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Chapter Text

The boy was running through high grass and vast fields, laughing hysterically as his little brother and sister followed him closely and quickly, just as amused. Their breathing was heavy with the thick humidity of the fjord, the sky was cloudy with a hint of darkness, and the hidden sun of Saturday was supposedly right above them. It came as no surprise when the younger siblings stopped abruptly, a faint voice carried by the wind. It was their mother, calling them in for lunch. The boy didn't hear though. He kept running.

He didn't notice when he left the other two. They tried to get his attention, but by the time they called for him, he was out of earshot. They turned around and he sprinted through the fjord, a large mountain rising just before him, a whole cord surrounding him slowly. 

Behind him was his home. A small cabin near the river. His father was a fisherman, and his mum was a seamstress. They didn't live near the village, but they didn't live far either. It was just enough for them to have peace and love in a nice community. Everything worked. They were happy.

And he ran.

He was way too distracted by the flock of birds above him, flying in circles just ahead, when he tripped dumbly with a small stone. He tripped and fell and rolled, his skin being ripped and torn and his knees bruised and scraped. He fell and ended up flat on his face, but he was okay. It hurt, but he was okay. 

He flipped around so that he was staring at the sky and took a few painful breaths. The sky was grey with clouds, the birds were black, and the sun was just as it should be around midday. Time for lunch. Where were his brother and sister?

He stayed there for a while, not being strong enough to get up and go back to the cabin. He wondered if someone was going to get him or if he had to go back by himself. Probably the latter, he thought, and in that case, he'd wait for a while. His palms stung harshly, his knee was bleeding slightly and it was hard to move it. He was rather sore. So he'd wait for a bit until he could properly get up and go back to the house. He couldn't be too far, but he was tired.

He didn't know how long he stayed there. At some point, he lost track of time, just staring up into the sky. Until he suddenly realized the earth beneath him was shaking slightly. Too slightly to be something bad, so it had to be something else. Animals, perhaps. And indeed he was right. He barely got his head up to see who was coming. A hooded figure galloped across the land. Dark red clothes, a purely white horse. 

It was one of them.

The boy was shocked to see the bishop halting his horse a few meters near him. The man climbed down elegantly, scarlet flaunting behind him as he approached the boy. It was a rather ghastly image, one he never thought he'd see. His face was undercover but shrouded in shadows. The mean leaned and hovered above him, inspecting him for any injury.

"Are you alright, son?" a deep voice asked.

The answer was a shaky nod, too surprised to give a proper reply.

"Do you live close by? Do your parents know you're here?"

The boy gulped loudly before he was able to answer. The bishop helped him get up slowly, sitting up. His eyes were kind.

"Yes, that way. My mom is probably waiting for me to get back."

The bishop inspected him curiously. The boy's clothes were torn, his hair was dishevelled, and his skin was scraped. The kid looked taken back, but not scared. He was rather curious, actually. Not even a hint of nervousness in his whole figure, just a rebellious kid ready for fun.

"I'll take you home, then. It's getting dark earlier these days, winter is close. It will soon get late." The boy agreed.

He climbed on the high horse with a bit of help, and they rode for a while until they got home. His mother was waiting outside, arms crossed and a worried yet stern look on her face. He could see her slightly fuming. Still, when they approached, the kid smiled brightly in the hopes of easing the woman with his childlike charm. She did not relent.

"Where were you?! We were worried sick! I called you back for lunch but you didn't hear. Your brother and sister said you ran off?!" she shouted as soon as they arrived. She smacked him lightly in the back of the head as a reprimand, and then soon turned around to face the bishop. The woman had not realized who it was until then, too worried to take in his red clothes, and she was suddenly struck with shock. She did a small reverence, an apologetic look on her face. "I'm sorry for the trouble he may have caused. It won't happen again. It is such an honour to stand before one of the Nine. How may I repay your kindness, sir?"

"There's no need for that," he replied. "It was my pleasure to help. I was heading for the village, so I'll probably be on my way."

"Can I at least offer you a cup of tea? It's cold outside and riding such a long distance surely may have caused some sort of discomfort. You are more than invited to stay and wait for the fatigue to wear off."

The man considered the thought for a little bit and accepted. The woman was delighted. For a simple family like theirs, having someone of such a high rank over was unheard of. It was a chance for them.

They walked in and the boy helped his mother set a few cups on the table. She told him to stay with them since he had not eaten his lunch. So the three of them sat at the table. The bishop had removed his hood, discovering his raven black hair. He and the boy's mother talked for a while, about life in the countryside, about her husband, about the village. At some point, her concerns about money came up, but she shrugged them off. She didn't want to be a bother, she said, and come off as needy. It was just an issue, they could solve it. But the man's mind was somewhere else, evidently, and he cut her off. His eyes were on the boy, who was eating porridge absently.

"You can change that," he began. "I am certain you are familiar with our home Dema."

"Yes, of course. Everyone here knows about the City of Faith. It sounds like a great place, I always wanted to visit."

"Well then, as you may know, the city is actually a monastery. This is why we citizens are disciples, priests and bishops. Perhaps you would be interested in your son following the path of Light?"

"What?" she asked, shocked.

"We take students to train them from a young age. We always have. The kids are usually from families who want them to strive and have a name."

"But… I'm just a seamstress. We have no wealth, sir. May I ask why?"

"I ask because I think your son will fit in, and it's a beautiful place. Don't be concerned about money, please.  Sometimes it's because they are the youngest of a wealthy family, and sometimes it's because they have no money at all, not a name nor a home. But the fact, ma'am, is all of them are the same under the eyes of the Light, or God. In Dema, everyone is equal and treated fairly. We all have the same opportunities and can learn the ways of the path. I would personally take your son under my tutelage, should you accept."

They discussed it for a while. It sounded like an opportunity for their family. Dema would take care of the boy, raise him, train him, and he could periodically send a sum of money for them. He would learn and have better opportunities than them. In the Fjord, they had no universities, no cities, no big governments. It was just their farms and villages, and Dema. It was nothing but a privilege to be asked that question, and the woman could not believe she was being given that opportunity directly. Her son would have a future. She would miss him dearly, but he would be okay. She wanted the best for him. And this was nothing short of an honour. 

The kid was sitting there. He was staring at his mom, wondering what she'd say. It was an interesting turn this day had taken, but he was always up for an adventure. He had heard about Dema. The other kids in the village said it was haunted. He loved haunted. He liked the idea.

