The Lifeless Light: A Tale from Dema

Chapter Eleven: Two Faces

"How..." my voice quivered. I struggled for words.

"Clancy, let me explain," Tyler held a darkened hand up, as if it would halt the dozens of questions that raced through my mind.

"How could you be one of them!" I exclaimed.

"I'm not one of them!" he answered, before letting out a deep sigh. "...I am, but I don't follow their mandates. At least, I try not to."

"You're Nico..." my voice trailed off, trying to help myself process.

"I came up with the name Tyler as an identity outside of these walls ... a fresh start, I thought."

I shook my head in disbelief, but the bishop already knew what I feared.

"Everything I said at the Bandito camp was true," he blurted. "I never once tried to deceive anyone there. I want peace restored here just as much as you do."

His distressed expression suggested he actually cared about what I thought of him. He didn't expect to be witnessed in a role that visibly burdened him—revolted him. Yet now, with no choice but to face my judgement, his eyes were fearful, like a caged animal. They whispered just how alone he was here in Dema, and that he worried his only help would storm out in disgust.

"I see," I stated in a neutral tone, providing little relief to his concerns. "So this is why they haven't killed you yet." I felt like a fool for not realizing sooner.

"Seven failed perimeter escapes ... they could have turned me to ash after the first if I was anyone else in Dema. The last few times they smeared me—as both a warning and a reminder of who I'm supposed to be."

"And one of them hit you."

Tyler tilted his head, "You saw that?" He gently pressed on his upper lip, as if it was sore to the touch. It was then I noticed a small laceration by his mouth, hidden underneath the dark paint that lined the bottom-half of his face. "I didn't expect Keons to lash out like that ... but he meant well."

Keons. I shuddered.

Tyler's eyes shifted down to my neck, where the four black dots contrasted against my pale skin.

"Keons knows too," he continued. "He knows Vialism is overtaking us."

"Why do you and Josh talk about the law as if it's more than writings?"

"It's not just a law, it's ... a corruption ... a sickness. I was the first of the Bishops to be affected."

"Tell me everything you can ... please."

Tyler's brow furrowed, "Are you sure? If I do, they'll surely kill you."

I smirked at my own mortality. "I'm already a dead man walking," I replied. "I just need to know the truth—for once in my life."

He hesitated, "...Alright then." The tension in his shoulders relaxed as he moved toward a nook with two chairs and a wrought iron coffee table.

I took a few steps to meet him and instinctively kneeled. It was customary when a bishop graced you with knowledge beyond your position.

Tyler quickly shook his head, "No." He motioned to my right, "Please, take the chair."

We sat in a pair of creaky, old chairs perpendicular to each other as a subtle wind blew the sheer white curtains by the balcony. The cold breeze raised goosebumps on my skin.

"Nine bishops," he began. His voice was stronger than before, as if he assumed the role of a leader debriefing with a new recruit. He talked just like a bishop. "Nine balances: belief, creativity, solitude, self-love, relations, peace, motivation, identity, and health. I am the bishop of creativity."