A/N: Five years ago, on a Thanksgiving Thursday, I submitted my first story to FFNet. It took me a long time to finish it, and in the meantime, I'm grew quite a lot as a writer. But no matter what changed for me, that story would always be my first. My first to write and my first to finish. That story was How to Love a Somebody. Since it's been two years since I finished that story, and five since I started it, I don't expect many to still remember it. But from the beginning, I had always planned to write a sequel. When I ended the story on an ambiguous ending, there were many who asked for and expected a sequel. I swore for two years that I would never write a sequel. For some odd reason, one that I can't really describe, I didn't want to let anyone know that I'd planned this from the beginning.

Originally, it was meant to be a trilogy, with a story about them being Nobodies and then the third would be about them in the afterlife. I decided that the second story would be too much of a rehash of the games and decided against writing it. But that doesn't mean that their Nobody pasts and the first story won't come up in this story. Having said that, it is highly recommended that you either go and read How to Love a Somebody, if you're new to my writing, or refresh your memory on the story if you read it all those years ago. Yes, this is an afterlife story, but I figure every fan-fiction writer deserves at least one in their 'career'. This is mine. I just want to thank everybody who ever read my work, ever reviewed, and gave me all of the love and support that allowed me to continue to write and grow as a writer.

AGAIN, YOU WILL NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN HOW TO LOVE A SOMEBODY, BECAUSE THIS SEQUEL CANNOT STAND ALONE.

I chose today's date because it coincides exactly when I first published 'How to Love a Somebody'. A Thursday, the 22nd, on a Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving to those in the US and I hope everyone else has a happy Thursday. Thank you all so much. Read, enjoy, review!

My Heart is With You

Chapter One: A Secondhand Soul

Zexion was running as fast as he could: his hands were slippery with sweat. He could barely hold on to the hand clenched in his, its owner panting with exertion beside him. He could open a portal, escape that way, but he knew it would make no difference. No matter where they went, no matter what he did, they would be found. He'd thought running would help but in the end, he'd known better.

He could hear the slithers of the shadows, the hissing of evil; see the greediness in their yellow eyes. They were here for one thing and one thing only. Even Zexion could hear it beating, the darkness blinding him but amplifying his other senses. He wouldn't let them take him. He gripped the hand in his tighter, swearing with all he was that he wouldn't let go. This wasn't a fate the boy beside him deserved and Zexion would die before he let anything happen.

"Zexion, I can't run much longer!" the boy beside him cried, exhaustion bleeding in his words. Zexion didn't have the breath to answer. His lungs heaved, his chest tightened, and if he'd had a heart in his cavity, it would have been beating at rapid speed.

But Zexion wasn't as simple as that. He wasn't human and didn't have a heart. He wasn't what the shadows were after, because he was of no use to them. He could have cried for that, because now, more than ever, he would have given his all to save the boy beside him. He had sacrificed everything to keep him alive and untouched but his everything hadn't been enough.

Zexion knew that for certain now. He knew that morning wouldn't come for the boy beside him. He was going to die and though Zexion fought, slicing his weapon through tendrils of darkness, sending the shadows back, he knew it wasn't doing any good. For every one he defeated, twice as many would take its place.

His breath came faster yet. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"No, Zexion! Please, don't say it!" the boy pleaded.

Zexion ached for him, for the boy who was so close to being a man. He'd never get the chance to fulfill his dreams, never get to have a family, or grow old with the one he loved. His life had been taken from him and it was all Zexion's fault. Zexion would never be able to forgive himself.

"My-,"

Suddenly, the hand in his slipped away, the owner crying out as he tripped to the ground, screeching in pain as the first claws reached for him, tearing out his flesh, searching for what they desired. He whirled around in terror, though there was no accompanying thud in his chest, and sent his weapon out in a flurry of pages but it was far too late. The darkness hadn't lingered.

The boy was no longer there.

Zexion came awake violently, legs kicking against covers, breath coming in gasps. He fought against the blankets trapping him until the sudden thud of his back meeting his cold floor stunned him into silent stillness. With his legs still tangled in the sheets on his bed and his body bent at an awkward angle, he should have felt ridiculous. But the icy fingers of his nightmare still gripped him at the base of his spine and he could no more laugh at the situation than he could tear himself away from his sheets.