And then, his mom smiled. Her eyes were watery. "You can take him. God bless you, sir, you can take him. Please save him from this fate. We can live, but this is no life for a boy as bright as him and I know that. You can offer him a better life than I can, that's for sure."

They arranged some things and waited for her husband to come back. It was near sunset when the man came back and was asked the question by his wife and a bishop in his house. Although it took him a few minutes, in the end, he agreed. It was early, the boy was only ten, but he would eventually leave the house for a better life, why not help him get it now?

In the end, the boy was excited. He packed only a few things because the bishop said all he needed would be given to him by Dema, but he could take something he held dear. So he took a few of his wooden toys in a small backpack and some clothes for the journey.

Once at the door, and after a few tearful goodbyes and see you later, they walked out. They travelled for a few hours under the purple sky, the sunset shining through a blanket of clouds. At some point, the man turned around and stared at the boy.  

"What is your name?"

The boy smiled brightly, suddenly aware he hadn't introduced himself. That should always be the start of a good adventure, he thought.

"I'm Tyler, nice to meet you."

The bishop was on his way back from a long journey, preaching about the ways of Vialism to faraway villages. It was his first time coming home after two months of visiting different places, but it was not his first time being out on a mission. In fact, he was the one who travelled the most in Dema. There were nine bishops, and the rest usually had other tasks. One of them was the head, and the others followed. His duty was that of spreading the word to faraway lands, recruiting people, and talking to them about their City of Faith, their monastery, and their temple of Death. And Tyler was fascinated with his infinite stories about previous missions, about people, their lives, their homes, he told Tyler about what he told them, the different faiths he encountered, how wide and varied the world was. Beyond Dema, beyond the Fjord, beyond all he knew, there was a world, a world so big it had infinite opportunities and possibilities, and it was all wide open for them to explore. 

The man said he liked it, actually. Exploring. Discovering. Which was why he chose that path in the way of Light, to travel, discover, preach to the faraway corners of the world. He learned so much during his trips he always felt he came back a greater man, a greater mind, a greater life. 

During the trip, Tyler asked a lot of questions. He was just an eight-year-old boy, after all. The way to Dema was a long one, after all, and his mind was filled with wonder and curiosity. All he could muster was inquires about the new world that was presenting itself to him. How is Dema? What are bishops? How far are we? Why is your tunic red? Among others. But Tyler realized he had hit the nail with three particular questions.

"You know my name, but what is yours?" was his first.

His answer was late, for the man pondered for a while. He and Tyler had stopped for the night and were gathered around a small fire. They had some dinner and were now about to go to sleep. It had been two days of journey and they were about to reach Dema. 

Tyler didn’t know that it could take only one day, two at most, but he was delaying the trip. It was hard travelling with a kid. But it was entertaining, at least. 

"I have many names", the bishop finally replied, "but you can call me Andre."

Andre said he enjoyed Tyler’s company, and Tyler enjoyed his.

"Andre," Tyler repeated, savouring the name. He didn't know why, but it felt important, unique, special. He felt as if that word was a secret between them. A word only he and Andre knew. 

And it was true, except he didn't know it at the time. But Andre had grown fond of the kid in the short time they had spent on their journey and had revealed his real name to him. It was only fair, Andre would later explain to him. It was only fair he knew Tyler's name and Tyler knew his. None of them knew it at the time, but one day they would know each other as basically father and son. Not long since then.

“What is Vialism?”

It had been a question that had remained in his mind for a while, especially after Andre mentioned his trips, and once he explained it the kid thought it was actually quite nice. Vialism was based on the belief that one should use one’s life and death as a way to impact others, to leave something behind, to be remembered. The greater the impact, the greater the achievement in the eyes of the Light. It meant trying your hardest during your life, inspiring others, and achieving something with the time that was given to you. 

And then, once they had reached their greatest point, many took their lives, so that their lives and efforts were perpetually a reminder in everyone’s minds.

He didn’t like the death part.

His worries were put to rest by the man. “Death is not called the afterlife for no reason. It is our second life when we are reborn. And our way of living again, in Dema, is through the minds of the people, through their hearts and memories. This life, these bodies, these years, they are all just our journey to our real life. Once we are gone, all we are is what we have done, what people remember of us. And our bodies become just bones and dust. What really, really matters, is how we live and how we die. Because that’s how we’ll be reborn. Our bones are stripped of our souls in the Towers of Silence, and taken to the afterlife. But we are still here, in the hearts of those who knew us, and the memories of those who knew about us.”

Tyler was quite silent after that.

The third question was a tricky one. Tyler noticed Andre didn't know how to answer it properly. 

Somewhere along the third day, they had hit a desert. It was arid and it extended for miles and miles, a small shadow in the distance which Andre explained was Dema. The city, its structures, rising on the horizon. 

But the kid soon turned his attention to something else. He noticed that they had taken a detour. Instead of going in a straight line through the fjord, and reaching Dema in less than two days, they had at some point turned left and had been walking along an invisible shore, Dema to their right but never quite leaving their side, just like the moon. Andre explained they were circling the city to reach the South entrance. Dema had many entrances, but new students had to come through the main gates, in the desert. And when Tyler wondered where they were, exactly, and Andre answered they were just outside Dema, but still not there yet, the kid noticed some uncertainty in the man's voice.

Tyler asked the question. Where are we? Not the desert, but where. He didn't know why, but it seemed like an important question at the time. Andre shuffled his raven hair nervously, staring at Tyler with some caution from the corner of his eye, and replied. "They call it Trench", he said. "The place between two places. All that surrounds Dema is part of Trench. The desert, the fjord, the mountains, the river. The city is protected by the Trench, and the outer world is protected from Dema as well."

Why Tyler wondered, but the man replied before he could ask.

"It's a peaceful place. We are far away. People don't need to know about us more than they already do, and what I preach, our affairs as a city are only our own. We are a place of worship and religion, and we need our space as much as the world needs its space away from us."

Something about it worried Tyler. But he ignored it, it was probably just adult talk when they were all weird and talked nonsense. 

He instead focused on the structures getting bigger and bigger as they finally approached Dema. A great wall stood high and dark, engulfing the horizon and surrounding the grey buildings within that Tyler could barely distinguish from where he stood. The wall circled the city, a perfectly round structure with a high gate that welcomed the desert. And in the middle of it, arose the silhouette of many grand towers, perfectly spread in threes forming an inner circle within Dema. The tower in the centre was higher than them all, as tall as the sky, enormous, intimidating and splendid. A strong feeling overcame Tyler and suddenly he felt himself trembling slightly. It was fear, it was admiration, it was too much to be expressed.

