Pull apart, prick the skin, reveal what horrors lurk within. Only through the pain of blood, will your rotten soul be cleansed of love.

Aunt Myra's prediction for her own death was a terrible thing for the impressionable Iyan. At barely ten-and-five years, only a year before his departure from school, Iyan found himself incapable of eating even close to consistently. Every time he filled his mouth with food, he was overwhelmed with images of his parents, sinking to their deaths at the bottom of the river where they'd met their demise, or visions of Myra, still and cold by an unlit fire. This illness brought about at the untimely event of eating made his school teachers worried. Plagued with housing visits, reports home, and threats of abuse, the Luttons were prey to extensive social scrutiny for several months following that ill-fated trip to the dying friend of Aunt Myra. In a stroke of ironic fate, the previously imagined abuse became a reality at the hands of the stressed Uncle Hans, who took to occasional bouts of anger-fueled beatings. If only Iyan would eat!

Had he been a lesser person, the newfound attention his imposed starvation caused would have encouraged Iyan to abandon meals forever! Yet, only discomfort arose at the prodding and questions of his teachers, and he resolved to eat once more, if only to be left well enough alone.

The one positive of this recent fiasco was the addition of a counselor at Iyan's school. Previously regarded as something unnecessary (dance and song and the occasional drink were all a normal child would need to be uplifted from foul spirits), this official had been begrudgingly elected from a board of eligible professionals hailing from out of town. Naturally, Tottenham Cross was home to quite a prejudiced number of people, of the typical Saint Ivry brand of outsider distrust, so this counselor was not looked favourably upon by the nearby parents at the school. Who better to give up to them, than the disgraced child of a disgraced family? When he grew old enough to understand a little more of the social politics of his home, Iyan would find himself overwhelmed with the viper-quick hypocrisy of the lot, but for now, he was busied by more morose things.

The counselor's name was Moss Finnegan, an odd one to be sure. Upon their first meeting, Iyan had refused food for a number of days, and was feeling rather lightheaded when herded into this new fellow's office. Wobbling in his seat, blinking away tears and bouts of breathlessness, his first impressions of the man were confusing at best. "Call me Moss, all of my friends do," was the very first thing he said to Iyan (for which the latter felt confused by, as he was neither this man's friend, nor was that socially appropriate). Second to exit the counselor's mouth was a sneeze, for which he apologised in a foreign language. All hesitation was gone - absorbed at once in the words not his own, Iyan was caught in the snare of curiousity. The aforementioned distrust of outsiders meant there was simply no other language in the entirety of the country. Even Aunt Myra was lacking in books on the subjects of other words, banned as they usually were in town.

"In Ivraian, of course," the counselor amended himself. "You must forgive any slip-ups I possess in your tongue; I have been a dedicated student of it for many years, but I'm afraid I neither have the talent for disguising my origins, nor blending in with your people!"

The counselor talked a lot, Iyan decided. It was at first offputting, but that curiosity held him and he allowed himself to be entertained, even if Iyan couldn't be helped to eat anything. The rest of their meeting proceeded as much as Iyan would have expected one with a counselor would. Moss asked him a few questions about how school went, how his family life was, how easily he slept. None of these were answered very positively, of course, but Iyan was used to his life, and he presented the rather woeful details of his upbringing without hesitation.

They were easy lessons, at first. Moss would recommend Iyan expand his horizons, take on new hobbies so that he might be distracted by th overwhelming grief of things that were and were yet to be. Iyan, in turn, relayed this to his concerned Aunt (who had in no ways intended or foreseen the effect her warning would have on Iyan now). Taking it upon herself to remedy her grave oversight, Myra would seek all sorts of hobbies and books on how to accomplish greatness at them for her unfortunate nephew. Not much ever came of these attempts at distraction. Oftentimes, Iyan would recognise his lack of potential or talent at once and give up before he felt too much more overwhelmed. "I'm just not cut out for anything good, not now," he said to both his counselor and Aunt, to which they separately replied much the same way, with a mixture of pity and gentle disappointment. It was the counselor who had the best answer after that, though.

"This is the likeliest problem, no? That you spend all of your time on you!" Moss was always excitable, jumping up from his seat at the slightest mental prodding. It would have been amusing for Iyan, to watch the man lurch from his chair to tear through the bookshelf, only to settle back in the seat a few seconds later, if Iyan hadn't been so burdened by shock and an intense sleepiness. The nightmares had been back lately, about the water and the things that hid inside it. He almost wished he could go back to the dead family dreams, if only to stop seeing horrid hands, grasping like tiny mouths for him. When Moss had popped up this last time to dart to the bookshelf, Iyan seized the oppourtunity to think about something else, namely, the counselor's suggestion.

"How do you mean? Am I a selfish person?" He looked up quizzically, dark-ringed eyes awash with fluttering lashes.

