Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Divergent. WARNING: BEWARE OF THE EPIC FLUFF.
* Tobias's point of view *
He acts like I expected him to. To not do more than say a few words in public; it's behind closed doors when he lands a cut against my jaw, making my head ache and my legs give out. I cup a hand to my cheek. The only comfort I can get is from myself, and even that is futile. My hand will soon suffer as well.
"What were you doing, Tobias?" It would be easier if he yelled. But his voice is a snake's, hissing and deadly. No neighbors can hear his hisses, but they terrorize my nightmares at night. "Going to the Dauntless? Jumping on their trains? Tell me, boy! Stand—up!"
To only knock me down again. I have to do this twice before he gives me time to speak. Bruises form and my voice is hoarse. "I am sorry."
"You lie to me, Tobias. You look me straight in the eye and you lie. What kind of a man does that? What kind of a man are you?" His arms are stronger than they appear when they're under layers of grey, coarse fabric. They launch me against the ground, and are followed by a series of kicks. His initial rage. But then his manipulation comes out as he squats next to me, pushing blood off of my nose. "The number of rules you've broken. The things I have asked of you you can barely obey. So many rules, Tobias. And you can say nothing to defend yourself. You have no good answer to justify what you did. You ran away from your work, left the territory of your faction, jumped onto a Dauntless train, and then publicly humiliated me in the meeting house. My coworkers and much of the Abnegation have seen what you've done. The disgrace on the family name, Tobias. All of this proves my point to lock you away before you can do worse. But then you took Beatrice with you. A sweet girl. Someone I thought would make a good wife for you. But you are intent on dragging her into the mud with you, aren't you, Tobias? Ruin us and ruin her as well. What kind of a man does that make you, Tobias?"
The name. My name. Every time he says that, he wins. Because I wince. Because the pain is being applied to me everywhere, not just where his hand touches. His words lace through my mind, wrapping around me and tightening, crushing me. I have nothing left to say. No words. I have only pain from my injuries to suffer through now. Maybe he will kick my head and I'll pass out. That is all I can hope for.
No. He stands up and the belt comes out. It's a familiar sight that sends chills down my spine and causes sweat to collect in my palms and hard breathing to fill me. He knows what that does to me, and he says nothing. Nothing in comfort to my obvious agony. No. Nothing but, "You have to deal with the consequences of your sin, Tobias."
The next morning I check my body before I go into the shower. Considering it took ten minutes just to drag my sore body out of my disheveled bed and make it up before Marcus came in and saw the job undone, the results are bad. Purple and red and green and sickish yellow spot my skin. Every move of my head causes shooting pain to rip through me. The cold water soothes but stings, numbs but makes me shiver and try to grip the shower walls. My attempt is futile.
Marcus sits at his desk, going over files, his eyes peering through his glasses thoughtfully, as if this is all normal. As if his son stumbling down the stairs because a false move will cause him to trip down the stairs and make all of his careful movement for naught is normal.
I make breakfast and refuse any of it. All I want is a cup of coffee, like I've seen the Erudite teachers have at school, but that is considered self-indulgent. I have tea instead. At least that is considered medicinal. Considering how we haven't a lot of medicines in the house, this and rest is all I have. Everything else has to be soothed by time. Even ice is self-indulgent.
Marcus eats his toast while reading his newspaper. I stare at my cup and stir its contents on occasion, watching the tea leaves settle before disrupting them into a hurricane again. I am the master of the tea leaves and whether they rest or not. An inane, even childish, rule, but the only one I can have. So I welcome it.
"What are your thoughts on Beatrice Prior?" Marcus asks me suddenly.
I drop my spoon. He scolds as I bend to pick it up from our perfectly clean floor. My attempts at stalling are commented on. Everything I try is ruined. But my mouth has gone dry. The time has come. The time when Marcus sees what my feelings are and exploits them to keep me on a tighter leash. The time when he uses Beatrice to his advantage.
It's the strangest of things with Beatrice. Love in Abnegation is a careful thing. Much of love is doing things for others, thinking of others and their needs before your own. But everyone here does that for everyone else. How can a love be for one single person if it could be given to a perfect stranger in the streets, such as helping them carry their groceries home?
