is eyes couldn't open. They had done something to them, but it didn't matter. He knew what had happened, his patrol had been ambushed, he had been taken. That was that and nothing could be done but sit and wait. No, his eyes being moliated shut wasn't the problem. He could hear what they were saying. He had heard their names and their titles, Alex the Giver, Harlan the Messenger. The others blurred into meaningless heretic drivel.

That's not what bothered him.

No, it was their plans. Over and over again he heard the word "ritual". Various ingredients and words had been mulled over and discussed. These he listened to with keen interest. The word that distressed him was "sacrifice". He didn't like that word at all. They had been bandying it about rather a lot, and usually when talking about him.

"Stand him up," he hears someone say. Rough hands grab his arms and haul him to his feet. A hard shove to his back and he's walking.

A pull to the right, a jerk to his left, and he felt the closeness of his escorts ease. They stopped and put him to his knees. He kneeled there, moving his head about, trying to see with blind eyes.

After what seemed like years a voice spoke.

"Who are you?" This from off to his left.

"I'm...I'm Paul the younger Centurian of the Legion of Paupers," hesitated in a practised speech.

"Is that what they told you?" To the centre this time.

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

"Who are you?" Left again.

"I told you. Paul the-"

"No." To the right.

"What do you mean?" he asked more forcefully.

"Take him away," the centre.

"No! I demand-" A hand clamped over his mouth, and he was yanked to his feet.

Dragged back to his cell a million thoughts ran through his head, all of them questions.

Who am I? I never even tried to find out, he thought.

{I know who you are}

No, leave me alone.

{If you wish}

Hours passed before the door opened again and he was dragged back to the place of questioning.

"Who are you?" Left.

"I'm Paul the-"

"No." The centre.

"I'm tired of this! What do you want from me?"

"We don't want to hurt you, only to help."

"Then let me go."

"No, tell us who you are." Right.

"I've tried you don't listen," he pleaded.

"We've been waiting for you." Centre.

"What?"

"Do you know what day it is tomorrow?"

"I don't-"

"It is the fiftieth anniversary of Charon's final battle." Left.

"Take him away and prepare him for tomorrow night." Centre.

"Wait....wait!"

This time the hand covered his mouth and he felt the corpus smooth over as it was moliated shut. His escorts dragged him back to his cell kicking and squirming. In his cell the questions began anew, and they were all his own.

What do they mean? What are they going to do to me?

{I can help}

No, I don't need your help.

{Who else can help you?}

But...

{Trust me}

NO!

That night the escorts came again, as rough as before. This time he walked without being dragged.

"Who are you?"

The hand over his mouth again, opening it once more.

"I'm Paul," he said.

"No, think back," said centre.

A hand went over his eyes, and he could see again. He looked around, and found himself in a large circle of people. One of the people moved forward and laid a small box in front of him.

"Open the box," said the one who has been standing in the centre.

Paul opened the box. He was surprised to find a wedding ring and a small locket. He hesitantly picked up the ring. A memory trickled in. A woman, brown hair. He held the ring tighter, a look of horror on his face.

"We've been waiting..."

A name, Melissa.

"...for you..."

His name, someone else's.

"...Jacob."

The floodgates opened. Memories washed over him and all he could do was to relive them.

A home, "I love you", an office: his, a hospital, "Mr Woodard?", a wife, the name, a name, her name...

"No!" he screamed at the ceiling.

The name Janie, he picked it, always liked that name, a nurse was speaking to him, "It's a girl, Mr Woodard, a healthy baby girl."

"The ritual is working, soon the spirit of Charon will infuse him,"

Alex muttered to the group.

"Ah, ah, ah, I had a baby girl," Jake sobbed.

"Think back, Jake," Harlan encouraged.

"No, it wasn't my fault!" he screamed back.

"What wasn't, Jake?"

More memories flooded his mind. Their baby, his wife, loading....

{I can help you}

"No! I didn't see the turn! Oh Jesus!"

...loading the car, an argument, an unseen turn...

"It wasn't your fault, Jake. Let go," Harlan said.

{I can stop this}

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!"

And then it began to happen. It started in his eyes, and it flowed to his mouth and worked its way through his corpus. A translucent blue glow enveloped him.

{I can help you}

NO!

...a crashing sound...

{I can ease this.}

...thrown from the car...

No!{I can help you forget.}

...blood so much blood...

No.

{Let me help.}

...a blanket, turning from white to red...

No

{Trust me.}

...a beautiful face mangled...

Yes, {Yes}, Yes!

The glow turned rotten, its shape changing. What was once blue became mottled green.

"What's happening?" Alex exclaimed.

"Something's gone wrong!" Harlan yelled.

The Jake-thing stood and broke its chains, and then the screaming began.

He awoke sometime later, unsure of quite how he had gotten there.

He stood and looked around at the wreckage. Something caught his eye in the corner. He picked it up. A wedding ring. He put it on, and he smiled. He remembered his wife.

And he knew his name was Jake.