He would, later on, describe the experience in his mind as magnificent.

As they approached the gate, he could still recall Andre’s words and his smooth and proud voice as he said: “Welcome home, Tyler.”

He was home. And it was the beginning.

Dema was divided into districts. Each district was guided by a bishop. There were Nine, as his mother had told him. The bishop guided them, inspired them, taught them, and cared for them. They were his subjects, and they held him as dear as he did them. It was a beautiful relationship, symbiotic to say the least, and they were all peaceful. It worked. It was calm and nice, and people were happy.

As soon as he arrived, Tyler was taught all this by Andre. He marvelled and asked as many questions as popped into his head, wide-eyed and drinking the view and the new world that was being presented to him. He was taken to see the place in detail. Its streets, its buildings, its farms, the chapels, the divisions. And everyone was so calm, so focused, so at hand with their tasks and so at peace with their lives, Tyler felt inspired. He wanted to know more. 

He told Andre as much. The bishop chuckled and informed there would be no problem. He would teach Tyler himself, the ways of Dema and their way of life. Tyler would be one of his denizens, after all. And  Andre would be his tutor in this newfound world.

The first few years were happy.

Tyler missed his family dearly, and they wrote to each other frequently, but he was happy. At first, it took him a while to get used to his new life, but soon he fell into a calm routine and grew comfortable with it, since it was very similar to his life in the fjord. It was mindless, peaceful, tasks that you could depend on to be the same the next day. Praying in the chapel at dawn, farming in the morning, lunch at noon, religious studies in the afternoon, praying in the chapel at dusk, dinner and going to bed right after nightfall. 

And many dawns passed, and so did many dusks.

The reliable tasks became monotonous, and being a child was barely a distant memory in the past, but it didn't mean he had lost who he was. Tyler grew up fast, but the colours and the sounds that painted his life brightly were still there, in his mind. He was still young, and he liked playing from time to time, or humming songs from his childhood as he tended to his crops, but now he was mature, well-read, responsible, and dependable. The bishops liked him. A smart kid. He quickly learnt about their religion, and despite his initial reservations, he was soon taken by the current of Vialism, just like the other citizens. 

It was peaceful.

That was until the head of the Nine passed away. 

Tyler was barely fourteen when it happened. Dema was in a deep turmoil. It had happened, one of the Nine dying, but it was not frequent and it was never the head. Andre had explained to him the ways of Dema; the Nine carried out their divine tasks for 52 years before someone else took their place. They all rotated at the same time. An entirely new group would take over once the cycle had taken a new turn, and the past bishops would retire. It was always like this. But it also meant no one in Dema had ever experienced something like this, because the past Nine had finished their mandate before being replaced, and the current bishops had been there for over 25 years now.

So in the end, no one knew what would happen.

There was a massive gathering to honour the deceased. 

The chapel was full of people, yet in absolute silence. It was the middle of the day, but it felt as dark as midnight.

However, no one needed to talk to know what the rest were thinking. They were all equally lost. No one there had seen enough to experience such a tragedy, and everyone was wondering who would be the new head of the city. 

It felt as if everyone was collectively holding their breath when a hooded figure stepped into the front. The rest of the Nine were standing behind, a statue of a faceless man rising at the back. That day, there were only seven in the back, and Tyler recognized Andre's dark hair beneath the red cloak as he stood in front of the crowd. He spoke, loud and clear, from the depths of his shadows.

"In light of this tragic event, we have taken a vote. The Eldest shall now lead us and guide us in the divine path, as many have done before him and many will do as well. The City of Faith now has a new leader, and a disciple shall occupy his place as part of the Nine. We stand as one, and we will go through this as one."

His words echoed as realization dawned upon them. The Eldest. Many knew him as Blurryface, too. Tyler had gathered, from rumours among the citizens, that the mask the bishop wore was due to an accident. A fire, they assumed. Half his face was dark as night and his forehead, eyelids and nose were white as chalk. He wore a transparent mask to cover the mark of death. Tyler imagined it like a skull, holes deep and hollow and pitch black within the white bones. He had never seen him, though, since Blurryface’s district was different from his. All across from Dema, he was told. 

But it was all rumours. They weren’t allowed into other districts, and not many people spoke at lunch. It was a peaceful time, and rumours were just rumours.

When Andre stepped back into the line, the Nine began to scatter into the different doors that led to the chapel. Each door led to a hallway that led to their districts, so it was easier to come and go without any distractions. People stood up and followed in line, going back to their chores. There wouldn’t be any more words, everyone knew it. Blurryface wouldn’t present himself to his subjects. Dema was a religious place, not a political one, after all, and no one needed to know anything more than what they had been told. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Things were one way and there was no need for words in an unchanging world.

When Tyler stepped into his district, following his peers, Andre was waiting next to the doorway. He signalled the kid, and Tyler stepped out of line because he knew the bishop wanted to talk. The man looked at him from head to feet first, regarding him as if it was the first time he saw him. Tyler understood; it had been many years, and from time to time it was strange noticing how each other had aged in that time. The man cleared his throat and said: 

“Please accompany me to my study.”

Tyler followed suit.

He had been there many times. It was a small room, with a desk, a bookshelf and a chair, nothing more and nothing less. Andre had always told him humility was a virtue, and having less meant having more, for it was the soul one needed to tend to. The walls were grey and there was a small window next to the bookshelf, for the study was on the second floor of the main building of the district. Andre sat in his chair and instructed the teenager to do the same. When Tyler sat down, Andre sighed.

“I have a proposition to make you.”

Tyler inhaled.

“I know these times seem dark, but death in Dema is also rebirth. Everyone leaves a mark behind, and the stronger the impact, the greater the life lived. And now, with Nills taking over as bishop, he has big shoes to fill. Everything is a cycle, everyone has a role to take. So it is only natural that now, someone has to fill his shoes as well, as a disciple.”

“I understand,” Tyler nodded.

“This is a big thing I am asking of you. You already have your duties, I know this. But you have also shown promise. You are smart, dedicated, and a born leader. I have known you for many years, Tyler, and you are old enough now to take the next step. You should seize your knowledge and intelligence and put it into a greater cause, I see you have a great potential for what is to come. And this is why I want to propose you to the Nine as a new disciple.”