What example of love do I have to draw on to see if my sentiments, my actions, are those of love rather than duty? None from my father, the one who watches my reaction as I settle back in my seat, like how a hawk watches its prey. Only remnants from my mother, who I can barely remember. Only a touch here, a gentle voice there. Trembling in every moment I can recall, though. I have no relatives I know of other than them. Marcus never told me of any others who might have even transferred to other factions. Marcus and Evelyn, my mother, are the only two people I have ever truly known. One haunts me, and the other kills me slowly.
I have a healthy fear of God, but not any love. The meetings at the church make Him a more holy figure than a kind one to the lowly.
Love is selfless, I decide. Love is also selfish. Beatrice held my hand and didn't let go. She knew it was wrong. She knew running away was wrong. But why would I break the rules to join her? Surely not for the punishment that I knew would follow. No. I joined breaking the rules with her because of her. Because . . . it made her happy. That was selfless. I was selfish in breaking the rules and feeling free, but I also did it for her. Is that what can be called love in Abnegation? Breaking the rules and being selfish together?
"She is . . . a good worker" are the words I say.
"That is all?" Marcus asks, his tone sharp.
"She shows many good qualities and traits," I say. There are many things I know but don't say. Like how the strange angles of her face are captivating. How her face tightens when she's angry, how her anger makes me feel alive. How her hand in mine, her trust in me, sends my heart palpitating like nothing I have ever felt. How a single touch from her makes me wince, not out of pain, but of surprise. That the touch didn't hurt. No. Just soft, not harsh.
I tighten my aching jaw. No. I won't tell him. I can't. Letting him have information gives him too much power. I withhold. Won't let him beat it out of me. Because of all the things he has touched, has left his influence on, in my life, this won't be one of them. I won't let him touch this, blemish it, when it is fantastical and beautiful and soft.
"Would you say she is a true Abnegation member?" Marcus asks.
He's trying to find a hitch in my voice. He treads carefully.
I keep my eyes down. "Yes, sir."
He leans back in his chair. Not to relax. Oh no. I know this interrogation isn't over until he wants it to be. "Do you think she would make you a good wife?" is his next question.
"Yes, sir," I say, my voice barely audible.
"Speak up, Tobias," he barks.
"Yes, sir," I say, sitting up straight. My head down.
"Do you like her, Tobias?" Marcus asks.
My name is a punch to the gut.
"Answer me, Tobias!"
"Yes, sir," I say sullenly.
"Good," Marcus says. He eats his remaining toast and stands up. Holding his folded newspaper, he says, "Then I will have to speak to her parents."
I remain seated as he goes to leave the room. Then he says, "Are you going to the warehouses today?"
"Yes, sir," I say.
"Do you like being there?"
I say the only thing he wants to hear. "Yes, sir." My complacency.
"Would you rather be put into a different position, such as being a manager at the old folks' home?"
I shake my head. Then I realize what he is doing.
"Why is that, Tobias?"
Saying I like my job means I sound content. Being content is synonymous with being selfish. I don't even like my job, though, however repetitive and easy it is. The only reasons I stay in the warehouses is for the spare, rare moments of flying yellow hair, of swift, tiny hands ripping up paper, of a strong voice not punishing me for every disagreeing word that leaves my mouth.
"I am good at my job. I don't want to ruin anything I could do at the home," I say.
Marcus considers this. "Don't be late, then, Tobias."
My legs scream at the thought of walking to the warehouses. My head aches as I nod.
He leaves for work and I can breathe. Pushing myself up, I toss my tea into the sink and plant my hands against the sink's ledge. Swallow harshly. My mind moves rapidly. Thinks of how he can use anything I say against me. But how could he, when I mostly said the only thing he wanted to hear: "Yes, sir."
* Tris's point of view *
Any color stands out in Abnegation. My hair is a marker of brightness in repetition. So is the purple mark against Tobias's jaw. I can't help my own jaw dropping in shock when I see it. But then he turns his face to me, and I shut my mouth and look away. Staring is not like the Abnegation. Must be like the Abnegation. I must. I have to. I have to.
"Beatrice," he says.
I shake my head, despite my best efforts. "Don't call me that. Please."
His voice cracks. It's huskier, crackly. Curious. "Why?"
"It doesn't sound right," I say. Beatrice is the good Abnegation girl who follows all the rules and replicates her parents. But around him, I am not her. I tell him things I don't dare tell anyone else for fear that their selfless fear of my traitorous words will have them turning me to my parents for a talking-to. For good discipline courtesy of words that hit hard.
