Hello everyone! Finally it's time for the sequel of this story. I have missed you all, and what can I say, that story is my baby. Read and review guys!

Prologue.

It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. He remembered little, but he remembered it wasn't meant to hurt as much as it did. Underneath the stretched skin and hardly any muscle, he could feel the cracked and broken bones. They threatened to pierce the fragile skin every time he took a breath.

He wasn't ready to be moved yet. He slept.

He woke. It didn't hurt to breath. His muscles didn't respond to his movements. He couldn't open his eyes. Maybe he could, but it was so dark he wouldn't have been able to tell. He liked the darkness. The darkness was good, it was his home and safety. It was all he had ever known, it was all he would ever know.

He had time to spare, there wasn't any reason to rise so soon. He fell back to sleep.

His eyes opened to light. He hissed and pulled away from the light, into the darkness that was his friend. His hands were nothing more than bones with skin stretched tightly across it. Muscle and fat were no longer there, and this form had come bursting with fat. Not so much muscle as he had been full of fat, but even that was worn away in the decaying sack of flesh. He had enough time to rebuild lost fat in his new form. He had enough time to do whatever he wanted.

He collapsed in the shadows, lying on his side and taking deep, shuddering breaths. Air, actual air coming through his lungs and giving him life. He could hardly take in the air he was breathing, but he still tried to suck in more, only to end up coughing. He wasn't meant to breath in air. Even when he had a host, he never breathed. He had no need for that frivolous thing. He never had a body of his own.

There was no annoying nag in the back of his mind that reminded him he would have to give up control. There was nothing there telling him about the other inhabitant in the body, that he really didn't belong. He was a parasite, sticking to the sides of other beings and unable to live on his own.

His name was old and ancient as he was. Humans could not pronounce it with their tongue, try as they might. He came from a time before humans kept track of time, before they knew what 'God' was. He shook his head and coughed more, before he started letting out barks of laughter.

He was finally ready. How long had he been trapped down here? How long had it been since he saw his Shooting Star, and since he saw his chosen one? Too much time. He needed to see them, he needed to get out, to get rid of this atrocious white hair he had. Gideon Gleeful had long departed his body, and it was under new management. Finally he wasn't hindered by the nagging voice of his host, or the limits of control. He could be himself. He could do what he wanted.

He slowly sat up, muscles and tissue offered no comfort on the hard surface of the floor. His vocal cords were shot. He could hardly do anything but sit up, trying to regain his strength and feeling the new scar on his stomach from when he made Gideon stab himself.

Will was back, and he wasn't nearly done with the world. Not by a long shot.