Tyler was shocked for a minute. He had never seen such a thing coming. It was one thing being a student on his way to being a priest, and another completely different being a student on his way to becoming a bishop. One day, he would have an even greater role to accomplish. Everyone in Dema aspired for a brighter future, a bigger impact, and an eventful life. And this… this was as far as you could come in the City.

Something fluttered in his chest.

“I… don’t know what to say. I am honoured, I am…”

“What do you say? Do you accept? It is nothing certain, but we were required to choose someone to take the new place, so I thought of you.”

“Yes, absolutely yes. I accept. Thank you, thank you so much,” Tyler said eagerly. “This is… such a big step, on my way to Vialism. Thank you.”

Andre chuckled.

They talked for a while since Tyler was full of questions. They felt once again as if he was a child, a kid asking his new tutor everything about his new life. The bishop was relieved to see the boy had not lost his spark and curiosity, but that it had rather been dormant. He was fond of Tyler, and he was proud.

When he left, Tyler felt a lightness in his chest. He was motivated. He had come to like his peace and monotony, but having something to look forward to was even more amazing. He would be a disciple. He would learn and grow and turn into someone he could be proud of.

He could not wait to write a letter to his mother.

As he stepped out of the building and headed towards the school for his religious studies, he noticed a light rain was covering everything with dew. It was only the beginning, the sky told them there would be a storm during the night.

He worried about his crops and wondered if he would be able to check on them in the morning. But nothing could suppress the spring in his step.

He was not aware it was the beginning of the end.

A light rain before the storm.

Everything in Dema changed. 

At first, it was just a couple of rules. More hours of religious studies, a stricter schedule. It was acceptable, and even sort of expected. Everyone complied dutifully in spite of how these measures could affect them. But then, as weeks and months passed, these changes began to overstep the boundaries of human interaction: curfew, no recreation, no social gatherings, no talking whatsoever with other districts; in fact, not even with the same district. They wanted absolute silence and concentration. No one was allowed to talk during chores or at meals. Talking was a distraction from the way of Vialism, and Dema had abruptly changed its approach regarding the religion. It wasn't just doing what was best, living peacefully, preaching kindness and dedication. Instead, it had shifted into overachieving, extreme pressure, dedication, and giving as much as you could and sometimes even beyond. Dema was now focused purely on results, no matter how. 

The Path of Light had always been a sacred one, but death had never been put above life ever before, not even in Vialism. What once was eternal life, now was a dreadful goal. It wasn’t about inspiring others, like Andre had taught him. Once it might have been, but now the sacred books had been changing lately, and Tyler’s mind was twisting in ways he didn’t like. Inspiring fear was a way of earning respect, being exhaustive would achieve greatness, dedicating your entire life towards death instead of living it at its fullest would bring about eternal greatness. 

Still, even though it seemed extreme, Tyler respected it. Not because it inspired him respect, but rather because he didn't know if doubting was allowed. In the end, what did he know? What made him more qualified to express his opinion above that of the Council's? So he remained silent, just like they wanted, just like they encouraged. 

For his part, he was incredibly busy, so he really focused on his chores so that he didn't have time to ask himself questions he would never have an answer for, questions he might never be able to ask without punishment. He had been accepted by the council of the Nine as a part of them and had begun his training as a disciple. Tending to his crops was reduced to only once a week, his days instead being dedicated exclusively to religious studies and praying in the chapel. His days were almost sunless, tucked away in a classroom or an office or under the neon lights of the chapel, a fake sun that made his skin grow paler under the shadow of the statue that rose as an altar. 

He was forced to worship day and night. Wednesdays were days of Silence, and talking was purely forbidden; Fridays were his days of tending to the field, the only day he was allowed to see the sun for hours and enjoy the fresh air of the outside; Sundays were days of fasting, silence and introspection, spending the entire day at the chapel and nothing more, not even studying, dedicating his every second in meditation in hopes to achieve a higher state of mind; and Mondays were days of studying, entering the classroom at sunrise right after breakfast and leaving at twilight just for supper before bed. He was tired, absolutely exhausted, but he repeated to himself day after day that he had wanted this, that this was what they all went through, these were the ways of Dema.

He couldn't ask Andre if it had always been like that, though. His training had been put in the hands of Blurryface himself, alleging he wanted to make sure the new disciple was well-educated and acclimated to the new rhythm. And he was not allowed to talk to Andre. Tyler had been entirely removed from his district and moved to The Eldest's. It was so he could keep a closer eye on his progress, Blurryface had said, but Tyler felt rather suffocated. He wasn't allowed to talk to anyone in other districts, not even bishops, and suddenly he had felt absolutely alone and desolated. 

He felt as if he had been thrown in a pit which was being filled with water and everyone was expecting him to just float, the problem being his feet had been clasped with a chain to the floor.

Or maybe not a chain, but a noose. Fastened around his neck. And he was not only drowning but being strangled as well.

At some point, Tyler wondered if maybe being happy was considered an interference and a distraction from Vialism, like everything else, and therefore unacceptable as well. 

Chapter Text

He had no name.

He knew, rationally, that he must have had one. In a past life, perhaps. But that idea seemed far, far away. There was nothing, not a life, nor a name, or anything at all, before this silence, before this darkness, before this fortress had swallowed him whole into a hopeless existence. There was nothing before this constant fear and suffocation.

The night was his home, and fear was the only thing left he could feel.

He couldn’t remember when it had all begun. As far as he knew, he had been in this giant prison his entire life. Fear was welcomed and silence was his comfort. He had never heard his own voice, except for when he screamed.

Not anymore, though. He had learned to endure.

He hated this silence. That much he knew. It was comfort and torture at the same time. Yet he had been like this for so long, as long as he could remember, that even the reason why he was there had escaped his memory.

Even the sun had come to feel natural. His first memory was of a time he wondered what was wrong with it because he knew there was something wrong. How he knew it, he had no idea, because there was no sun before this one. It should have been brighter, burning, alive ; but it was cold and never quite ushered the darkness away. As if the sun itself was forced to remain silent, knowing nothing of the past, a brighter life, and had come to call this mimic of a life home, just like all of them. Maybe the sun was as tired and afraid as he was, its fearless light going dim as if it was dead above them.

He stopped questioning, after some time. He had forgotten how to. All he could remember was that he used to, and then he didn’t.

Once he learned to live afraid, this feeling of doubt turned into something else. He called it respect. Or they called it respect, he wasn't sure. He respected and worshipped the bishops of the fortress of Dema, never questioning, ever silent. He called it respect as they had taught him to, but he should have been afraid instead. 