He brought his fingers up and brushed away at the clump of sweat-dampened hair lying on his face. His breath was calming down but not soon enough for him. Zexion reached up and untangled his legs, letting them fall to the ground. He pushed himself up and stared at his clock. A cruel angry-looking red 4:32 glared back at him. He sighed and stared longingly at his bed but he knew he would get no more sleep this night.

After all, he never did. He clambered to his feet, too tired for grace, and made his way to his connecting bathroom, turning on the light and squinting in the offending brightness. Zexion stared at his reflection in the mirror and twisted his lips at the sight he presented. The nightmares had taken too much of a toll, he thought. He looked as haggard as he felt and his hair had lost its steel-blue shine, looking dully grey and dirty instead. He hadn't dyed it in a while. He rested his hands against the cool counter and just stared at himself, wishing the dreams would go away, wishing that they didn't feel so real.

He pushed away from the counter and shucked his damp clothes, stepping into his shower and blasting hot water into his face, hoping the shock would finally wake him up completely. Zexion didn't like to admit it, but, at this point, this whole mess had become far too familiar. The dreams occurred nearly every night, pulling him from his sleep and disrupting his days with inconvenient flashbacks.

He just wanted them to go away; wanted to stop dreaming about holding the hand of a nameless, faceless person, wanted to stop feeling terrified when that hand would finally let go, just wanted to stop worrying about a stupid dream. He wanted to believe that the nightmares would eventually go away and, with it, the nagging sense that he was missing something, or someone, that he was supposed to have around.

It wasn't looking as though that was going to happen anytime soon, however. He laid his head against the cool tiles and stared into the blank white, calmly counting the tiny pits in the stone. Here nothing had changed: there were still exactly sixty-five nearly indiscernible grooves. If only everything else had stayed the same, as well.

Zexion stood beside his kitchen window, idly stirring a spoon in the mug of cocoa in his hand. Having only just been made, it was still a little too hot to drink. Dawn was just coming, the sun rising slowly above the treetops, reds, oranges, purples and blues bleeding together into a stunning vista. Zexion couldn't see it, didn't want to, because it reminded him of the dawn that hadn't come in his dream. So he stood beside the window and vacantly stared into nothing.

He sighed slightly, stirring the chocolate a little harder, a frown pulling at his mouth as he looked down at the steaming liquid. He hated hot chocolate, had always hated it. When the dreams had started, however, he'd found himself in front of his stove, milk bubbling in a sauce pan and a bottle of chocolate syrup on the counter beside him. It was a compulsion he hadn't been able to explain, or escape from, much like everything else in his life. He might hate hot chocolate, but it soothed him, comforted him, so he drank it.

If he concentrated hard enough, at the back of his mind, the wisps of a memory would stir, of hands holding a mug similar to the one he held now, of a smile, and a voice that mentioned the drink being a favorite. The second Zexion would try to concentrate on the memory, however, it would slip away, just as elusive as it had come. Zexion didn't understand it.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, which rested heavily on his mind. His head felt full and achy and there was an itch inside his body, like something was wrong. This sensation was hardly unfamiliar, though. It was a sign that there was something that needed changing, something that Zexion would need to fix. From his earliest memories, Zexion had felt it.

Even as a child, Zexion had felt this inescapable need to change. Something had never quite felt right, from his name, to his hair, to his clothes. It had taken him years to figure out what felt wrong and fix it. He would deny that Zexion wasn't his real name, because it felt more right than anything else, but Zexion hadn't been what his parents had chosen when he'd been born. But Zexion had never felt like an Adam and he'd had it changed as soon as he was legally able to.

In a decision that his parents had never understood, Zexion had even dyed his hair a startling shade of steel blue, saying that it felt more right this way than it had before. He spent his time with books and largely eschewed most people, a startling contrast to the sunny disposition he had started his life with. Again, Zexion did it because it felt better.

No matter what, though, Zexion had never felt much control over his life. Instincts ruled over everything and he felt this pull to change everything about himself just to satisfy the hunger of the instinct. He was tired of the consuming need, tired of the change, tired of never feeling quite right. He'd thought he'd been done with all of that when he'd changed his name, when the pull had finally desisted. But the dreams, nightmares, really, only served to laugh at him, to point out to him that no matter what, he'd never get the peace he so desired.

