Hey all! It's been storming here of late for a few days, which gave me the idea for this story. Hope you like it :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything about Divergent.

Tempest

-Of Trust and Courage -

The sky is restless. The clouds rumble ominously and the dark, dark expanse is suddenly lit up like iridescent flames with a streak of lightning every now and then. Water pours down, endless, sometimes a drizzle, sometimes a downpour. The tempest rages on, ravishing the gray city.

He presses his forehead to the cool, damp glass of his window, a lone, small figure with his deep blue eyes fixed on the streetlights outside blurred by the curtain of water on the window pane. The unrest in nature seems to echo in his own being. He is only seven, and there are dry crystals of salt on his cheeks, dried from the tears which have stopped long ago. His door is shut, allowing a few hours of isolation and peace, if there are still those things in his life, but he thinks he can hear his mother sobbing in the room across. He beat her up again tonight, that tyrant, and although he couldn't see it happening, locked in that tiny stuffy closet where he was pushed in, he had heard enough. His fingernails scrape against the glass, making a high squeaky noise, drowned by the mighty roar of thunder. Is Mother Nature crying for his mother, he wonders childishly (as one might when one is only so young and faced with too much pain); is she unfurling her wrath because of what his father did? His thoughts are too deep for someone his age, but he doesn't know that; he just thinks it, and closes his eyes against the flash of lightning that streaks everything with brilliant white.

The door creaks open. He stumbles back, terrified that it might be his father catching him out of bed, but it's only his mother, shakily closing the door behind her.

"It's storming outside," she says, her voice scratchy from all the screaming and crying, and he can see her disheveled hair and tear-stained face even in the darkness. "Are you frightened?"

He looks her in the eye. "No," he says. "No, I am not afraid." And he isn't; the only thing he is afraid of is the man sleeping somewhere in this house.

She smiles, the gesture taking some of the years and the pain off her face, and sits on the bed.

"Aren't you a brave little man?" she says, her voice wobbly. "Come here. You should get some sleep."

And he does, crawling into her embrace which might be called selfish, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care for anything other than her soft voice singing to him, singing him to sleep, and her fingers running through his dark hair, a small comfort.

And he allows himself to let a few tears to fall, just for that moment. Just a few more tears, keeping those from the sky company. And before falling asleep, he tells himself that he'll stop this — stop the tears and the pain. He'll be brave someday, even though he isn't, yet.

-o0o-

The sky is so dark it's turned the shade of coal instead of the midnight blue which it usually is. The lightning flicks through like a dagger through the mass of clouds. The leaves chatter in the whistling wind. The streets are silent, everyone wrapped up against the fury of Nature.

The thunder is too loud, and the lightning too bright and sudden and crackling, and she is frightened. She is only five, and she shies away from the branches slapping against the window of her room and the quick flashes of lightning. Her body is curled up into a little ball, making her smaller than ever, but it doesn't help; it doesn't block out the sharp flashes and the loud crashes. Her heart stumbles with every roll of thunder, and she lets out a little scream when there is a particularly loud crack right outside the house. She has only just begun school, and she has heard the Amity girls talking about holding on to their teddy bears — Mr. Coddles and Mr. Muffin and other odd names they have for them — but she has never has had the luxury of having a soft toy, or many toys at all, because they make you self-indulgent. She wonders what it would have felt like, if it would make her fear less. But there is no way to know, so she just wraps her thin arms around herself, her big blue-gray eyes shut against the raging storm. She hates herself for being scared; she wishes she could be strong. She imagines that she is; she tells herself that she is.

But it doesn't work. The next clap of thunder, louder than the rest, startles her enough to cause her to tumble right off the edge of the bed to the floor with a squeal, and she gives up. With trembling lips and eyes watering, from what she does not know, she makes her way to Caleb's room. Her brother is only about ten months older, but he sleeps soundly through the storm. She wishes she was like him.

He wakes up under the ministrations of her prodding hand.

"Wazzit?" he slurs, his tone bleary and annoyed, but at her wet eyes, he softens.

"Oh Bea, is the storm frightening you?"

The answer leaps to her lips, but admission feels too much like a weakness, and pride flares up at the last moment in her little heart.

