A/N EDIT: I am no longer continuing this story. I'm keeping it up on this site for the people who do enjoy it, but if you're just now finding this, don't expect it to be completed.

That being said, this story is a sequel to a completed fic called Screaming Underwater. It's a bit old, and in retrospect not my best work, but if you're looking for a Ben Drowned fanfic with an actual ending, that one might be a better idea. You don't have to read that story to read this one, but it's worth mentioning.

Chapter 1: The Keeper's Awakening

The sky was marked only by the waxing moon on the night he was first found. Not even bright stars dared to obstruct the void that was midnight's heavens. The light of the great moon shone down onto him more than it ever had before, painting his already pale skin in its ghostly silver glow. There was no wind, not even the gentlest of breezes. It was as if time himself had been frozen in that exact moment, giving the world a chance to simply calm down and collect itself for what felt like it's very first time.

But even then, the storm continued on.

The boy hugged his toy tightly, its velvety beige and fallow fur soaking in his hot tears as he buried his face deeply into it. He nearly smelled its faint flowery scent, but it had long since faded away. Even still, the strongest of scents would not have been enough. For as he clenched his teary eyes shut, the overbearing smell of his surroundings burned in his nostrils. It was like overturned soil and raw iron, though he knew well enough that it was something else entirely. And just like that stench, the image he had seen moments ago, back when his eyes could still be pried open, lingered as an unwanted guest in his mind.

He had seen his bedroom, the one he had always lived in, and the same decor that had always been inside of it. But nothing was in its place. His belongings, small and large, had been hurled about, fractured and collapsed next to whatever they had been bashed against. Planks of wood from the walls and ceiling had broken through the drywall and onto the floor, burying any surviving possessions in heavy heaps of rubble. One of the walls, the only one with a window - although it had always been sloppily boarded up - had been completely demolished. Now instead of the small cracks of the window, he was given a gaping hole with which to appreciate the woods and the sky and whatever existed beyond them both.

And there was the man, just barely poking out of the debris. His sickly coloured skin had been streaked by rivers of the same deep dark red that also pooled below him, soaking into the soft tufted carpet. That was the smell that remained drifting. The smell that memories of honey and lilac perfume could not erase.

This was the smell of his father's blood.

He would not open his eyes. Not again.

"I'm s-so so-sorry," he hiccupped between sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He choked, and then burst into a stronger fit of tears. He did not need to glance twice to know that his father was dead. If he had not woken up by this time, there was no use in wishes or prayers. The boy would simply have to hope that the man did not feel a pain too great. Though really, he had no way of knowing.

Because despite all the chaos and destruction throughout the secluded little cabin, the boy and the bed he sat upon remained completely unscathed. He wasn't the one that was hurt. He wasn't meant to be hurt. The blast was formed in an act of defence, and it did exactly that. Now he was safe from harm, whether or not he truly wished it anymore.

The boy had very few cherished memories of his now-deceased father to look back on. Most happy thoughts involved his mother, but those memories had mostly faded long ago. Every other recollection seemed to involve screaming, pain, self-pity, and hatred for the man who inflicted it all. But this was never what he wanted. All he would admit to wishing for was his freedom to be a child. To go outside, to make friends, to have fun, to fail, to learn, to grow, to live.

Yes, that life would have been perfect.

At this point, I'm sure some of you believe he did it on purpose, or that some part of his subconscious truly wanted his father to die. And I know that, as the narrator, or storyteller, or whatever you wish to call me, I'm meant to give pure facts without any personal opinions in the way. But if anyone reading this cares about my own opinion, and I'm sure somebody must, then I'll say right now that I don't think he meant to kill him. Not that he was completely innocent even back then, but, well... I guess you'll find out eventually.

He could no longer tell if his tremors was due to his shaking sobs or the cold spring air seeping inside. Though no wind blew, the brisk air stung his bare skin, making him hug his toy tighter and tighter. He could have gone under the warm blankets of the bed he perched upon, but that would require him to move, and that was a step he was not ready to make yet. Movement meant he was real, and being real meant facing reality in full.