"Do you want me to call you something else?" he asks.
I stop ripping tape for a moment. "Something Else is worse than Beatrice."
The laugh he has is unmistakable. So rarely heard, it's strange to hear from him, from anyone in Abnegation at all. "Fine. Choose your name. You can pick something better."
A new name? Unheard of. I bite my lip as I think. Take down letters from my name and rearrange them to form something better. "Tris," I finally say.
"Fine, Tris," he says.
"And you?" I ask.
"What about me?" he asks.
"Do you want a new name?"
He shakes his head. "No. I . . . I like how you say my name." He reaches over and helps me tear off the tape. Then his words spill, hot and fast, into my ear, causing me to freeze from surprise. "Marcus wants us to get married. He wants you to be a good Abnegation and make sure I adhere to the same rules. He wants us to be the quietest couple ever to live here. He wants us, despite my reputation, to not cause any words or implications. He wants us to be bricks in a wall, not out of place. Believe me when I say that it is the only way we can be together. At all. He wants to move me out of this building and away from you if I am seen with you and you break rules, or I break rules with you."
My mind whirls and I can only grasp and pull out one thought from the mess of my spinning thoughts: Marcus always has one hand on Tobias's shoulder. His grip is what he and only he can control.
"Tobias, what do you mean?" I ask. The tape is all gone from the box. No one is around us. I touch his face and cause his words to instantly stop. His eyes clear. He is in shock. "What are you talking about?"
"I can't tell you," he says.
"Why not?"
"Too much explaining to do. It's a long story that I can't give you. Not now. Please, Tris, just . . . just be complacent. Conform. It's all we can do. Please." His voice is a desperate plea. His dark blue eyes are pleading. Something in his face makes my frustration at him ebb away. Because all I see are cracks in armor.
"I can't live like that," I say.
"We'll find some solution. But please. For the moment. Until we come up with something. Until . . ." his words are gone. But he has an answer. He has something to say, something he wants to say desperately. Some invisible force is holding it back from me.
"Until what?" I ask. My fingers are softer on his skin. I amaze myself as they seem to detach from my thoughts and move on their own knowing accord. "Until when, Tobias?"
"I can tell you if I marry you," he says. Then he turns away and rips open another box, leaving me to only stare at him in shock. No. Not in complete shock. Marriage is all along what my parents have planned for me to have with him. And the thought of having him as mine . . . it is not a bad one. But to hear it from him, when before it hasn't been talked about between the two of us, is strange. Bewildering. And what secret is this? To only be given to me when I am that trusted? We are not the Candor. Abnegation keep secrets; though it is not wanted, it is not condoned.
Suddenly I find myself burning with Erudite curiosity, Candor truth-wanting, and Abnegation compassion. I say nothing.
Conforming is what I've been trying to will myself to do anyway. But to see those ghosts in his eyes, to see the blatant need of my doing so, seals it. I turn to do my job. Silence falls around us. No selfish, secrecy-laced talk between us. But no selfless conversation inquiring politely how the other is, either. No conversation at all. A compromise.
A compromise is all I can scrape together when I can see the purple seared against his jaw.
The rules of being selfless number too many to write down. It is felt, then, what is selfless and what isn't. What can get you reprimanded and what can get you commended. One of them is gossiping. It is frowned upon. So the Abnegation don't do it. Sometimes I heard it across the school cafeteria from the Erudite. The mocking, teasing tones of jest talk being exchanged by the Dauntless tables. The discussion, the balance of scales, of sides, from the Candor. The absolute peace of the Amity. But nothing from the Abnegation. Indulgent, hurting talk is not tolerated.
Even so, with all our laws, I feel the burn of eyes digging into my neck. See the out-of-corner stares from eyes of passing neighbors. The disappointment on the faces of people who have known me my entire life. The pitying smile from Susan. She doesn't accept my behavior, but her nature is forgiving. But she knows. She knows that I ran with the rebellious Tobias Eaton. His reputation must somehow be attached to me now. Association is a strong thing.
Tobias Eaton is a powerful name. Being attached to either him or his father changes your name. It gives it a good recommendation. Or condemnation.