Zexion sighed and dropped in a chair at his kitchen table, sipping at the cocoa in his hands. He wrapped his fingers around the mug, comforted by the warmth seeping through the crockery. He fixed his eyes on the window above his sink, staring at the autumn leaves gently moving in the breeze, his mind far away from where he was.

If he could just… remember… then maybe he'd be able to get them to go away. Were the dreams trying to tell him something that he needed to know? But if they were… what exactly was it that was so urgent? Who was the man he was with and why did he feel such panic when his hand slips from his grasp? And how did the shadows come alive like that? They seemed… evil. An evil so deep it was inescapable; a driving force that consumed everything in its path that Zexion couldn't fight no matter how hard he tried.

But how did he know this, how did he feel this? Zexion shook his head, fingers tightening on his cup. Zexion had always been one to follow his instincts and his instinct was telling him the dream was important. But he didn't understand it, didn't know what to do. Nothing he'd done so far had worked to get rid of them.

Zexion sighed and laid his head on his table. He wasn't getting anywhere.

He couldn't concentrate on his computer screen. The words he'd just written blurred and he knew that if he were to actually try and concentrate, he'd find several typos and even perhaps a few misplaced or misspelled words. He was not like this, usually. He believed in methodical perfection, in doing what was needed when it was needed and doing it right.

The dreams were distracting him, he knew it clearly. He wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating. He could barely concentrate on work and his mind was in a foggy haze most days. His books offered no comfort and he spent his days thinking only of the boy's hands and his voice. He was plagued by the thoughts that wouldn't go away. He sighed in disgust, another habit he seemed to have recently acquired, and pushed away from his desk, knowing that he'd get no more work done for the day.

Zexion didn't particularly like coffee any more than he liked hot chocolate but he couldn't find much else to keep him awake anymore. His body strained against the pressure and endless cycle of next to no sleep. So he made his way to the office kitchen and poured the black sludge into a coffee cup, twisting his lips as one sticky bit clumped into his mug. It wasn't coffee, it was sewer dung, designed to poison his body and cause his death. He sent the coffee down the sink drain and placed the cup in the sink with a hard clink, rubbing his eyes.

There was no respite, nothing to be done. He wanted sleep but knew that the dreams would plague him there no matter what time of the day it was. He didn't know what to do or where to go. Exhaustion was crumbling his defenses, causing tears to form at the corners of his eyes and Zexion quickly wiped them away, furtively glancing around in hopes that no one else saw. Even tired, he still had his pride.

He set up a new pot of coffee and then made his way back to his desk, hoping today would be different and he'd get some work done. If he didn't do something soon, he'd get fired. He stared at his screen, letters swimming like alphabet soup across the white page and Zexion blinked tiredly, then gasped at the words the letters had formed.

Angry, bold, black words dashed across the page in a loop that was six pages long 'FINDHIMFINDHIMFINDHIMFINDHIM FINDHIMFINDHIMFINDHIMFINDHIM FINDHIMFINDHIM' over and over in a litany that stopped Zexion's poor heart and caused him to stumble back out of his chair, tripping over the casters and tumbling to the ground for the second time that day.

This, this was new. He'd only blinked for a few seconds, it wasn't nearly long enough to write the six pages on his screen and he certainly hadn't had his hands anywhere near the keyboard. He hadn't done this, he couldn't have, just couldn't have. Zexion's breath rasped through his throat, scratching at it, and his heart pumped wildly. It was too much, it was all too much. He couldn't handle it, just couldn't handle it.

He blacked out.

When Zexion came to, he had no recollection of any dreams. His skin wasn't drenched with sweat and his fingers hadn't twisted the bedcovers into knots. But he was upset nonetheless because when he woke, he woke up in a hospital bed, the monitor beside him beeping in time with his heart. Zexion brought his hand up to his chest, closing his eyes and listening to the beat, feeling the force pumping in him.

He was alive, of course. But what had happened to him? If he searched through his memories, it was all fuzzy. He remembered work, remembered the sludge trying to pass as coffee, remembered trying to focus on the screen at work and then… nothing else. How had he ended up here? He opened his eyes again, struggling to sit up in bed. Strangely, he felt weak and achy, like he'd run a marathon and passed out at the end. His muscles strained as he pushed up and Zexion's heart pumped faster, the monitor picking up speed accordingly. He'd never felt this tired.