"N-no," she tries, sticking out her bottom lip stubbornly, "I'm — I'm not — I'm just —"

But he understands, and with a chuckle, shifts over, opening his arms to let her curl up against him.

"C'mere Sis," he mumbles, and she doesn't waste any time in leaping into his welcoming arms which curl around her, holding her in safety. The bed is narrow, but they are small, little figures of skin, bone and sparse muscle, and they fit all too well.

She wonders as she snuggles against him if this is selfish — they don't encourage many hugs in Abnegation after all, but she decides she doesn't care. And before falling asleep, she makes faces at the tempest rattling the windows from the crook of her brother's neck. And she tells herself that she will be brave. She isn't yet, but she's sure she'll learn how to, someday.

-o0o-

Someday, the same people they love and trust so much will leave them, but for now, they do not know that, and just let themselves be comforted by these persons they love best.

-Of Conflict and Rebellion-

The wind howls high and loud, knocking anything and everything in its way on the lonely streets. The window panes shudder and moan, and the old trees trunks groan, too aged to be put through this torture. The rain lashes out, a steady drumbeat again the ground and the rooftops, the thunder and lightning adding to the orchestra.

The window of his room is open, the sharp, cold spray of rainwater drizzling onto the floor, but he doesn't care. He is precariously perched on his window ledge, one hand grasping at the window pane to keep him from toppling to the ground a story below, the other stretched out, grasping at the falling drops.

The door to his room is closed, the chair pressed back against the knob to keep Marcus from barging in (he has forgotten when he stopped thinking of that man, that monster, as Dad, and started thinking of him by his name instead). The precious possessions of his, seemingly useless but close to his heart, are strewn on the floor from when he turned them over after today's ten lashings (it took almost an hour for all the wounds to close). It was a hard job climbing up here, with every inch of his back screaming with pain and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and his knuckles red from where he bit into them to keep himself from screaming in pain. He tries to block those thoughts away, block all thoughts completely, and watches the rain. It has been long since he stopped thinking of the rain as nature's lament for him — because then, it should rain every day – just as he has stopped dreaming of his mother's return and her loving touch. Those are dreams, as is freedom, as is happiness. Reality is the thunder crackling down, except that it always crackles on him, making him smaller and weaker and more afraid. He wonders if he will just waste away here, under his father's tyranny. He wonders if all these sixteen years were worth anything at all, when he has never had any choice.

But it will Choosing Day in two days — except there is no 'choosing' in it for him. He will never know his true aptitude, for Marcus has taught him the way to achieve a perfect Abnegation result, and he will have to cast his blood on those gray stones, his prison. Except, a small part of his brain tells him, he can escape, he can defy, he can choose. The pelting rain seems to agree, calling to him with its thunderous appeal. Where it had once been a lament, a condemnation, the storm today is rebellion, asking for his participation.

He wonders if he can be brave enough to join in.

-o0o-

The storm began early in the evening, and even past midnight, it shows no sign of stopping. The rain is incessant and relentless, slapping against the gray pavements. The birds and stray animals curl away in their havens, seeking refuge from the growl of the clouds and the strike of the cold water of the heavens.

The wind weaves through her hair, twisting loose strands out of the braid that she has tied it up in. She leans out of the window, or as much as her still short height allows her to without tumbling face first to a one floor drop. She has learnt to not be afraid of the storm any longer, just as she had promised herself all those years ago. She reaches both her hands out, testing the cool touch of the little drops that fall incessantly from the sky. The thunder and lightning still startle her, but not enough to send her scurrying for cover. She has left those years behind — she has left the little girl and her tears behind. She is fourteen already, and her life begins in two more years.

And yet as she squints at the dark silhouette of the distant trees swaying madly, and the branch of the cherry tree just beyond the window shaking its many-fingered fists at her, she wonders if she is ready to face that beginning, if she even knows who she is. Gray is all she has known in her life, in the simplicity and selflessness and the lowly background role that she plays, and yet, the lightning shows her iridescence, it shakes her out of the monotone of ash. She wonders why she cannot be the perfect Abnegation, the perfect daughter she has strived to become all these years. She asks herself why she does not feel the joy that she is supposed to in the act of giving, why Caleb has to remind her to give up her jump rope to a fellow girl. She demands of the storm, and of her own soul, why she hates the disdain and the bullying that the other faction kids subject her too, why she can't just keep her head low and let it all slide. Why she stares at the Dauntless kids so much and envy their games and reckless abandon. Why the ridiculous act of jumping off a running train finds its charms for her. Why the piercing loud horn of the train calls out to her very soul. Why she, a girl from Abnegation, is selfish.