I hate it. I don't say anything but walk by. But the cold doesn't sting as much as this. And I know I was not noticeable beforehand. Not with my short height, my pale, small body. My plain face. But the attention now is unwanted. Judgement against something I did rather than what I look like. I can control my features a little. What I do even more. When their judgment is against something I had control over, it hurts. It aches. It burns. I realize that conforming to their pity stares and their unlost glances is not what I want.
Tobias and I are not allowed out of anyone's sight. The brief moment of exchange in the warehouse was the last of many. The rest of the time the population has their eyes on us. No words. No. No gossip. Only worse. Opinions. Unspoken ones. Ones that cannot be changed.
I cannot change them. So I will not have to make them happy anymore. I can fly. But only the promise to Tobias keeps me tethered to the ground.
But as the months pass, after moments of grinding teeth and pinching my hands under the table to choke down words, as the weather dissipates to sludge, I can't keep it down anymore. Somehow we're still allowed to walk to and from the warehouses together. That hasn't been taken away from us when it could have easily been for such breaking of rules. I am grateful for it. I have gotten used to barely moving my lips as we pass waving, polite hands lining the front yards of our neighborhood.
"Tobias," I say. "I can't do this."
"Walk in this snow, Tris?" Tobias says, raising his soaked shoes for emphasis.
"Live like this." I stop, making him stop and notice me. "Abnegation . . . hurts." To be contained like this makes me die slowly inside. For my first sixteen years it was easier. People allowed me to make mistakes. I was growing up. But after becoming a real member of Abnegation, after swearing my allegiance to this faction, the pressure mounted on my shoulders. It burdened me then and burdens me now. Especially when I think about today.
It's my birthday, and I can't help but remember spending many of my previous birthdays talking with Caleb. The thought of him being Erudite makes me sick because of my own choice. Because I wanted to join Dauntless and didn't because I lied to myself and said I could do this. Not because of his abandonment of our family, but because I was ready to do that myself.
"Of course it hurts. It's not forgiving. You keep everything back so you suffer by yourself," he says. "Drop your glove."
Justification of our stopping in the middle of the street. It falls to the ground in a ragged bunch.
"I need to escape," I say, as he bends to retrieve my glove.
"That's all on your mind, isn't it?" he says.
"Why? Isn't it on yours?" I ask.
He sighs as he straightens. Holds out my glove and tugs it onto my hand. "Always. But our one chance is gone. The Choosing Ceremony has long since passed. That was the only chance we had. Now . . . we have to settle down, or become factionless."
Factionless. A word that sends most people trembling. To see the factionless clean the streets, drive the buses, wash the rooms, it's a dismal thing. Almost like we are higher in rank than them even as the selfless. But we all know one thing. Factionless is the one thing you do not want to become. At least in factions we have community. People to count on, even if we don't know them personally.
But my eyes have been turning more to paying attention to those who wander our streets and sleep in our abandoned buildings. How they come and go as they please. Even without family or a clean house or a place to call home, they manage to survive. Do they survive because it is all they can do, or do they survive because it is their way of living?
I could never become factionless. I won't let myself. No matter what enchanting dreams of walking around freely with no rules to tie my feet to the ground I have, it is the lowest of the low. And the thought of abandoning my parents after all they have done for me, after all the sacrifices and all the touches and reprimanding, and especially now, when Caleb is gone, gone forever, keeps me here.
Tobias's hand is still pulling on mine. My head snaps up and he says nonchalantly, loud enough for passersby to hear, "It won't fit."
"Let me help you," I say. It is already on.
"I have an idea," he says.
"What kind of an idea?" My expectations are low. There is only so much we can do. Marcus nor my parents have brought up our impending marriage again. In Abnegation, the parents are the main communicators in this game. The boy is talked to by his parents and the girl by her parents. The boy talks to both pairs of parents while the girl waits silently. A verdict is reached, heads are bowed in respect, and usually a date is set.
"How do you feel about leaving your house late at night, with no one knowing you're leaving, Tris?" Tobias asks. His face is expectant. "Can you do that?"
He knows I can. I nod. "Why, Tobias?"
"We can run away. Not leave, but run. It was great the last time. It only ended because we were caught. The only way to not get caught is to do it when no one can see us. And who can see us in the dark?" An eyebrow raises on his face. He gives my glove a final tug and turns and walks, making me force my legs to move along with him.