He raked a hand through his hair, wincing at the pull in his arm and rested his head against the wall behind him, looking around at him. It was a regular hospital room, white walls, white bed, and white floor: nothing particularly special or exciting. What was unusual, however, was Zexion's boss snoozing in the chair next to his bed. Zexion's eyebrows rose high, nearly disappearing beneath his fringe of hair.

Zexion licked his lips and parted them. "Hey," he said, wincing at the raspy quality, like his vocal chords had been scraped against sandpaper for hours. He reached across the bed and gently shook his boss. "Uh, sir…."

With a snort, his boss jumped and wildly looked around. "Oh," he said, looking at Zexion, "Good evening, Zexion."

He scooted closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Zexion's eyebrows rose even higher. Surely his boss didn't care, right? Why was he even here? "I'm fine, I suppose, aside from a couple of aches here and there but I have to ask… why are you here?"

"Oh," his boss gasped, "I suppose you have no clue what's going on, huh? You collapsed at work. I had noticed that you'd been more tired than usual and that your work was slipping in quality but I'd had no idea how sick you were."

Zexion shook his head. "I collapsed at work? I don't understand how that could have happened, sir, I apologize. I'm fine, however, and I'm more than willing to come back to work."

"Well, you see, it's about, oh," his boss began, checking his watch, "nine o' clock at night and the office is closed for the day. There will be no more work today. And in any case, the doctors have informed me that they'll want to keep you overnight for observation. It's about the only thing they could tell me."

Zexion licked his lips again, turning his head to stare out the glass window at the doctors and nurses bustling past.

"I guess that will have to do, then," he said. "Still, I will come into work tomorrow once I'm released and make up for this unfortunate lapse in my health."

"Unfortunate lapse in your health? Zexion, you collapsed at your desk and we couldn't wake you at all. We had to call an ambulance and transport you to the hospital. I've been beside you for the last ten hours, waiting for you to wake up, if only to tell you this; you are hereby on forced vacation," his boss said, shaking his head. "You're a wonderful employee, Zexion, but you're no good to me if you don't get better and get your head back in the game. Take some time off and heal from whatever's happened."

He stood up, holding his hand out for Zexion to shake. "I'll see you in a month, Zexion. Until then, get some sleep and eat some more."

Zexion took his hand and nodded, throat too closed up to do more than say a choked goodbye as his boss left. Forced vacation: it sounded like the worst torture in the world. Now, he would have nothing to keep the dreams at bay. What was he going to do now?

He flopped against the covers and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut tightly, wishing his life hadn't taken such a turn for the worse. He was supposed to be done with all of this when he'd changed his name but he had a feeling it was never going to go away. He was never going to be done, never going to be let go from the clutches of his itch. But he wasn't even sure where the dreams were coming from after all, did he?

He just… didn't… know…. Zexion struggled against the sleep, even though he knew it was futile, but it didn't matter: he was already too deep within its grasp. He sagged into the lumpy mattress and passed out.

The voice echoed in his mind with static, like a radio transmitting on one channel but he was on the one next to it, able to hear only a little bit.

"Why not… exchanging information… kisses?"

"I… understand…."

"…every piece… give you… instead. Then… I… kiss."

"… sounds… me."

And then the static filled his mind and he could feel his feet pounding against a forest floor next, like the dreams always started, and his body started twisting in his bed again, the monitor speeding up to the rhythm of his beating heart. He could feel the fear, smelled the sweat, could feel the thud of his empty chest as the hand slipped from his and hear the shrill scream of terror and then the gurgle of choking blood and he felt it, felt it all, again and again and again and he was crying now, crying tears that slipped down his face in the dream and in his hospital bed and he was never going to escape, nevernevernever.

Zexion jerked awake like always, stopping only at the pull of the needle in his arm, the monitor beeping next to him crazily. He sobbed, hands pulling at his hair, gasping breaths wheezing out of him, tears pouring down his face. He grasped at his chest, hands clutching over his heart like his life depended on it. He didn't understand and he could feel his sanity slipping away, slipping through the cracks in his mind.

Was peace too much to ask for? Did Zexion deserve this for some past mistake that he couldn't remember? Had his mind shut the memory off from horror and was now deeming it time to remember? But Zexion didn't believe in that sort of science, debunking it as nonsense. The mind didn't work that way.