She knows where her destiny lies, for any other decision will amount to abandoning and betraying her faction and family. Yet, in this moment of deep thought, she can't help feel that it is all wrong, that there is somewhere else she belongs. It is a scary thought, a rebellious one, and she doesn't let herself dwell on it for long. But she stays a large part of the night hanging by the window, watching and listening to the storm rampaging across the city, and somehow, nature's unrest seems to echo in her own heart, and the wind and water and the flashes of lightning seem to call out to her in a song of rebellion, asking her to dare.

Above the wind's howl, she fancies that she hears the distant whistle of the late night train.

-o0o-

And rebellion does come to their heart, forcing them to dare, sooner or later. Sooner for him, later for her.

-Of Longing and Belonging-

Crash! Somewhere close by, something metal crumbles, probably a dustbin usurped by the wind's knock. The storm has a free reign here in this abandoned part of the city, and the rainwater collects in puddles in the cracks and crevices on the old road. The earth is soaked, emitting a sweet, musty smell of dust mixing with water. Lightning dances on the rooftops of the tall, empty buildings.

He sits on the pavement, his legs stretched out in front, unprotected from the elements that ravage the evening. Below and beyond, the Pit is bright with light and cheer and laughter, but he doesn't see himself as a part of it. He feels detached, adrift in a sea of loneliness washed by the rain soaking his jacket and his shirt and jeans, all a purest, perfect black. The people below, they have welcomed him with open arms ever since he showed them what he was worth, and yet he himself has never felt worthy of that trust, of that homeliness that is Dauntless. Two years. It has been two years since he ran, and now sixteen has changed to eighteen, and still he feels out of his depth. He doesn't feel scared anymore, no, he traded everything else for escape and found courage in this faction of the brave. But he doesn't feel 'home' either. He wonders where that is; if there will ever be a place like that for him.

His act of choosing was escape; it was cowardice, not bravery. And that makes him undeserving of this honor — of being called Dauntless. He knows the looks he will get if the truth comes out, and the words he will hear, so he hides himself, starts afresh with a new name, a new everything. Except his ghosts chase him right on.

He thinks of how he hates the thoughtless courage and brutality and recklessness and cruelty that has come to define Dauntless. It has changed from the noble faction it was, shifted from its faction manifesto, and every day of staying here pushes him further away. The image of dark, curling hair and the same hooked nose as his come to his mind, and he thinks yet again of the plans that have been in his head for so long — of leaving, of becoming factionless. Because he is an anomaly, because the faction system is a mistake, because even after all these years, the child in him wants his mother.

It's Choosing Day in two days. He will have the responsibility of new initiates, who will be just like him when he came here, lost, confused. But he knows he will leave, as the rain drips down his face like endless tears, just not when. His jaw clenches. If he must leave, why not do it already? Why bother with shouldering more responsibility? He looks down at the note clutched in his hand —

Evelyn,

I have decided to take you up on your offer. Hope you are happy. When can we meet?

— T

With a sigh, he offers the piece of paper to the rain, watching as the ink washes away with the water and the parchment becomes soggy. Another note, destroyed. Another decision withdrawn. Why can't he just do it? Why can't he just go?

Just not yet, he tells himself. He'll leave. After this year's initiation. For sure.

The rain falls and falls, and the storm screams and cries, and sitting alone, isolated, he does not know what it stands for this time. Maybe just a consolation. Or pity. Or indecision. But either way, it sets him adrift in solitude, just like he was forever.

-o0o-

Across the street, a big branch of the oak tree falls with a crash. The street is a shallow river, the rainwater running and running on and on. The houses flash dark every now and then as the sky bursts into blinding white flames, momentarily.

