"She always had that look about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world" –Joanne Harris
I wish I could say the war changed us completely. It didn't. We didn't shed our dauntlessness or our fears, and there was some good in that. Pieces of who we were always found themselves back into our lives. Mostly, I missed the innocence that we somewhat had at eighteen and sixteen before we lost time to politics and war. Before we gave up ourselves to the greater good.
She was always more selfless, although I sometimes think that was an effect of guilt. Being the one with the divergence drove her to sacrifice. Not me. I was more selfish, selfish to keep her, to keep myself, my pride. I would have easily walked away from it all if it hadn't been for her.
After the war, I thought I had lost her to bullet holes and hazy serums. Watching her body become frail in a hospital bed, I made her promise me, no more. No more sacrificing of herself. She promised, but I often wonder what would break that promise.
I sometimes catch her staring far away, her eyes lost to me. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I worry. Isn't the world we built after enough? We fought against post-traumatic stress, found peace outside of the city, and a place doing honest work. We hung up our weapons, stopped using our fists, and tucked our dauntlessness away to find some normalcy in a new world.
It did work. We held each other through nightmares, discussed the past until it could be no more, and tried to find ways to build new memories. I built her a house, we hung curtains over windows that we could see the sunrise from, she started a garden and used its products to cook us dinner. We basked in sunlight and rain, instead of the dreariness of caverns and pits.
Still, sometimes she'd walk along on the footpaths of an old Amity. She'd return with a relieved smile, help with dinner, and never speak of where she was or what she had thought about. But I could tell the past was clinging to her, lingering in the air around her.
I thought children would help. We both wanted them, and when we were in a secure place together, financially and mentally, we had a child. A son. He isn't our only one. We have another and a daughter. They did change her some, soften her, and remind her of the possibility of a future. I didn't catch her as much in her obscure, faraway states. These occurred less often. Sometimes she'd be washing dishes and her hands would freeze in the dishwater, her eyes trained on the field outside the window. I wonder if she remembered our trek beyond the now nonexistent fence or the crows in her fear simulation. She'd be woken from the trance by something the children did or even a small touch from me, always turning back around with a smile, as if nothing had ever occurred.
On those days, even our lovemaking changed. It wasn't tender, as two people who had known each other forever. Instead, she was urgent, rougher, almost clawing at me to get something out. Perhaps it was the Dauntless in her returning, needing the Dauntless in me.
On most days, we're fine, our family is functioning, and we love each other. But there are always those moments she cannot forget. I understand; I have them too. I'm just better at putting the past to the back of my mind. I don't think that look in her eyes will ever go away. She has seen too much of the world in such a short span, felt too much, gave too much to not wander in her thoughts faraway sometimes.
A/N: I do not own the Divergent Series. This is just a oneshot, but I am toying with the idea of turning it into more. For right now, I just needed some oneshots to help me while I reworked the next chapter of The Bodyguard. Thanks for reading, and reviews are always welcome. -B.