The Lantern Man

By Tejas Gupta

I keep my hand over the fire until it steadies, then I pick it up — not the lantern, but the flame itself. It does not burn me. It never does. Instead, it curls gently into my palm, contorting and shifting, soft and insistent. It isn’t hot like the fire that burns and chars, like the bombs and shells; it is gentle, steady, and intimate — the kind of warmth you remember from a mother’s hands, a dying hearth long abandoned.

I close my fingers around it, feeling it seep into the hollows I carry. For centuries, I have known punishment — chains and vultures, gods and silence. I have watched the world burn again and again with the same fire I once offered in kindness. This flame is different. It waits in my hand, patient, forgiving, demanding nothing but acknowledgment.

Outside, the city smoulders. Buildings lean into the sky, their ribs of iron and concrete exposed, glowing with the dull orange of exhaustion. Smoke drifts in slow, heavy columns. The air tastes of metal and ash. Somewhere, distant shells still fall, their thunder echoing off the dead riverbed. And I am reminded, as always, that the fire I brought to humanity was never purely light.

I lower the flame into a lantern and watch it settle behind the glass, small but defiant. Then I lift it and step into the street. Rubble crunches beneath my boots; it reminds me of the crunch of foliage beneath feet, but the times to reminisce have long passed. The wind carries the faint whimper of survivors — skeletal silhouettes wrapped in rags, huddled in doorways, eyes hollow from the brightened dark.

This is what I have made.This is what they have done with my gift.

For every warmth I built, they found a way to weaponize it. For every hearth, a furnace. For every candle, a bomb. The gods tortured me once, but humanity perfected the art. Now I am a tame shadow, wandering the ruins, tending to the sickly flames that still dare to burn.

My home stands at the end of an alleyway, a small, cracked thing tucked between collapsed walls. Inside, hundreds of lanterns flicker, their light soft against the blackened glass. The air hums faintly, alive with the murmurs of flame. Each one holds a story — a spark I once kindled, a hope I could not protect.

I move among them, brushing dust from their domes, whispering to each in turn.“I’m sorry.”“I should have known.”“I didn’t mean for this.”

Sometimes I imagine they whisper back — that they forgive me, that they understand, unlike humans.

I kneel before one particularly dim lantern and press my hand to the glass. Inside, the flame trembles, on the edge of extinction. I pull a blade from my cloak, drag it across the surface of my palm, and let a thread of my own fire slip inside. It steadies instantly, glowing with renewed life.

The pain that follows is small but sharp. Every time I give, I lose something — a flicker of the divine, another piece of what I once was. Soon, there will be nothing left but ash and guilt.And yet, I cannot stop.

Once, I believed the gods punished me, reprimanded me for disobedience. Now I know the truth: I have kept myself bound. It was never Zeus who chained me, but regret. Every century I carry this flame, I feed it with my remorse, afraid to let it die because it is all that reminds me of what I once was — of the love I had for people.

The war outside grows louder. The walls tremble. Dust rains from the beams above. Somewhere nearby, another explosion paints the skyline white.

I close my eyes.The memories come like smoke: forests burning beneath the first spark, soldiers clutching torches as they marched toward conquest, cities glowing like constellations before being torched to the ground. I have seen empires rise by firelight and die by it. Always, I am there, carrying the lantern. Always, I am watching.

When I open my eyes again, one of the lanterns has gone out. Its glass is cracked, its wick cold. I touch it gently, feeling the chill seep into my bones. The silence is deafening.

I pick it up and hold it close to my chest. For a moment, I consider relighting it. I could. I always can. But I stop. My hand hovers above the wick, trembling.“Maybe it’s time,” I whisper.

I sit among the lanterns, surrounded by their trembling light. Their glow paints my scars in gold — the burns, the marks of chain and claw, reminders of the endless cycle I have carried. My hands shake as I stare into the last living flame.

“I had a name once,” I murmur to myself. “Prometheus.”

The word feels strange now, cold and fragile. A relic.“I gave them fire,” I say, “and it burned them. And me.”

The lanterns flicker as if listening. I take a slow breath, and for the first time in centuries, I do not feel the weight of punishment or guilt. Only fatigue.

I reach inside myself and find the flame that has never gone out — the divine spark, buried deep beneath the layers of guilt and grief. It is smaller than I remember. It trembles like a child lost in the dark, searching for its mother.“You’ve done enough,” I tell it. My voice cracks. “You’ve burned long enough.”

The flame flickers, hesitant, then folds inward on itself, sinking back into the hollow of my chest. For a moment, I am afraid the darkness will consume me. But it doesn’t. Instead, warmth spreads — it doesn’t burn me; instead, a tingling sensation pervades the air, and I am at peace. Finally.

Outside, the city continues to burn. But this time, I do not.

I stand, the old chains of memory falling away like dust. I look around the shop — my sanctuary, my prison — and realise it no longer glows with guilt. The lanterns still flicker, but their light feels different now. Softer. Freer.

The gods no longer watch.The vultures no longer come.And for the first time since I gave humanity its first spark, I am at peace.Prometheus is at peace.

By Tejas Gupta