Zexion lay back down and spent the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling, counting the little dots in the blocks, refusing to succumb to the sleep pressing at the edges of his brain.

In the morning, Zexion was released from the hospital, the doctors shaking their head at the brief activity seen on the computers but unable to find a reason for its presence. They had no choice but to let him go, imploring him to stay on bed rest and giving him a prescription for Ambien to help him sleep once Zexion admitted to his trouble in that department.

Zexion barely managed to make it to his apartment and take a pill before he stumbled to his bed and collapsed on its surface, immediately succumbing to the sleep he'd been fighting off since the night before. And in his sleep, he dreamed once more.

Fingers stuck to his hips, sweat-slicked flesh sliding exquisitely painfully together and his mouth opened on a gasp, lips searching for lips, his hands coming to rest in a tangle of drenched dark blond curls. His body braced over another's and he could feel a euphoria he hadn't felt in a long while. He was happy, ecstatically so, and why not? This was beautiful in its abandonment of all sorts of propriety and reason. There was nothing wrong with this, he never should have felt that it was, and why was he talking to himself when there was a beautiful body beneath his just begging to… what…?

Zexion slipped away before he could see the face of the one he was up against, slipped to another dream, one where he was imploring someone with his back turned to him that he'd changed, that he could feel, that he really could be with him, just please, give him a chance, please. And as the person before him turned, Zexion slipped away again, this time falling to a black abyss, coming to rest gently against nothing.

He stared around at the infinite nothing and could feel his heart beat but it seemed wrong, unfamiliar. This wasn't right and he needed to get a handle on this but he just couldn't and then his body was dissolving away and he was staring at a hand reaching out to him but no matter how far he lunged forward he could never quite grasp it and then it, too, faded away into nothing and Zexion was left with only thoughts: thoughts about nothing and yet everything.

He was going to explode, he knew it was only a matter of time, and then, he woke up.

Zexion's face was pressed into his pillow, rubbing around in a spot of drool and he lifted his head, blinking blearily at the clock. It was seven at night and he had slept the day away. Zexion collapsed against his pillow again, just staring at the clock as he came to terms with the fact that his heart was not racing and he was not tired and he was not jerking out of his bed in fright.

The dream had not come this time, although what had been in its place had been just as odd and unwelcome. Still, better than a voice choking on his own blood, dying as his body dissolved into nothing. Anything was better than watching the death of the one he cared for most.

Except… Zexion didn't know who this person was and even if he did, he knew that he couldn't have feelings for them because Zexion had never cared for another person like that before in his life. Not even his parents got his heart racing like that and he'd never worried about them dying from nothing but the shadows. He turned over in his bed and started counting the dots in his ceiling again, getting all the way up to three hundred and forty seven before his stomach growled in protest.

Come to think of it, when had he last eaten anyway? Zexion didn't even remember. He rolled out of bed and made his way to his kitchen, grabbing a cup of noodles and heating up some water to put them in. Not his favorite fare, but it was easy on his wallet and he'd had worse. He didn't know when he'd had worse, but he knew he had, as sure as he knew his name was Zexion and his hair was meant to be blue, color like the steel of storm clouds.

Yet another thing in his life he had no tangible control over.

Zexion stuck a forkful of noodles in his mouth, eating sloppily in his haste to ease his aching stomach. It had been too long since he'd last eaten, he was certain of it. Probably not since breakfast the morning before, when all he'd had to 'eat' was a cup of hot chocolate. His eating habits were no better than his sleeping habits, he mused. No wonder he was a mere shadow of himself.

His face blanched as he thought of what he'd just said. That probably wasn't the best word to use. No use grasping at straws he couldn't keep hold of anyway.

His cup clinked on his table as his eyes glazed over in thought. He had a month to himself, no work to bother him, and yet he could just feel a void cast over him. What was there to do when there was no work to be done? He didn't much like the idea of getting a job just for a month and then quitting to go back to his old one.

Considering the state of his personal life, he might not even be able to get a job. He looked as haggard as he felt, especially if his boss, an unrepentant slave driver, was willing to give him vacation for a month to make sure he felt better. Then again, he wouldn't have to pay Zexion for a month of sloppy work, so perhaps Zexion's boss wasn't all that much of a saint. It made more sense to Zexion that way, at least. It didn't do much to solve his problem, though. For the next month, Zexion would be out of a job.