He had always been afraid, though. But he had forgotten what it felt like to feel something else.

Every afternoon, they had to gather at the great chapel, right before sunset. The nine bishops would meet and so would their people, divided into the different regions of Dema. It was a time for worship, and he followed his brothers and sisters, kneeling, eyes closed, as the red-draped bishops did their blessings in a quiet fire. As ever, they remained silent, worshipping gods they didn’t know about. But they never questioned the bishops when they told them to pray. It was how things were.

At the end of every session, the bishops would break their prayer circle and stand in front of the rows of people, and in signs, they would always ask them a question.

Who are you?

They always answered the same. Ever silent, ever quiet, their hands moving fast.

No one.

Because they were no one. They had been stripped of their names, their identities, and their memories. All that was left of them was a working vessel that adored the gods and worshipped the rulers of Dema.

But the worst part is that they didn’t know they were the empty carcasses of what they had once been. He couldn’t even remember when he had forgotten. He couldn’t remember when his mind was left blank, not even the trace of his identity left behind, when he had become a mindless shell without a purpose or an aim, just obeying and working like everyone else. He was this , and this was him. And this was nothing, so he was no one.

All the days were the same. He had lost track of time in the blur that passed before his eyes. Mindlessly going through their chores, tending to the fields and the city, working from sunrise to sunset. They never questioned it, never said a word, no matter how hard the work was or in how much pain they were. Not a sound. And after everything, they would meet up at the chapel and pray. Over, and over again. And days passed, and the sun would never shine, and they would never leave past the giant walls.

His people were always the last group to arrive at the chapel. They were under the ever-watchful eye of Nico, leader of the bishops. Being as important as he was, it was only natural for Nico to arrive last and start the ceremony. So every time they arrived at the chapel, it was already crowded, the rest of the bishops gathered in a circle in front of the statue, waiting patiently and silently for the rituals to begin. 

He was always afraid, and he was numb to the feeling, but when Nico was around he thought he could die out of fear alone.

Nico was merciless. Strict, ruthless, the punisher. He was the ruler and the executioner. All feared him, even the other bishops, and no one who dared question him did so twice.

The chapel was only one of the places to which people from all regions could be sent. The other two were the Necropolis and the Towers of Silence. One was for prayer, one was for redemption, and one was for the dead.

Nico was the one who could sentence all three of them.

A judge, a king, a nightmare. The inhabitants of Dema were under the rule of the bishops, and the bishops were under the rule of Nico. Those citizens -farmers, workers, slaves- that lived in the region commanded by Nico himself lived by strict rules and the imminent threat of punishment for the slightest mistake.

So they just never made mistakes. And they survived.

It was hard, pleasing the bishop. But doing everything he desired was the way to live another day. His people didn’t know what happened at the Towers of Silence, or why those who were taken by the bishop to redeem themselves with punishment never strayed again. But Nico’s methods were effective, they knew that, and no one seemed to bear any mark of torture, as other citizens feared.

He had never experienced Nico’s punishment. He considered himself lucky. He went on and on with his mindless days, working on his chores until the night caught up to him and his screams ripped through the silence.

He was not one to scream. He had nightmares, of course, like all of them. It was normal in a place like Dema. But he never, ever screamed. It was forbidden. And he obeyed as best as he could under the rule of the bishops. 

But that night was different. The nightmare was different. Something had broken inside him, like a dam, and it was flowing and drowning him endlessly. 

The bishops came through his door, holding fake torches with heatless fire, severe expressions that said more than a thousand words could. They were angry. He didn’t even see them, covered in sweat and in the middle of a panicked haze. He only realized what was going on when they took him away.

He couldn’t remember what he had dreamt, exactly, or what was it that had set him off. But he knew he was scared and disgusted, and at some point, he had been close to barfing, not even able to see where they were taking him to.

They threw him inside a cell, cold stone underneath his skin as he tried to stand back up. His head was dizzy, bile rising in his throat, his hands scraped where they had crashed against the floor. He raised his head, only to find the bottom of a red tunic whispering against the rock, and he didn't have to look up to know it was Nico himself standing in front of him. Suddenly, he was unable to move. 

That night, he learned why the bishops never spoke, and why all of them were to remain quiet. He learned the power of words and the poison of whispers. He learned about demons, about his own, about his worst fears, some he wasn't even aware of. He learned that they could make them real, make them haunt him, so he should remain silent. He had failed to do that. 

Towers of Silence they called them. But it was never quiet in there.

He learned what torture truly meant by the time morning came. When they left, leaving him once again lying on hard stone, he was confused. He didn't understand why .

His mind was far gone and his hands shook nervously. He puked in a corner, his mind reeling and turning with unwelcomed whispers, anxiety clawing at his throat. Suddenly he felt everything , not just fear, but every single thing he wanted to get rid of. He had always been afraid, always a shell of himself, but there were sides of himself he didn’t know about. Demons surrounded and seized his mind in a death grip. They told him they hated him, that he hated himself, and he was nothing, no one , always trapped inside giant walls with a lightless sun. 

They made him doubt, and it was like waking up from a dream. He had gotten used to a numb existence, where fear was all he had left and would not even know he was afraid. Doubts and questions were not a part of him. But he couldn’t stop them. 

He knew they were right. They had always been inside his mind. He just hadn’t been listening. And they had unleashed them with just a few words, causing chaos in the form of a headache.

He didn't know when he had started crying.

A noise caught his attention, a rock hitting the metal bars of his cell door. He looked up, tear tracks on his cheeks forgotten, instead focused on the source of the distraction. He almost gasped at what he saw, but he was too afraid to make any sort of noise.

Across the stone hallway, there was another cell, and leaning against the bars was a young man staring at him, unblinking, his hands clutching the metal tightly. Black eyes and even darker hair, the man opened his mouth, and to him, it seemed the strangest thing he had ever seen in this place.

The man then pressed his lips together again, staring down the hallway, as if afraid someone would come. Deciding against making any other sound, he let the metal bars go, signing instead.

Why are you here? 

He considered it for a second, unsure. Why was he there in the first place? 

In the years he had spent in Dema, he learned the language of the signs. Not only the essentials, that to answer when the bishops address them but the one the citizens had expanded to communicate between them. It had been around for generations, and no one remembered when or who started it. There weren’t many opportunities to use it, since the bishops may not mind the silent communication specifically, but they did abhor the workers talking amongst them, so it had been a long and hard process to learn enough. He still didn’t know all of it, none of them knew, and there were differences between the regions, but it was overall the same code. 