He stroked the soft fur of his toy, feeling its sleek, if slightly worn, material. Although he was reaching the age of twelve, he refused to hide his need for that stuffed animal at that moment, clinging to all the more joyous emotions it brought to him once before. After all, what boy wouldn't need comfort, knowing that he was a murderer?

To say he didn't care how it happened would be a lie. He just didn't understand why or howit happened. Explosions don't occur on their own, and they certainly aren't courteous enough to completely avoid children. But it was still his fault. Somehow.

The prior events hadn't even been something worth remembering. Nothing outwardly pleasant had happened, but also nothing terribly unfortunate. He had been in his room like he always was, sitting on his bed. His father was there in front of him, red-faced and hands clenched into tight fists, like he always was. He had been hollering about something children aren't supposed to understand. His dead-end job? The strain of having a child? How he would never find a woman who sympathized with him the way his lovely wife once could? It didn't matter in the end.

What mattered was that his father was at the verge of becoming violent, but not quite there. His face had contorted in a deep scowl that could not be replicated by any happy man, and his eyes seemed to be shadowed by a nonexistent black veil. The boy didn't quite cower, since he knew better than to show fear. He just tried to keep his head high and his expression neutral, despite his heart attempting to hammer its way through bone and flesh. The shouts of his father were barely heard over the voices in his head, all yelling run, run run! While you still can, run! over and over and over again.

All this was nothing new.

And then it started. For reasons that did not really matter in the end - perhaps the man had seen the pinprick tears in the corners of his son's eyes? - his shouts became directed specifically at the boy, who could no longer bear looking into his enraged face. He ducked his head, making sure he could still see his father in his peripheral vision in case things escalated any more. Perhaps if he hadn't, and he had just closed his eyes and tolerated it, all the chaos, destruction, and bloodshed could have been avoided.

His father swung his fist, aiming directly at his son's face. The boy looked back up, eyes wide, just watching the muscled arm came at him at full force in a way that was both startlingly fast and unbearably slow. His heart burst into overdrive, and he let out a loud, desperate scream of pure panic.

But again, all this was nothing new.

What was new, however, was that the boy never felt the impact. Instead, his vision filled with a bright, blinding light for just a moment. His ears rang briefly, and then silence. When his senses came back, the room was already torn apart, and his father was a body and nothing more. Which brings us to where we first began, with a boy crying unscathed while surrounded by heaps of fresh rubble and debris.

He was safe. He was free. And his father was dead.

"Please," the boy said, barely above a whisper, "please, no." He was not a killer. He never wanted to be. But it seemed like he was never given another option. It had happened, somehow, and there was no way to change it.

"Well, aren't you an interesting sight?"

The boy froze as he heard the foreign voice. It was very much unlike that of his father's. This voice held a slight rasp in it, yet still sounded level and in control. He tried to convince himself to look up, to pry his eyes open again, but still he remembered the chaos around him. He kept himself perfectly still, or at least as still as he could, yet his poor heart began to race once more.

The voice laughed, despite the lack of humour in the air. "Ah, I see what's happening. It's always the same you know? Poor kid, bet you've got no idea." The words themselves made no sense to the boy, but the simple comment of 'Poor kid' seemed to hold warmth and pity. It made his tense body ease, but only slightly.

"Now, I ought to wonder," the older man spoke as if to himself, but clearly still focusing on the boy, "Are you afraid of me? Or yourself?" Another laugh, this time louder and heartier. "I already know the answer, and I sure hope you do too. And you can open those eyes and look at me. It's not as bad the second time, and I hate talking to a wall."

Trying to calm himself, the young boy inhaled deeply, and slowly let the breath escape. He had no idea who this man was, and was given no real indication of who he could be. Everything about the situation seemed so very wrong, so much more than before when it was only him and his conscience. But something about his voice and the way he spoke to him made him seem like he could be trusted. Somehow.

Slowly he forced his eyes open, pushing his face away from the stuffed creature in his arms. His vision was bleary from the tears. He blinked, and blinked again, until he could finally see the world around him.

