The Devoured Sons: Book One: Echoes of The Solemn Veil

Chapter One - Desire

"Buried deep inside the cavernous chambers of every man's heart, there exists a longing, a ravenous hunger, a raging desire that threatens to devour him from within. The fight, no, the chase begins at birth—he after it, it after he—a relentless pursuit upon the foggiest seas to each's own delight. Be it love or vice, fortune or fame, desire knows not its price, and man knows not he pays." - Dorian's Notes

Yet, what is life without desire? In its absence, man is little more than a malcontented blob thrust upon tumultuous waters, moved only by the forces surrounding him. Unlike the fortresses of emotion—joy and sorrow —secluded to permanent islands of consciousness, desire is the vessel that connects thought to action, driven forward by the dueling winds of pleasure and pain. Strip either wind from this sail, and man's happiness fades out of reach beyond the horizon. His new course? The Siren sounds of fear and anger beckoning him toward the rocky shores of sorrow.

Ah, such is life—the tantalizing tango of man and his desires. In fact, weren't we warned by Tantalus himself? The Greek demi-god audaciously questioned the Olympian immortals and dared to taste their ambrosia. For this, he earned not only the knowledge he sought but also a taste of its enigmatic companion: wisdom. Condemned to the Underworld, he stands forevermore in a pool of water beneath fruit-laden branches, bearing unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger. Reaching above, the branches elude his grasp; below, the waters recoil from his parched lips. And so he remains, the personification of aspirations unchecked. At least, that's the lesson passed down for generations—a lesson underscored by the Benefactor's influence—and I might have died many years ago believing this were it not for my friends' inspiration. From an evolved perspective, the tale of Tantalus proves him to be the prophet of crushed rebellions rather than the incarnation of unchecked aspirations—a lesson proven by experience.

And desire? For better or worse, is it not at the heart of every great story? Ahab and Moby Dick. Gatsby and the Green Light. Faust and knowledge. Caulfield and authenticity. Even Romeo and Juliet and their forbidden love. Intoxicated by desire, man will sacrifice everything he holds dear and never question the cost. At once, it can be his most endearing, though self-destructive quality—humanity's romantic dichotomy.

My ancestors were no different. All loners, they hunted some intangible feeling, perhaps even a fleeting genetic memory, that defied description. My grandfather's great-grandfather, Emmit, was a Western cowboy in the early 20th century. With the sun on his face and the outdoors as his only companion, he called himself a son of the land.

Emmit's son rebelled against the sprawling deserts and plains that reminded him of his distant father, choosing the adventurous life of a New England fisherman. The salt-tinged winds drying his lips, he took comfort in the Northeast's damp and chilly blanket. A son of the sea, his life was a battle between the elements and his own discontent.

His son, my great-grandfather, was a son of the long white line. Painted on the asphalt as a boundary to most, to him, it represented the endless freedom of America's Golden Age. A long-haul trucker with a Harley heart, he followed that white line as perhaps the only one of us who was ever content with the chase's thrill alone.

However, as their massive worlds expanded before them, teeming with endless possibilities, Earth began to shrink with my grandfather. Technology soon connected its opposite ends with an instantaneous tether. Tectonic shifts in research and communication happened at blistering speeds. Man's sense of mystery and adventure seemed to dissolve, and my grandfather returned to Emmit's homeland in search of its essence. Equipped with a lens rather than a lasso, the budding photographer pursued the ethereal interplay of light and shadow on the Western landscape—a son of the sun.

That's when a shrinking planet became something new altogether. My grandfather's generation witnessed The Solemn Veil and its devastating fallout. The first of two cataclysmic events that threatened humanity, billions of people died. Governments collapsed. Our ecosystem nearly followed. Entire cities were eventually leveled and rebuilt into protective city-states by legions of Artificial Intelligence-powered Humanara. Had it not been for the Benefactor's intervention, it was supposed that Earth itself might have become uninhabitable within a few generations.

A son of this new world, my father became a scooter mechanic. I know. Considering our lineage, it's not exactly the lifestyle you might expect, but an electric scooter was our primary method of travel in those days. Riding the narrow roads of our district seemed to be the only thing that offered his restless soul any solace.

And then there's me, the last of us—a son of Nashville, a son of desire, the son of man. I lived in a 10-square-mile reimagination of Nashville, complete with its signature Broadway lights and country music background. Bordering Nashville to the East was New York and its Times Square. To the West, Austin and its Congress Avenue. To Austin's West, downtown Los Angeles—each 10-square-mile district, a cultural echo of its former namesake. Together, "The three LAs and New York," as my father referred to them, formed the city-state of Athens, tucked away in Appalachia.

From a young age, I had always considered myself an explorer, scouring the urban landscape and learning the city's every stone and steel beam. Often, I climbed well above Broadway's neon buzz to stare in awe at the neighboring skylines, wishing I could investigate their worlds as I had mine.

By my last day in primary school, I had conquered every rooftop in Nashville, and there was only one building left to vanquish—The Hector. It was no fantastic feat; an elevator and a small flight of stairs offered the same journey to anyone. Nevertheless, I burst through the doorway onto Music City's tallest rooftop as if I were Achilles claiming the city. I smiled broadly, pretending to twirl a long spear before victoriously stabbing the air several times in succession.

However, before I could finish the childish celebration, my achievement was overshadowed by a violent solar flare striking the Aegis. Vibrant hues of red, orange, and yellow shimmered across the invisible dome in a stunning display of power. Named after Zeus' shield, the Aegis was invented by the Benefactor and protected each city-state. It was humanity's shield, spectacularly warding off the stray flares that almost destroyed Earth two generations prior.

As always, the collision sent forth a quaking boom that rumbled throughout Athens, but this one felt personal. It was as if Zeus himself had reminded me that, no, I was not Achilles. Achilles towered to the East, dwarfing Nashville and everything in it. New York's architecture was more intriguing; its lights were brighter, and though it was identically sized, it somehow appeared massive in comparison—the superior warrior. Even its district wall had a character that felt more welcoming than ours. I had always been content in Nashville, but that sight created within me a newfound gradation of restlessness that dominated its younger counterpart.

The thought never occurred that New York's "me" might sit atop some steel giant, looking down on Nashville, wishing to escape the "big city." Call it youthful innocence or a primitive viewpoint, but these thoughts become an old man's burden, and I'm older than them all.

Some say that it's these evolving perspectives that shape our desires. For example, that day's climb changed my perspective, thereby altering my desires. That's a superficial explanation. I say that we desire happiness and happiness alone, but our corruptions urge us to find joy in finite pleasures rather than the intangible infinite within. Though desire can be the suffocating shadow that overwhelms us, the menacing specter that haunts us, the grotesque fiend that frightens us, each abomination is only a disguise drawn from our own wardrobe of ignorance.