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There was a boy, sitting without a shape and without a voice on a hard stone floor. He could not see the room around him – there was no illumination for him to see by. So he kept his eyes closed, and his mouth closed, and his mind closed to everything but the silence and the darkness of his cell.

He moved occasionally, simply to feel the ability in his limbs, the power of his muscles, and most importantly (though he did not know it), the motive power of his mind that caused his body to move in the first place.

There were chains around his wrists. He could feel them against his skin, but through the darkness he could not see them, and when they moved there was no sound to break the stillness. They held him in place, he knew – he could not move from the spot he was in, even though he had wanted to for a long time.

He knew that this room held him confined, that there was so much more beyond it’s invisible walls, and he yearned for a way to break them down.

But, in the stillness, there was safety, and surety, things he could not be certain existed outside. He wanted to know – but he was cautious, and lacked the will to find out.

The boy grew into a man, slowly, steadily – and soon, every day, his pain increased as the shackles tightened around his wrists. The stronger he became, the harder the vicious metal bit him, punishing him for strength he had not asked to possess. For a while, he bore the pain with nothing but sorrow and despair.

Then, one day, when the pain had begun to translate itself into threats he could almost hear through the silence, threats against his body and his cherished solitude, he began to feel something else. He began to feel angry, enraged by the chains that bound him. By what right, he cried in his head, do you hold me? By whose authority were you placed around my wrists? I have let you be, I have never so much as struggled against you – I have abided by your desire to keep me still, so by what right do you threaten me?

In an act of defiance spurred by his rage, an act of defiance against the darkness and silence and bondage, he opened his eyes – and was still.

Before him, like a beacon in the middle of the cell made invisible by blackness, stood a door. It was made of the simplest brown wood, it’s grain smooth and easy to look at; it’s tarnished brass knob glinted dully, reflecting light from some source that did not seem to exist anywhere that the man could see. It was the first thing of light he had ever seen, the first illuminated point in his dark world, and he sat staring for a long time with eyes wide in wonder.

Then he grew, just a little bit more, and he felt a bead of blood run down his wrist. His rage returned in a flood, and it pulled him with physical force to his feet, where every man should be in the wake of such emotion. His lips parted, and with a jolt of fierce exaltation, he found his voice and roared, hearing its strength and rejoicing in the sensation of his will translated into sound.

He raised his arms, and felt his shackles shatter into a thousand pieces. They made no sound as they hit the stone of the floor, and he felt nothing but the emptiness of wonder that they should be broken so easily; what had held him with the strength of iron as a child was now as weak as paper to him, a man.

So he stepped forward, wanting to see more of the faint light he saw reflected on the brass of the doorknob. He reached forward, turning it and opening the door.

Dazzled by pure sunlight, he raised an arm to shield his eyes – and discovered with a gasp that his arm was wreathed in flame. Another pang of joy filled him, because he knew that this flame was of his own creation, freed by the wide-open space he found himself in, feeding on the oxygen he had denied himself for so long. The flame was in his eyes as well as his hands as he came out of his cell into the greatness and vastness of the world outside.

Beyond, he saw a thousand figures in blue and black, hurrying to and fro, never looking at each other and never ceasing to move. He saw misery in their downcast eyes and the chilled blue of their lips – and immediately he reached out, extending the fire in his hands, hailing gladly, shouting that here was help, here was life and here was warmth – and the figures ceased to move, their lifeless eyes turning to him as one, glittering with reflected fire.

They came near, slowly, timidly, like wild beasts might at the sight of an alien object. He smiled as he offered them his flame; the first of them, a woman with pale veins standing out from a purely white face, reached out – and grasped a handful of fire. Her eyes lit up, and she whooped, feeling its warmth pass into her, rushing like life through her body. She turned, holding her little handful high to show the rest, and color flooded through her in a wash of health. The rest of them came eagerly after that, for their share of the freely given fire.

Some met his eyes and thanked him, joy shining from their faces, and he laughed in response, jubilant to be able to give them just what they had needed. Others, however, never met his eyes. They rarely spoke, and when they did it was grudgingly. Some even spat at his feet, at the same time grasping for their handful of fire, and then turning away to leave quickly.

He puzzled over these last sort, but never withheld his gift from them – for it he was to offer it to one, he had no right not to offer it to another. But soon, the joyful recipients had disappeared; it was only the dark crowd with their loathing, defensive faces who came to take his fire. And soon he realized that, while the joyful ones had fed his fire, rendering it nigh on inexhaustible, these dark men caused the flames to diminish, handful by handful.

In horror, and in sadness, he made the decision to close his hand, withdrawing his fire. He pushed it back, deep inside himself, where they could not touch it – the queue of people broke, scattering in confusion, jeering when they saw him and the shattered expression he bore. Watching them, he felt no guilt when he stepped back through the door of his cell, to sit inside it once again. He sat where he had for all those years before, but contented for now, and without chains to bind him. He had his fire to keep him company, to light the room, and to remind him of his joy.

Soon, moans began to sound through the door of his cell – the black ones were there, outside, begging as a mass for him to come out to them again, to grant them his fire once more. The bits they had been given had gone out; they had not known how to feed them.

The man shook his head, and smiled sadly. “Fire, I will bring you,” he said, “when you withdraw your vultures.”