He forced himself not to look at the wreck around him, though he could not help but notice how the dim lighting from the ceiling had been replaced by the silver-blue moonlight. He locked his gaze on the man, who stood in front of him with a crooked yet gentle smile. He was an older man, much older than him and his father combined, yet did not show any obvious physical weathering as he stood tall with health and confidence. While nothing about his face looked obviously wrong, something about the shape of it made him easily recognizable, like he could always be spotted in a large crowd. He decided that he liked the face, if only for wearing a smile he desperately needed in such a time.

"That's better," the older man said comfortingly, but then burst into a jolt of laughter. "Boy, you sure picked the worst night to awaken. Honestly, I wouldn't have risked coming here if I weren't so worried for you. Glad I did, though. You seem like a keeper."

The boy blinked. Awaken? What could that mean? Could he be referring to the destruction he somehow caused? The man was acting eerily calm about the whole situation, as if the fact that there was a boy crying in a heap of rubble and a dead man off to the side was exactly what he was expecting.

The man laughed again heartily, which was starting to become a common theme with him. "You know, for someone who's not a talker, you sure have a way of wearing all those little words on your face. Don't worry, I'll help you with that," he said kindly, if a tad bit ominously. "There's a whole bunch of commotion on the other side of this little forest. Had me worried you'd been caught. Good thing I was wrong, I'd say."

Again the boy glanced outside, trying to imagine any sort of activity in such a still night. If there was anything happening, it was still very far away. "C-commotion?" the boy finally spoke timidly.

The old man smiled at the sound of his voice. "Yep. A search party, some police cars, maybe even some local news at this point. Thought they'd be all over this place, but I guess you were just far enough from them." The man then frowned. "Turns out some fellow heard his son sneak out of the house. A whole bunch of people got involved trying to find the kid."

"Oh," the younger boy muttered, quickly followed by his heart sinking deep into his chest as he realized just what the implications of this were. If his home were just a little bit closer to the search party, or them less distant, they could have heard as he somehow completely upturned a fat chunk of his quaint little cabin home. They would have came, seen the wreckage, seen the dead body, and seen him completely unscathed with his favourite plush toy. Instead of having at the very least a moment to mourn, to regret, and to muddle, he would have immediately been asked question upon question he either didn't know the answer to or wouldn't want to admit. He would have had to lie, or admit to somehow killing his father. All because of some random boy who wanted to sneak out during the night.

There was nothing but silence for a moment. A slight breeze flowed through the opening in the wall, the first real sign that time was continuing outside of the remainder of the boy's bedroom. Finally, the old man spoke, this time slow and level instead of jokingly. "Look, I know this probably isn't easy for you right now, but this is a blessing. Not many people can do what you just did, especially at your age. You can change the world with this kind of power, and for the better."

The boy looked into the old man's eyes. Only now did he notice that the right eye was covered by a milky veil. Blind, probably. "Who are you?" he finally found the nerve to ask. It was a question that asked for much more than a simple name. This man, whoever or whatever he was, was not normal.

Another laugh, returning him to his more amiable demeanour. "Well, isn't that a big question? I guess you ought to know, after all, seeing how I'm technically your guest." He winked at the young boy, as if divulging in some sort of inside joke only the two of them would understand. "My name has changed and changed over years and years, and for good reason. I've been so many people, it's sometimes hard to keep track. But nowadays I'm just called the Old Man," he smiled and stuck out his hand to shake.

And the young boy shook it, without any hesitation. "My name's Lu-"

"No, no," the Old Man said, though he still shook his hand firmly. "You won't be doing that anymore," he said almost as a warning as he retracted his hand. The young boy was about to question this, but the Old Man continued. "But I doubt you want just my name, do you?"

The young boy shook his head, still perturbed at his own name being denied. What was wrong with his name? It was harmless at its very worst.

The Old Man smiled. "I figured. You see, it's a bit too much of a danger to go on about the details here, but I can tell you a few things. Truth is, I'm just like you," his eyes seemed to glimmer with joy, "And creatures like us, we can do great things. So many great things, if only we've got the right guidance. You understand?"