Her feet splash in the little puddle that has collected before her as she sits at her doorstep. The storm this evening is just as violent as all those she has seen before, but her attraction towards the wild weather seems to be growing. Her parents are out to visit a colleague, and given how the sky has opened up, they won't be back until late. Caleb has locked himself in his room doing who knows what, so she is alone and free to indulge herself in this moment of solitude. The street, lined by houses on both sides, is deserted. Her legs are wet, her hair is wet, her dress is wet. She'll need to change it before dinnertime. But for the moment, she just stretches her legs out, grabbing at the little drops splashing down.

It's Choosing Day in two says. Sixteen. Sometime, someday this year, she turned sixteen. The aptitude tests are tomorrow. They will tell her where she belongs. Her heart thuds with trepidation and expectation. It seems as if the world is opening up to her in a whole new way; she will find her place there. Will she betray her faction, or will she stay? What does her destiny hold for her?

She worries about the results of the tests. What of all those feelings – the feeling of not belonging, the feeling of deep set selfishness, the feeling of being different – will they show in the tests? What will they tell her? But it does not matter, she convinces herself. It does not matter what the tests say, because the tests do not have to change her choices. She can all too easily see her future here, set in stone, or so it seems – becoming an adult in Abnegation, staying at home and working with Mom, Dad and Caleb, going to charities and helping the factionless, marrying Robert and smiling while talking to Susan – a simple, easy, safe life. It makes her nauseous.

Forget it, she tells herself. There is no way she will desert her family. She needs to stay here. But she cannot ignore the leaden weight in her stomach, and nothing she tries makes it go away. For once, she does not understand what the storm means to say – it is not a bully anymore, nor is it a call for rebellion. Maybe it is just waiting for her to make her own decision.

Abnegation. That's where she'll stay. Then why does she feel like crying?

She thinks of the rebellious thoughts which have circled her mind before, and how the rain seems to have egged them on. But she does not know what to do, so she stands up and walks out into the street, letting herself get wet more fully, trying to rid herself of thoughts and soak in some peace from the violent tempest.

-o0o-

But neither of them follows the decisions they had made, and… the rest is history.

-Of Love and Togetherness-

They bump into each other at the entrance of the Dauntless building.

She knows that she should head to bed already; she was already out for over half an hour with him (and her heart is still singing from the memory of his touch and his kisses, even though this was more of a revelation than a date), and she needs to be well rested and prepared for the Initiation and the final test into Dauntless tomorrow. But the noisy advance of the rain and storm could be heard even from the hallways below, and old habits die hard, so she heads right back, just for a few minutes, just for old time's sake.

He has no idea why he came up to watch the storm, really. The day has been eventful enough, and he formally attained a girlfriend, or more importantly, he attained the only girl he has ever liked in his life (and it almost terrifies him how much he likes her, because he has never really known what it is to like and be liked, that way). The day was tempestuous in every sense, with the two of them clashing, misunderstanding, and finally making up. And only an hour ago, he took her with him, sharing with her his fears and suspicions. And now they stand in a precarious position, fearful of what tomorrow will bring. So when Nature decided to come up with a display of her own, he thought that he might just be a part once more, just for old time's sake.

Peals of thunder shake the abandoned buildings around them.

He stares at her, and she stares at him, the shock and wariness on their faces only just melting away. Neither had expected to see the other here. Slowly, a smile creeps up on each face as midnight blue stays locked on stormy blue-gray. The slanting lashing of rain lands on their clothes, wetting them both.

She is the first one to break the silence. "Don't you mind getting wet?" she asks.

He grins. "I've missed this."

Incredulous laughter spills out from her, and he can't help think how beautiful the sound is.

"Me too!" she replies, excited at this similarity between them. He joins in with her laughter, feeling unexpectedly light and impossibly happy. Things were never like this before her.

Her cheeks are warm again the cold splashes of rain, but he won't be able to see her blush in the dark. She is glad. It terrifies her sometimes how much he affects her. Shyly, she extends her hand to him, and he takes it with a big smile. And wordlessly, they step into the rain, together.

The wind is fast, and it plays with her hair, lifting it in a wild hurricane of gold. He stares at the sight, amazed at the wild beauty — every inch of her small figure seems to be crackling with energy.

She stares, awestruck, as the sudden flashes of lightning render his dark blue eyes an exotic, lighter shade. He looks tall, strong and powerful, the very embodiment of the roaring storm, and yet carrying a cloak of tranquility which will be left behind after the tempest.

