his days of ambition. Great Philodoxia, transformed by experience and enlightened by the oracle, stood before it, uttering timeless words of wisdom to quell Man’s deadly ambition a millennium before.

“I speak to thee, wise Man, across a chasm of time, a millennium into thy future. Arise now, and hearken to these words of wisdom.”

The scientist tossed and turned upon his bed, disturbed in his sound sleep, in his dreams of tools and creatures, of ultimate ambition.

“I speak to thee from thy future, from a realm ravaged by ambition,” spoke Philodoxia, “from a realm ravaged by waves of Apocalypse, tortured by beasts with tools lodged into their skin, with threatening, monocled eyes, hulking through thy realm, foraging the land for their next prey. Beasts whose mighty jaws devoured Man’s ambition, his boundless pride, and his life in its entirety.”

Shaken from his sleep, from his high-flown dreams of overambition, the scientist now fumbled for his monocle, gazing, petrified, into the air above, into the petri dish before him, holding the life source for hundreds of mutated beings of his creation.

“Beasts who, spawned by ambition, now plod heavily upon the barren wastes Man once called home. The remnants of his civilization, of his existence, are no more, wiped away by the Earth and Time itself. For ambition killed Man, ambition killed civilization, ambition laid siege to all of Man’s endeavors, destroying forever all that Man created. Ambition spawned this dystopian realm, inhabited only by spirits of souls of a sole forest, by brush and mere vegetation. Ambition shattered all once prized by Man, all the relics of ages past, sparing only scanty vestiges of the natural world.”

Aghast, the scientist leaped out of bed, gazing in shock at the cells dividing numerously atop a petri dish on his nightstand, and what they would become.

“Yet I speak of a different realm, a realm of a different future. I speak of a glorious place, a place where Man thrives amongst his natural world. Where Man and Nature coexist, in utter harmony, where Nature and Man bolster each other’s existence. A world without conflict, without the plague of suffering, but a true utopia, one that Man has searched for, in vain, since thousands of years long gone … Man must learn to live amongst nature, not against it. Man must learn to harness the gifts of Nature, to harness the herbs that healed Ambition himself … Then only shall mankind prosper, then only shall this world be restored … Then only shall mankind thrive, amongst a glorious world …”

The scientist, at once, took hold of the petri dish and cast it down to the floor, smashing it into a million shards, instantly killing the thousands of cells that grew within it. Quietly vowing to himself never to repeat such a mistake, never to repeat such an act of sheer folly, he stood towering above the smashed smithereens of the dish, the dish that would have spawned the Apocalypse. He stood breathless yet firm, knowing deep inside that he had done the right thing.

From a dark cavern deep within the earth, a millenia into the future, an angel emerged, with wings as great as Time itself, with strength rivaling that of a million men.

Philodoxia, born anew, had made his appearance, once again, upon the glorious Earth.

Thirteen: Glory — μεγαλείο (Megalio)

Spiraling freely into the misty air, Philodoxia found himself once again above the realm from which he had come, with its enchanted forest and towering mountains. Yet the world below was unlike any other he had ever seen before. Myriad creatures of various forms roamed the land, surrounded by towering trees with shining, sunlit leaves. Beautiful houses, surrounded by the wonders of nature, stood immersed in fields of green, where Man thrived gloriously upon his land. The barren wastes were no more to be seen, replaced instead by prosperous civilization, with towering silver buildings brimming with greenery and life. Philodoxia wanted to stay, to live amidst this utopian land forever, but he knew his place in life, understanding that he had to return home, to his angelic realm in the heavens.

Gazing into the skies above, Philodoxia found nothing but clouds, puffy as cotton, light as soft feathers drifting through the warm summer air.

Ambition, he thought, with a smile of triumph across his face, works against ambition.

And Philodoxia, utterly transformed by his journey upon the land, vanished into the clouds, flying freely amongst the stallion of his dreams.