This is a oneshot on… well… I kinda explained it in the summary, didn't I? Okay, I'm not entirely sure if this'll only be a oneshot, it may become a full story, depending on whether or not I complete Aaron Pax: Rebellion (you should read that :)

Darkness. That is all you can remember; is all you have ever known. There are some fuzzy memories in your mind, of bright places, filled with light and joy. But that's no more. You don't know whether it's day or night, whether it's summer or winter, whether it's cold or warm. You only know a cycle of feelings, dread of the footsteps coming to take you, fear of the footsteps when they actually come and of the cold voices filled with millions of little razors, pain when they are torturing you, suffering when they sew you up, relief when you stumble back into your cell, and then the oncoming dread again.

You're dreading the footsteps. You're dreading even the smallest scurrying of a mouse's feet. Your heart thumps faster as your mind thinks that you hear footsteps coming. You wait and wait, but finally you realize that there is nothing to be heard. You look down at your watch, but then you remember that the glow-in-the-dark features died long ago. You hold it to your ear, but it's not ticking any more.

You hold your watch up in front of you, hoping to catch your own reflection, to see if you're still there, to see if there is any light in this prison. But you see nothing. Not even the one feature you have ever liked about yourself: your eyes. Blue as the feathers of a blue jay, you have always been told. You smile inwardly. Blue jay. You were named after your eye color. But who will remember you, Bluejay Tobias Stevens? Who? They won't remember Bluejay. They'll remember Jay, the boy who was captured by the titans. But Bluejay? Nah. What a stupid name, you think, biting back the tears you know won't come anymore.

You're scared. The fear is sinking in as the steps come closer, ever closer. You count them. Every day they are different. Every day a new person to torture you. You clutch your arms, clawing at the thin shirt you have on. You want to die rather than be here. Your eyes widen for the millionth time, trying to find light in the darkness.

The door squeaks open and gruff hands take you by the shoulders, roughly pushing you along the pitch black hallway. Didn't torches use to stand here, you ask yourself. Possible. You don't remember. Any emotion you've had till now is gone. Fear has replaced it. Fear for yourself. Not for anyone else. Fear.

You scream in pain. You are being enclosed, like time has stopped around you and you can't breath. Your lungs feel like they're on fire, but you know you won't die. You scream again, but the voice just laughs. You know that voice! You know it, so why can't you think of it? Your mind is racing, trying to save you. Your lungs feel like they're about to explode. Why can't you just die? By now it is a serious question.

Colors flash before your eyes in the dark room. Red, orange, blue, green, yellow. But they seem so unnatural now. You haven't seen them in such a long time- months? Years? Who are you again? Who are you? Who? You scream again, and someone releases you with a sword, the cold blade biting into your cheek. The horribly familiar voice cackles again, telling your captor to take you to be sewn up.

It hurts, it hurts so much. You don't know how you can possibly still be alive. You really don't know. Once again you're in a black room, and you feel a hot liquid on your face. You scream and you bite the fingers that are treating you, but your teeth grasp thin air as the person pulls away, tusk-tusking. They order for you to be taken back to your cell. How you regret that bite now.

You feel the sweat run down your face as you feel your fever coming back, only now, there won't be any medicine to pull you out of reality. They shove you back down the black corridor and into your blacker cell. You just want this over. Next door you hear the screams of the next prisoner. But you can only think about yourself.

Relief floods you as you stumble and fall into your cell. Relief from the pain, from the darkness around you. Your eyes wide open, you look for a small sign of life or light. You strain you ears for voices outside. For a moment, your training comes back to mind and you lean your head against the cold stone wall, but the memory leaves as quickly as it comes. Pain floods your head and relief is pushed to the side.

Again, you strain your ears for the sound of footsteps, and paranoia kicks in again. The dread is back.

You're scared again. The footsteps are faster this time, more hurried. There are shouts and bangs and booms, things your ears haven't heard for a long time. You hear the door to your cell being pushed open with an unusual force and many footsteps running. You hear the familiar clinking of swords and armour. You rise to defend yourself, but you are too weak. You stumble and face plant, but hands catch you. Are they preparing you to die, you wonder.

The hands don't drag you this time. They come around your shoulders, stabilizing you, supporting you. It feels so good. Warmth floods through you, not the familiar warmth from your fever, but warmth from a fire, from the sun. You stumble out, supported by the strong hands, into the corridor. They take you along, sometimes carrying you up stairs, down stairs, ducking into a crevice in the wall. Finally, you are outside.

It feels so good to be outside again. You feel the wind whipping in your face, tousling the hair that has grown long- past your ears already. You used to have a buzz cut. But something is wrong. You can hear everything so much sharper than you remember. But why is it still black? Why can't you see anything? You open your eyes wide, straining to see just the smallest speck of light.

"Hey, hey! Hey, can you hear me?" A voice asks. Masculine, friendly sounding. I gulp, nod and shiver, wrapping my arms around me, my eyes still so wide I'm scared they will pop out of my head. A blanket is thrown over me and a grope for the edges, pulling it tightly around me. "My name is Jason Grace. What's yours?"

"Bluejay Tobias Stevens," you reply. It is your standard reply, as your memory tells you, the reply you give everyone. "But everyone calls me Jay."

"Okay, Jay, listen. Can you see me?" There is concern in Jason's voice. You guess him to be blonde. Caucasian, mid-teens. How old are you again? You shake your head, your heart beating faster. You hear Jason sigh slightly, a sad sigh. You have heard it often enough. Always when your torturer was disappointed that you didn't scream enough. But Jason doesn't seem like the kind of person. He sounds nice, friendly. "This is not good, he mutters."

"What isn't?" you ask. But you already know the answer. You answer to yourself, in that hoarse papery voice you just spoke with. "I'm blind."

You're sure that if you could see Jason, he'd be nodding.

I don't know what to call this. Angst? Maybe. I might add another chapter. I might not. Anyway, Jay is a son of Janus, an important Roman god, in case I don't add another chapter. Later, he can see shadows as a gift from his patron.