He runs his fingers over her arm, the touch slippery with the wetness of their skins, and she shivers, which has nothing to do with the cold water soaking her through. She blinks the water out of her eyes, squinting at him, and meets his intense gaze which never once leaves her face. They don't speak, but in his silence he makes her feel different in a way words never can; he makes her feel wanted, he makes her feel special. And she just can't stop herself from leaning up further and further, and his face, too, seems to be inching towards her, until the distance between them is so less she can feel his warm breath against her cold, dripping wet skin —

A loud clap of thunder makes them jump apart.

They stare at each other for a moment, bewildered, and then they laugh, heartily, together. And he kisses her soundly and with abandon, in a way that thrills her and scares her equally, especially as she finds herself responding to him with equal ardor. But with the wetness on their joined lips, both warm and cool, and his warm, calloused hand splayed against the small of her back, she decides she doesn't care. They break away, breathless, with her tracing the raindrops on his face with tentative fingers. With a low, deep rumble, the sky sends its approval.

They are at a loss of what to do again, standing together in the weather which makes them shiver and yet enveloped in the warmth of their hands wrapped around each other. He can't take his eyes off her, and as he lifts his fingers to slowly push back a lock of wet hair falling into her eyes, he wonders how he never noticed sooner just how beautiful she is. His eyes follow her body downwards, admiring how her thin black top clings to every patch of skin, enhancing her subtle curves and sharp edges, and how the raindrops glimmer on the raven tattoos on her collarbone. She is incredible, and he feels lucky to have her look at him, and only him, in the secret, special way she does. She makes him feel whole, desirable.

She looks up at the dark, dark sky, and as the rain pelts straight into her face, she feels an unreasonable happiness. Unable to control herself, she laughs and does a little twirl in his arms.

He looks at her with an amused smile.

"What?" she asks laughingly.

"You seem happy, is all," he notes. And it makes me happy too.

"I am." She grins.

"Dance with me," he says suddenly, and immediately berates himself for thoughtlessly letting the words out.

Her eyes widen. "I thought you didn't dance," she whispers. "You never seemed the dancing type."

"I didn't, and I don't," he says awkwardly, his face hot. "But I just— I think — I'll try today."

"First time for everything," she agrees with a smile. "We'll probably end up with our butts on the ground."

But they dance anyway, not so much of elegant moves as swinging slowly, without music, in each other's arms. They are both awkward, and mumbled curses intersperse the wind's whistle as someone steps on the other's toes, but in the end, they stop, chuckling, and kiss again. Both feel different, a stranger from what they had known themselves to be.

He had never thought he'd dance. Heck, he never would have, if it weren't for her. And he had never thought he'd care for someone so deeply, so much so that he can feel something fundamental in him shifting, changing. Mending.

She had never thought someone would have her dance with them, and she's sure no one would have, except him. And she had never thought she'd be cared for like this, even though she still can't find what it is that he sees in her. With him, she feels like she is both taking and giving, selfish and selfless at the same time, and it all feels so good. He puts her inner conflict to rest; he soothes the storm in her.

"I have been out in storms before," he says. "Getting wet in the rain."

"Yeah," she agrees, "Me too."

They look down and away, both introspecting.

"But... I have never felt so happy," they conclude at the same time, their voices a soft murmur, and start at the coincidence.

He smiles at her, draping his arm over her.

"We'd better get to bed," he suggests gently. She nods in agreement. They have a challenging day ahead, and unnamed adventures in the future. They walk to the entrance, the warm air of the underground quarters tickling their wet bodies.

"Change into something warm," he tells her. "You wouldn't want to catch a cold."

"Yes sir," she laughs. "You too."

He could have told her what the storms have meant to him before — one a lament, one a call for rebellion, one a voice of his conflict and detachment, and so many other things. She could have told him how storms have been to her in the past — a bully, a truant, an audience awaiting her decisions. But they don't. They decide to stay in the present, soaking in the feelings that today's tempest brought them.

"Next time there's a storm, we'll go out," he says.

"It's a date," she replied, grinning. And they part to head their own way.

Outside, the storm rages through the night, toasting the union of these tentative lovers, calling out for more meetings like this, and the rain pitter-patters through the night, celebrating its own meeting with the earth.