The amount of thought he has probably given this plan. The amount of hours he has to himself. It . . . reminds me of the Erudite. I shake my head and look ahead, towards the sludge-covered ground. One of my main problems since officially becoming a member of Abnegation has been forcing myself into one concrete box, one faction. My thoughts sort my actions into five categories, five factions, and my disappointment against myself grows when they don't fit into a grey colored box. I know now, and have always known, that just because I grew up and chose Abnegation doesn't mean I fit in here. I can try for years and years, the rest of my life, and never fit in. Never belong. So I need to free myself from the thought of ever truly being an Abnegation member. I need to stop sorting everything in factions. I need to stop thinking about factions.
Tobias's plan is his own. And it is simple. It is brilliant. I want it.
"What time?" I ask at the door. I can see my mother rolling out bread behind a window pane. My tone keeps quiet.
Lights go out at ten in Abnegation. It is an enforced curfew. No guards checking our homes, but another rule we're expected to follow. They trust us to follow it.
"Ten after ten?" he asks.
"That will work," I say.
His hand in mine is a slip, a touch, a slight squeeze. Then he walks down my porch steps without so much as a goodbye. But I don't need a goodbye from him. I am going to see him soon enough.
The houses in my neighborhood don't have good ventilation systems. The rail along the stairs is cold under my fingertips as I step lightly down the stairs. No creaks. I am as silent as a mouse as I drag on my boots. The snow is barely more than mud now. The weather has warmed some. Spring has shown its signs of coming. It is a comforting thought, to have spring as usual. The trees and flowers we see growing along the neutral buildings used by all the factions are much of the only beauty we get to see.
The door opens and I see dark night, a pale moon, and pinpricks of stars. Wrapping my arms around myself, I stand on the sidewalk and watch as the door to the Eatons' creaks open. Something about Tobias's figure as he checks the inside of the house before easing the door shut reminds me of a criminal stealing out into the night.
"You came," he says when he joins me.
I nod. I am not one to go back on my word. But seeing as I had to think it over to see if it was smart beforehand is probably a good reason for him to fear my backing out. After all, hadn't he told me before to not do this? To not break out?
But we both know we cannot do that. We cannot wear this mask all the times.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Wherever you want to," he says, smiling a little. He looks around, "Anywhere but here."
That is something we can both agree on. I grasp his hand and we walk. We're taught from a young age that touching is a powerful thing. This hand holding has been ours from the beginning. It still instills chills in me. A boy holding my hand. A scary thought.
It's a good scary, though.
"I don't want to go to Erudite," I say.
"Because of Caleb," Tobias says.
"Candor doesn't a lot to offer," I say. "And the Dauntless are guards. They have to be traveling around in shifts in their compound."
"Amity, then," Tobias says.
"What do you think of Amity?" I ask. "My friend Robert transferred there."
"They think more of peace than helping others," Tobias says.
"Does that make us a better faction than them?" I ask.
His lips purse. "None of our virtues makes one particular faction better than another. Each virtue has its own pros and cons."
"What are the pros of living here, though?" I ask.
"You can answer that question. You know the answer. Or you wouldn't have stayed," Tobias says.
That makes me frown as our feet stray off the grey sidewalk and onto a street that passes some factionless buildings. Cracks and potholes dot the road. I avoid these and hope, suddenly realizing where we are, that we don't encounter any factionless.
"Like I told you before. It's safe here," I say.
"That is all you like here?" Tobias asks.
"I like being with my parents. Familiarity instead of choosing something I don't know," I say.
"You sacrificed freedom for comfort," Tobias says.
I frown. "I chose what I did because I had to. It wasn't a sacrifice."
"If it had its cost on you, it was a sacrifice," Tobias says.
"I had to do it. That's all," I say, shaking my head and picking up my pace.
"Why? For your parents? Did you know that your brother was going to leave them?" Tobias asks.
"Why do you have so many questions?" I ask.
"I'm curious," he says.
"A dangerous thing to say around here," I say.
"We're not in Abnegation anymore. We're on factionless ground. It's the only place anyone can exhibit any other traits than the ones of their factions," he says. He spreads his arms out in emphasis.
"Just because we're in neutral territory doesn't mean you can just say anything," I say, folding my arms over my chest. But I can't help the smile on my face. He is challenging me; our tones aren't serious, though the subject matter is. Our conversation now could be used against us and land us here permanently if anyone knew.
"Yes, I can," he says, sounding the most giddy, the most free, I've ever heard him.