In the end, he signed back, deciding he wanted to have a conversation with this man. If he didn’t, he was afraid he would succumb to the newly found voices in his head, and that would only lead to madness.

I broke my vow , he signed simply.

The man seemed curious, but not surprised.

How?

A nightmare. I screamed. I don’t know why I screamed. It was just like all the others.

Do you remember what it was about? , the man asked, his face serious. Was it like all the others?

He frowned and then shook his head. No.

Then it was not just any nightmare. That’s why they did that to you. They are afraid.

He stared at the boy expectantly, waiting for him to continue. He was confused by his words. It sounded insane, that the bishops would be afraid about him screaming for a nightmare, and for a moment he thought he may have misunderstood his signs. After all, the man seemed to be from another region. Definitely not Nico’s, like him.

He thought the man was lucky.

They don't like to be questioned. And nightmares, not the usual ones, but those that make you scream in the night, mean that you are remembering. And memories, they mean questions.

No, that couldn’t be right. He wanted to ask what he meant, but he knew the answer. He wanted to ask what it was that he was supposed to remember, because there was no life before this one, no name, no nothing, yet he knew that was a lie.

He had been punished to remain silent, because breaking his vows meant questioning, because breaking his vows meant that he remembered he didn’t have to be silent anymore.

Who are you?, he asked, and it was a stupid question because everyone here was the same. But he was curious and wanted to know how this man knew so much about what lay beyond words, beyond silence, beyond darkness and lies.

He did not expect at all his reply. The young man smiled a genuine smile, something he had never seen before in Dema. And it seemed impossible, it seemed so far, far away, he wondered how did he even remember what a smile was. 

He found himself returning it, shyly, before the man turned around and grabbed another small rock on the floor. It was a bit pointy, and he grabbed it in a familiar way between his fingers, yet firmly. He put it down, without letting it go, across the bars of his own cell, pressing it on the stone from the hallway in between them. He began sliding it forcefully, leaving a trail behind, carving in the stone.

The man was writing , he realized. It was familiar, a warm feeling going through all his veins at recognizing the action, and again, what he was observing seemed impossible. People didn’t write in Dema. Or at least, not under Nico's rule. He wondered if the others were allowed to keep such a skill, and for the first time, he was curious about what other differences the people in Dema had between them.

He didn’t know why he knew all of this, all that the man was showing him, because he didn’t even remember knowing, but it was like a dream, or the dream of a dream, something he had seen in a deep sleep and was now happening before his eyes.

It was so simple, such a small action, but he was in awe.

The hand carving pulled back, and the man used the other one to clear out the dust that had formed around the trail. He then revealed his work, staring back at him expectantly as he leaned back, waiting.

He recognized the scribbles. They were letters. Letters?

J O S H

It was a word. But no, it was a name . Not one he recognized, exactly, but he knew it was. Eyes wide, he looked back up at the man, who was smiling lazily.

That’s who I am.

You have a name?, he asked quickly.

We all do, Josh replied. We just don’t remember. They take it away.

He looked away, slightly embarrassed, and put his knees against his chest, making himself smaller, hiding away. There was too much in his mind.

They didn’t talk for a while. Josh had his back against the side of his cell, and his head was turned slightly, facing the small window at the back. The sun was already on top of Dema, barely leaning towards the horizon, illuminating Josh’s cell as it ever so slowly ran towards West. His own window faced East, he assumed. He didn’t stare at his own window. The sun was already gone there.

It's all fake. And I don't remember what real even is, Josh signed, turning back around.

You remember your name , he replied bitterly.

That’s because I never forgot. But it’s the only thing I could keep. Josh made a pause, regarding him carefully. You will remember, eventually.

I’m no one , he said, repeating what the neverending voice in his head told him, what he had always been told, what he had always thought.

You are someone. But this is not who you are supposed to be.

It didn’t bring him any comfort.

He didn’t know how long it was, but eventually, a man accompanied by a bishop walked down the hallway, and by the ruler’s demand, his cell was opened. He looked at Josh’s cell from the corner of his eyes, and he saw the man smiling slightly. Josh signed something quickly, a goodbye before he was forced to turn around and lose sight of the man still in the cell.

He was allowed to go back to his room, to his chores, to his mindless days after that terrifying night. But he was never allowed to forget the lesson he had learned. They made sure he still suffered it, that he still feared it. 

Josh was right. They were afraid. So every night they took him away, to make him forget, to make him no one again, to appease his thoughts about doubt and memories.

Because it was true. He may not have been able to remember what he had dreamt, but it had startled something within him. Like a spell had broken, and now he saw things for what they were. It was so unfair, being forced to live a life he didn’t want, when he was so certain now that there had been another one. He didn’t know how it was, or why he was so sure, but it was something that had started a fire in his chest and it felt like it would never burn out. And, more than ever, he wanted to remember.

At the same time, he was afraid of these thoughts.

Afraid, because every time they started to ponder in his head, making him go mad, a loud noise in the back of his mind, they hurt him. Every time he seemed to hesitate his tasks at hand, or deep in thought instead of back to the shell he was supposed to be in this place, in this life, they took him up to the towers and hurt him.

They made him forget, again. Back to a carcass. He forgot all these thoughts that made him afraid of what was to come, and hopeful at the same time. Eventually, they came back. When morning came and torture was over, he was left crying on the floor, every time. But then, the flame in his chest burned brighter, roaring higher, as if pain and suffering fed this fire, and he was more awake than ever.

And they hurt him again.

Despite this fierceness, this newfound rebellion inside him, he was still afraid of it. He knew they would hurt him anyway, like all nights, but he still tried to avoid it as much as he could. Despite his doubts, he still obeyed. Despite his wish to run away and find himself, he still convinced him with what they had told them their entire lives. When the bishops, worshipped under fake fire, asked who they were, he replied as everyone else, silently, obediently, signing back despite himself. No one.

Because here, he was no one. He was just a part of it.

It didn’t stop him from hoping, or even imagining, that in a past life, he had been someone. He wanted to be someone.

He carried on dutifully with his day, harvesting, cleaning, working, worshipping, and ignoring all these thoughts the moment they resurfaced. He had been there since forever, he reminded himself; there was no point in pondering about a life that never existed. He was this now, he was no one, and he should be grateful for it.