Zexion took another bite of noodles. He had money saved up. It was enough to afford the lease on his place for a couple of months and still do whatever he wanted. Maybe he could take a cruise. The thought of a vacation, though, made Zexion balk; he didn't much like not doing anything. He could go world-hopping, finally get to see all of the places he'd only ever heard of, but he didn't much like the thought of that, either. Zexion was just too much of a doer. He also didn't like spending his hard-earned money on nothing. He'd been saving that money for quite a few years now. It was meant to be spent on a rainy day situation and this was hardly a rainy day.

He looked around his apartment, his eyes bouncing off his white walls, landing on his beige couch, and moving across to his TV. There were no pictures on the walls, no magazines scattered across the coffee table. His lamps were utilitarian with plain white shades and there wasn't a colorful blanket in sight. He had a sudden desire for a colorful afghan that would drape across his couch and be waiting for him to wrap up in on the upcoming cold nights.

Zexion turned his head back to his kitchen, equally bland in personality, and sighed. He might have a nest egg saved up, but he was hardly living. It was hard to picture the rest of his life continuing this way. He was lonely and boring. Were the dreams trying to tell him to get a personal life? But Zexion didn't feel any more need to find someone to love than he had before the dreams started. In fact, he felt the desire even less. He didn't want just anyone. So what did he want? He stared at his counter and he felt like eating a grilled cheese sandwich.

Zexion defiantly spooned another handful of noodles into his mouth, eyes staring mutinously at the white counter, as though it were to blame for his current desire. He was tired of being ruled by his urges. Did everyone feel this way or was it just him? He suspected the latter. Zexion thought of his mother. Tessa Richards lived on another world and he hadn't seen her in over a year, since his father's death. Before now, he'd ignored the wriggling in his stomach that heralded thoughts of his mother and the horrid guilt he felt, because he couldn't stand the thought of her and seeing her. Losing his father had devastated him. He hadn't talked to her since he'd left after the funeral. It had been too painful.

He knew it had been a pretty shitty thing to do. His mother had been just as rocked by his father's passing as he'd been and instead of leaning on her and comforting her, he'd effectively shut her out. Maybe this would be a good time to go and see her. Yes, Zexion liked that idea. Forced vacation or not, he could always do what he wanted and seeing his mother was beginning to sound more and more like a good idea.

Zexion threw his cup away and sat on his couch, staring at his phone. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call her. He stared harder, wishing it would ring and she'd be the one to call him. She'd given up after five months of being ignored. Zexion hated calling people, ignoring the twist of guilt saying that she'd tried and he'd just been a nasty little piece of crap and she had every right not to call anymore. It made him wonder if she'd even pick up if he did call.

Well, no time like the present to find out.

Zexion reluctantly reached forward and grasped his phone, systematically punching in the number he'd memorized a long time ago.

His hand gripped the phone tighter with each successive ring. He wouldn't admit in his head that he was pleading underneath his breath but he knew this was important. He knew that he had to go home, had to see his mother. He wasn't sure why but it made as much sense as his other instincts and he'd learned a long time ago to not fight against those.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The ringing was done and his mother's voice was on the other end and he was talking, not even sure of what he was saying. He was on complete auto-pilot, panic filling his brain and dogging his breath and then he was hanging up the phone, a time and date on the tip of his tongue.

She'd been ecstatic, of course. Perhaps a little cautious, but that was only to be expected, he supposed. Zexion felt better, though; lighter than he had since his father's death and since the nightmares started soon after. This was good, a step in the right direction.

He didn't know a thing that was going on but at least this was a chance to repair the terrible rift between him and his mother. That could only be a good thing. Hopefully, by the month's end, he'd be closer to an answer to everything else, too.

That would definitely be a good thing.

Zexion didn't know how much longer he'd be able to live like this.

A/N: I struggled with this one a bit. I was able to smooth out the kinks that I didn't like, but you might still be able to tell. Anyway, yes, that's the beginning. If anyone had noticed, the chapter title to chapter 20 of HTLAS was 'The End of the Beginning'. That was a clue to this sequel, although, I admit, a very small one. Expect an update every month, on the 22nd. Deadlines help me write better, surprisingly.