The young boy nodded, hugging his stuffed animal not in sadness, but excitement and curiosity.

The Old Man laughed. "See, I knew you were a clever one. And to think I nearly looked you over." He glanced out into the open night, into the thick woods. No not the forest, but to the moon, which peeked out just above the canopy. "And we're not alone. Not at all. There may not be a whole army of magic users marching about- no, we're too rare to herd in a single place- but what there is is an organization. An organization dedicated to spreading the truth about the world and how all of this works out in the grand plan, you see?"

He didn't see. Not even a little. But he did understand that there was a group of some sort, and the fondness in the Old Man's voice made it sound fascinating, and perhaps even a little mystical. So the boy lied and nodded.

A loud, bellowing laugh. "I knew it!" he exclaimed, "Not many can understand it. No, not at all. But you're better than the rest. I better keep you right with her, kid. She'll make you into something better than even myself." He then cast a strange glance to the boy, one he had never quite seen before. "Only if you trust me, of course."

It was then when he finally felt the weight. The words that the Old Man said meant something horribly vital, even if their meaning was encrypted. The moon's light shone down on the both of them, its waxen glow cradling him like a protective mother. That same glow illuminated the side of the Old Man's body, haloing him elegantly, as if he and the half-shrouded satellite were one and the same. He smiled at him, softly and delicately.

The boy exhaled slowly and deeply, and then looked into the Old Man's eyes. "I trust you." Which sounds pretty insane, but I think I've made it clear that this kid had a pretty small list of people he could trust.

Clapping his hands in excitement, the Old Man's careful smile morphed into a broad grin. "I know you do," he said happily.

Wasting no time, he scooped the boy's hand into one of his own, grasping rigidly. "C'mon, kid," he urged, "We better not dawdle much longer. Those cops'll get bored eventually, no matter the fuss you make. There's better places for you, anyways." The boy was tugged from his bed, landing on his feet and quickly being guided away from his broken little home. He held on tightly to the older man's hand, his other arm hooked around the stuffed toy he still held onto. He was guided towards the gaping hole where the wall once was, which displayed the rest of the world. Carefully they made their way out of the hole, feet touching soft green grass that quivered in a now noticeable breeze.

The young boy never noticed as he stepped right over the bloody, mangled carcass in the rubble. In fact, it would be a long time before he thought of his father again at all.

The Old Man led the boy through the trees, knowing exactly where to go without any trail or landmarks. The boy glanced around with wide eyes, now experiencing the woods he was raised within firsthand for the very first time. But though he wished to, he knew he wasn't spectating. He was searching. Searching for something that had been tugging at him on and on in his mind. He scoured the landscape with his ears and eyes, searching for any indication of police, or a search party, or some stranger's son son sneaking out into the night. But he found nothing.

"Sir?" the boy asked softly to the Old Man, "Can I ask a question? Just one?"

The Old Man continued to walk forth, yet he chuckled amiably. "Well, that depends on the question. Might as well try."

He swallowed, almost nervously, as if there was something that needed to be feared. "That boy. The one they were looking for. Why was there such a big search for him?"

Surprisingly, the man fell silent. For a brief moment, there was nothing but the slight ambient sounds of the woods surrounding them. Then, finally, "Well, no use hiding you from these types. Gotta get accustomed eventually. First of all, they found him."

The young boy was surprised by his own relief. He wasn't sure why he cared. But something told him that he should. Maybe it was because the other boy may have witnessed his literal outburst while sneaking out. Or maybe it was empathy. It was so hard to tell. Of course I know exactly why, being the one recounting the story, but I'll let you all figure it out yourselves. It shouldn't be too difficult.

The Old Man continued. "This family, I guess they lived right next to a lake. Just a tiny little thing, but just deep enough. Found their cute little boat smack dab in the middle of it, with nobody on board."

The boy reeled over this information for a while, trying to find the significance of it all. The boy left in the night, they find an unmanned boat...

He froze.

"Y-you mean-"

The man nodded slowly. "He killed himself, kid. The boy drowned."

And in that moment, the young boy could have sworn he saw the Old Man smile.