Sometimes he thought about running away. About escaping these giant walls and jumping into a new life, into the unknown. But it terrified him at the same time. Because what lay beyond? What was out there, in a past life he had forgotten about, a name he didn’t even have anymore? He didn’t remember. And he didn’t know.

In the back of his head, whenever this thought surfaced, there was a voice that shut it down. He was in Dema, and he should be grateful. They should be grateful for everything because they were given a chance at redemption in the silent city.

That’s, at least, what they told them. And they believed it. They were here to atone for their sins, to redeem themselves for something they didn’t know about, and the bishops were merciful, they were. The way to approach the gods. They hurt them to teach them, to keep them in their paths. They controlled them to make sure they got the forgiveness they sought. The bishops took care of them, they were told, and he should not question them if he wanted someday to finally make up for it. What it was exactly, he didn’t know.

But he knew it was a lie. And he couldn’t say anything about it. It was a filthy lie, one that he had always believed, and the flame in his chest roared louder when he was forced to obey.

He remained silent. If he broke his vow, he would be punished twice. He was already punished enough for his thoughts; he didn’t want to be punished for his voice as well. However, he knew now what silence meant, and he hated it. 

Hate, a new feeling, or maybe an old one he had forgotten about.

He was feeling a lot these days. Once he had gotten used to fear and numbness, but his newfound defiance had completely overthrown the status quo in his own head. He was a mess, and he felt more and more like he was developing a huge migraine, because there was no way this constant pounding and hurt could go anywhere else, as slowly as it was developing. 

Eventually, the migraine was unleashed. It was the worst day of his life. Someone was squeezing his brain tightly, and wouldn’t let go. He was forced to go through his chores and prayer with his head throbbing painfully, a noise so loud it drowned everything; the feelings, the voices, even his flame seemed to flicker when he was focused on breathing instead of crushing under the pressure of his mind.

It was no wonder that, when he fell asleep that night, after hours and hours of turning and tossing because of the pain, he woke up screaming no long afterwards. 

It wasn’t like the first time he had woken up like this, though. The screaming didn’t stop. It went on and on, as if trying to wake up everyone in Dema, trying to let everyone know. He wasn’t covered in sweat, and didn’t feel nauseous, just like his migraine was suddenly gone. To replace it, a wave of something he couldn’t recognize swallowed him whole, leaving him dizzy. He still screamed.

He still screamed as the bishops came crashing through his door and took him away. He screamed as they climbed the steps that led them up to the Towers of Silence. He screamed, but it wasn’t because he was afraid. For the first time in this life, he wasn’t.

He screamed because he had remembered. He wanted to climb up to the roof of the towers and yell his lungs out. He screamed because it was such an awful memory, and his feelings were smashed in an indecipherable mess that was joy and pain all at the same time. He wanted to cry because he remembered, and he had never felt more alive.

He had dreamt of a woman screaming; a house on fire; a field surrounding them, and horses galloping, and the woman –his mother, he had a mother - calling his name desperately, over and over again, as a figure draped in red clothes held her back, and an equally red clothed arms held him up, as he kicked, and hit, and cried.

It was awful. It was disastrous. But it was his . His story, his memory, his past. 

It happened when he was sixteen. Two years into his training as a disciple; the time of his first rebellion. His first rejection of vialism, after years of being complacent. 

It had been their revenge.

Or, well, Nico’s revenge.

His mother had cried out his name one last time before everything had gone black, probably after he had passed out. But it didn’t matter how it went afterwards. What mattered was that this dream, he remembered, not unlike the last one, and in this one, he was someone.

Tyler.

He remembered it. It wasn't a special name, quite common, and once upon a time, it had bothered him, knowing other people had his name. It was supposed to make you special, and he couldn't understand what was special about a name that other people had.

Now he understood. Because it was his. There may have been others with his name, but there was only one of him, and it was a part of who he was. He was only recovering his identity.

It gave him hope.

Hope, and it fueled his anger, and the fire inside his chest surged fiercely like never before with a feeling he couldn’t quite describe, as he was thrown violently inside the now familiar cell at the top of the towers. He immediately found himself locked behind bars, the red hood of the bishop whispering against the floor.

It was Nico himself who had thrown him into the cell. He immediately cowered in fear at the sight of the bishop standing at the other side of the bars, his mask-covered face making him remember many unpleasant sessions with his flesh ripped open and unable to scream. Horrible thoughts were whispered to his ear by the ever-silent bishop himself, horrible things that made Tyler doubt even his own existence at the hands of his tormentor.

He didn’t cower as much as he should have though, before the prospect of what Nico had done to him. He had a name now. That was enough. He didn’t doubt who he was anymore.

Nico averted his red eyes and left.

Tyler laughed with bitter joy.

He watched the sunrise through his window, and its dim light made him feel even sicker. 

When morning came, he was worn out. His body ached all over, bruises marrying his skin, and his head swarmed with a million thoughts, whispers that Nico had implanted as doubt in his mind only a few hours prior. 

Tyler remembered now, who he had been once. He had been a child, a son, a brother. He had been an apprentice, and then he had been a disciple. He had had a voice, he had had dreams, he had had a reputation to uphold, a respectable one, and then he had been stripped. The more years that Dema had passed under Nico’s rule, the less like people the citizens were. He had taken their voice, he had taken their status, they were all nothing but but slaves, prisoners, who could not utter a sound unless they wanted to torture and an early grave without any of the glory their new Vialism offered.

But remembering and understanding didn’t do any justice to what the reality was now. After locking him once again, the bishop had come back to teach him yet another lesson. He had gone through many sessions since that first nightmare, but he was not at all prepared for what was to come when Nico was left alone with him this time around. Tyler thought the bishop may have even known he had remembered something about his past. Which should not have been possible, but in Dema, Tyler believed it might.

He endured as best as he could. Even when his body felt like it was being torn apart and pieced back together the wrong way, or when his head pounded so loud with a hurricane of awful thoughts and even worse threats, even when he couldn’t tell apart between what was real and what was his own mind torturing him as well, Tyler endured. They tried to break his spirit and make him forget once again, yet he endured. 

He was someone now. He was someone once again. There was no way he would let himself let the newfound memories slip from his mind, no matter how much they pulled and tugged and broke him apart.

But as he sat alone in an old, dirty cell, the same one he always found himself inside of these days, watching the fortress from above with a lump in his throat, Tyler felt the adrenaline washing away, leaving him tired and unable to move.