"Precisely!" Moss leapt back in his seat and winked. "Alas, it is a curse we all carry. In your case, all you have to worry about is you. What will happen to my beloved aunt? What will happen to me, if she really does die? Do you see?" Holding a book out, he smiled kindly and nodded to Iyan. "It is perfectly natural, and no great flaw to think in terms of ourselves, but perhaps, you need elevation, to think on what you can do for others. Nothing cures the heart or mind quite like busying yourself in the needs of those perhaps more worrying than you!" Iyan did not have time to look at the book fully while at school, but whenever he glanced at the cover, he would see the eager eyes of Moss Finnegan, keen on helping him through his grief, and Iyan would be cured of any misgivings he'd grown in his various classes. It was when Aunt Myra greeted him at the door after classes for the day and ushered him gently into his room for some much-needed rest that Iyan was at last able to lie down and stare at the book in peace.

It was a peculiar-looking object. Aunt Myra had hundreds of novels and dictionaries and encyclopedias, but none quite like this. The cover, though simple, posed Iyan with a myriad of questions, for all that decorated it was the title in fading white letters, against a darker brown backdrop - If the Gods. Iyan shivered each time he looked at it after that. Why If? Why was there no question posed, only the beginning of one? If the Gods what? Few things would ever again frighten Iyan the way those words did, though he had no idea what would be in store later down the line.

For now, he busied himself with reading the actual book. Far from Moss to recommend something actually readable, the title almost never seemed to come up, and that, only the scattered words of it, and never the whole thing. It was quite easy to forget this while reading, however. The very first chapter posed a question - Do you like who you are? It was the sort of question that demanded whoever read it sit still in stunned silence as they searched their brain for the answer. Did Iyan like himself? Surely, others didn't like him, but they weren't reading the book, and couldn't answer for him. Iyan thought on who he was as he lay in his bed, the oncoming chill of evening creeping along the windows. He was kind enough, if prodded out of his shyness. He was smart enough, if one didn't need all the sophistication of a genius, or simply a good book recommendation. He was even helpful enough - whenever Aunt Myra needed something, Iyan could absolutely be counted on to help her, or even Uncle Hans, should it be asked of it. Granted, there was hardly room to help anyone else, seeing as nobody wanted much to do with Iyan anyway, but he was sure he could be of use, if only they'd reached out.

Despite all of this, Iyan could not answer, and very much like the various hobbies presented, gave up before he became too frustrated. He'd closed the book, sat it on the shelf over his bed, and fallen into a restless sleep, replete with those horrid hands, the trembling maw of water, and children that called endlessly for him in the woods.

He did not pick up the book again for a great many days, avoiding its cover whenever it happened to appear in his peripheral. Moss did not ask about it, either, never made mention of it, and Iyan was almost convinced he'd imagined it up entirely. Only a made-up book could give him so much trouble! Ghosts didn't inhabit the woods, and hands weren't hiding in the sink, but Iyan was still haunted by them, so why would the book have been any different?

Alas, so unsettled by the nagging question that the book asked, it was not much longer before Iyan pulled it down from the shelf and stared at it once more. Weeks had passed in the time between his last touching of it. Fingerprints remained in the dust already quickly accumulated on the spine. He tried not to feel too guilty about holding it after so long, but he felt a burning desire to know the rest of the words inside. He opened it up, stared at that first question. Do you like who you are? Iyan swallowed hard. This needn't be so difficult! He took an even breath, closed his eyes as he inhaled. He wouldn't be reading this if he did, he concluded, and he opened his eyes.

"No," he said aloud, and then he read on.

The book seemed to expect this answer. In the first chapter, it told him that resistance was futile. The Gods would have their way. If he disliked himself, it was because he was rebelling, fighting against the mission the Creator Himself made! The Sun consumed the Moon - never forget that. Two great minds are at war within, and the blasphemy of rejecting the existence of life has made the Moon an angry god. Heed not His way. He will only lead you into ruin, away from the light of the Sun. Impressionable, despite his Returnist upbringing and surrounding, Iyan found that this forbidden fiction stirred within him purpose. Unable to share the book with his family, or with any of the teachers at school for fear of public outcry and banishment, Iya instead kept these questions and answers to himself. He was not converting, after all, to the grim, violent sect of Echoism, merely taking what knowledge he could from the covers.

Iyan never expected a book about the debatable subject of his entire life's enemy religion to hold so much fascination for him, but when questioned what had finally convinced him to eat, to sleep just a little more soundly, he always kept the source to himself. Not even with the counselor did Iyan share his readings - as far as he was concerned, Moss knew what he'd given Iyan and to say much more about it would be a risk at best. Instead, Iyan continued through the book, and armed with the idea that he could be living a better life if he helped others, he found himself helping Uncle Hans at the post office a little more, until after years of this, Iyan found himself officially presented with a job. Helping Hans turned into helping the locals, who forever wanted this and that shipped to various people scattered across the continent. Indeed, the Gods must really have wanted something to do with Iyan, and all with the help of a man hardly remembered by anyone who lived in Tottenham Cross all those years ago. Indeed, if pressed even now, stumbling around the woods, Iyan would hardly have put a face to the name Moss Finnegan, if he could even recall that much.

As it stood, Iyan was very far from the light of the Sun.