It didn’t matter that he remembered his name, that he had found some fight left in his heart, a fire that had seemed impossible to burn out yet it felt so weak under the dead light. It didn’t matter because locked up in this prison he had gotten to call home, despite how much he hated it, he was still in Dema and there was no way out. It didn’t matter that he now knew he was someone, because he was still there, and in Dema, he was no one. That would never change.

He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he was suddenly startled awake by a loud bang. In front of his cell, the other one’s door had been violently thrown open, and two bishops pushed a man inside. Tyler immediately recognized those dark curls, and before he could help himself he was leaning against the metal bars, watching carefully as the bishops closed the cell and turned around. One of them stared back at him with eyes completely black, and for a moment, Tyler was sure they would open his cell, like they had done every morning for weeks now. But instead, the bishop turned around as well, leaving him there, as if expecting him to rot faster the longer he spent up in the tower.

When the clerks disappeared, red cloaks brushing the floor around the corner, Tyler waited a few moments before letting out a long sigh. He turned worried eyes towards Josh, who was staring back at him with a tired gaze, some dried blood at the side of his head, and immediately signed.

What happened?

Josh brushed it off with a wave of his hand before replying, don’t worry about it.

Tyler scowled but said nothing. 

He had gotten used to Josh avoiding the subject of why he was up there so often. Every night after that first nightmare that had started it all, the bishops had left him up there in hopes of keeping him quiet after the dam broke in his mind. He had gotten used to it, at some point, but it was still discouraging. Nico was very, very persuasive with his torture methods, and Tyler thought he might have let his mind shut down and his memory slip for a while, if only to make the pain stop, but his flame never burned out.

In the morning, they left him for a few hours alone up in the tower, as if the loneliness would make the lesson settle in. And sometimes, Tyler thought it might.

But many of those times, those endless nights in a cell screaming silently, Josh had been there. Not all of them, and when Tyler was alone, he felt empty, even tempted to let go and turn back into the shell Dema had successfully turned him into so many years ago. Yet those nights in which Josh had been there, or the mornings when Josh had suddenly been dropped in the cell across from him, he felt like he could handle it. Being accompanied by someone else who got it was greatly supportive, and Josh always made sure that Tyler was not alone in his journey to remember, or through the suffering he was put through.

Josh never answered why he was sometimes covered in blood, even when most of the torture methods used by the bishops were for the mind, or why Tyler had to listen to whimpers from the cell across from him some nights when Nico was busy with the other man and not him, or why he was always there for Tyler at the perfect time, when he felt like he would break down, and Josh would be there to pick him up.

There was one time in which he replied cryptically, dark eyes secretive as he signed. They don’t like to be challenged. It was only a fraction of the truth, Tyler knew, and it didn’t answer any of his questions really. Tyler worried. But he was still grateful, because whatever happened Josh didn’t want to burden him with it and Tyler noticed. Instead, the other man was always there for him.

He hadn’t experienced any sort of kindness in this place for years and years, not ever since he was but a fourteen-year-old boy, until he met Josh. 

In the end, he half smiled, letting the other man know that his silence was respected and Tyler would not push it. Josh returned it, staring quickly down the hallway, just in case, and then signed, taking over the conversation.

What about you? Something’s different.

There was. Nico was not one to hurt Tyler during their sessions; most of the torture consisted of mental manipulation, and although most would say it wasn’t as bad, the mention itself would make Tyler quiver. Nico was well-versed in the art of punishment, making it so that mental tricks were like breathing to most, and it was terrifying for Tyler.

He endured it every night, but it was almost unbearable.

This time, however, something was different. Josh was right. Because Nico had gone all in a few hours before. Tyler was bruised, blood already dry on his arms and neck, sweat sticking dirt on his face. He was a mess. 

However, he knew the reason. And in the middle of the darkness that surrounded them, Tyler beamed at Josh, a smile so big it hurt. He had never smiled that much before. He turned around, looking frantically for something, and when he grabbed a small, pointy rock from a corner of his cell, he went back to the door, reaching between the metal bars and scribbling down on the floor of the hallway. Tyler looked up from time to time as he wrote, slowly carving on stone, and watched silently as Josh’s confused expression turned into a surprised one.

T Y L E R

That’s who I am , he signed proudly, imitating what the other man had told him the first time. Josh smiled widely, mirroring Tyler’s own.

That’s incredible. Then he frowned, considering something. I’m sorry you had to go through that, though.

Tyler snorted, and Josh looked up abruptly at the sound. He didn't care about making noise anymore, or at least not for the moment, because he was going to get punished anyway, so what was the point? Josh smiled tentatively again at Tyler's amusement, both afraid and in awe. None of them were sure what Tyler had laughed about, but something about the whole situation, maybe the contrast of this happiness against the emptiness he had felt earlier, made him want to laugh and shout.

I don't care , Tyler said. It was a lie. He did care, it had mattered, and he had been broken down by Nico's torture to the point of losing hope by morning. But Tyler couldn't tell these things to Josh; it felt like failing.

He chose carefully his next words, knowing that these were, in fact, a truth he was proud of.

I am someone now. Again. They can try to kill me, but I would die gladly.

Besides, Josh's presence was soothing for Tyler, and he felt himself feeling better, his nauseous state long gone. Josh gave him hope and made him believe that there was a chance for him to be someone. In Dema or outside or anywhere. Right then it seemed distant, and his hope was still a dim light, but it was still there. He still had earned his name back. Only being in front of him, Josh made him feel like he could grow to be someone, and his little flame went wild every second they were there. Nico's influence was a pale shadow compared to Josh's reassurance.

And it gave him courage. 

I want to leave. Tyler signed.

It was stupid. He knew that. It was far-fetched, just a dream. But it was an honest dream, something he truly desired, even if he doubted himself.

Josh just nodded, and Tyler saw in his eyes that he understood.

Then we will.

Tyler didn't believe him at first. He thought it might have been an empty promise, a fantasy shared by both of them, like the wishful thinking he allowed himself at the high hours of night, when hope would quickly slip through his fingers and he had to hold onto something to keep himself sane. 

It was far-fetched, and he knew it, and he knew Josh was aware. But that didn’t stop him from believing the other boy either way, eyes shining with confidence and promise. He was telling the truth. And Tyler believed him. 

Okay, he smiled back.

They didn’t mention it afterward. They talked for a few hours, before the bishops were back and dragging Tyler away, just as one of them stepped inside Josh’s cell. Tyler felt his chest tighten, fear clawing at his throat, but he didn’t make a sound as he turned around and let himself be guided back down the tower.