"No. You can't. You'll wake up the factionless," I say.
His eyes are captivating. They shouldn't be. But they are. "What can they do, Tris? Complain about us to our parents? Get us kicked out of Abnegation? That's virtually impossible. All they can do is run us out of their grounds, cursing our names."
I hesitate. "You mean I could say anything, anything at all, and nothing could be done about it by them?"
"How can they do anything about it?" His tone is inviting. But serious. "Have any selfish secrets, Tris?"
My sudden silence must have prompted him. His hands drop.
I squirm uncomfortably under his gaze. The pros and cons, like he said. Tori said to not tell anyone, though my parents have probably derived as much. What have I to lose by telling him?
The factionless could be what Tobias doesn't think them to be. They could be informative. They could be deadly.
Tobias has his secret that he doesn't trust in my hands until we are married. Until then, nothing. Why should I tell him any secrets of mine if he doesn't even trust me enough to tell me his?
I shake my head. "None worth telling."
"There is one, then, Tris," he says.
"I'm not telling you," I say.
"You don't trust me," he says, his voice almost hollow.
"You don't trust me," I say in defense.
"Fine," he says. For a moment I think he is going to tell me his secret, but he just says, "We are going to pass through Dauntless territory to get to Amity."
"Have you ever been there at all?" I ask. "Sometimes my father goes to talk to the guards at the fence. Nothing more, though."
"No. I have lived here my entire life and never have I gone into the Dauntless territory. Never," he says. He holds out his hand. I grasp it in a death-grip.
The Dauntless are a very dark group. Always covered in black and dark colors, with pierced ears and noses and navels and dyed hair, their personal adornments reflect their living spaces. I see a large hole by a glass floor in the concrete ground. The train runs past it. Across the walls of the surrounding buildings are splatters of paints, scraped masterpieces of chalk and harsh paint. The work of youths marking their territory like dogs.
No lights are on. But that doesn't mean that Dauntless couldn't find us if they had need to. We're as quiet as mice in a cat's lands as we walk through Dauntless. Despite the darkness, I am worried about us getting caught. But my legs take the pace they want; the air smells sweet despite the smoke from cigarettes; I feel a laugh bubbling in my chest.
"Why are you laughing, Tris?" His voice is . . . soft.
"I'm happy," I say. Then the grin won't go away. It even coaxes a smile out of him.
Out of Dauntless and into Amity's green fields. The fence slices them in half, but I barely notice. Around me around fields with a dirt road along the fence. I won't go that far. Around here are tall trees reaching for the sky and tiny rocks.
It starts as swampland and weeds, getting mud on our shoes. It won't matter, though, because of the sludge we will walk through. They'll be cleaned before we get home. Any evidence will be destroyed. Then I see a spring flower pop up. A wild yellow one. Then dandelions, like the ones I had seen in my school textbooks. They flutter, broken, into the air, when I touch them. I stop and pick them and then let them crumble in the wind. The moon lights everything, making all pale and light grey and blue instead of pitch black.
"It's beautiful here," I say.
"You can't say that. That is illegal," Tobias says seriously.
I give him a funny look and then break from him, running and letting my skirts get caught and then snap as they're pulled by the weeds. But I keep running. My arms stretch out and I spin. My skirts loop around me, then settle down. I close my eyes and inhale deep breaths. I am silent, still, between earth and sky. I am a statue for a moment. I breathe. That is all I do. I feel and breathe. Feel my heartbeat and the wind around me.
Opening my eyes, I fall to my knees. Spread across the weeds that pull me to them like tiny arms yearning for my company. My bun is gone; I took it out. I will redo it before bed. But my blonde hair, cut as the rest of the women's, spreads out like butter across bread. My arms and legs stretch, heedless of how much of my skin Tobias sees. I don't care. I don't care.
Up above me is the endless sky. It is not contained by the guards or the fence I've heard is around the city. Nothing holds it. Clouds are gone, letting only the stars take their rightful places in the sky. They're beautiful. They twinkle.
Tobias kneels besides me. His hands fit against his kneecaps. "What are you looking at?" he asks.
"Everything. Everything for once," I say.
He looks up and I say, pulling on his arm, "Lay down."
Unheard of. Disgraceful. He does. Our hands join between us as I feel his body next to mine. A dangerous shiver runs up my spine.
"It's . . . amazing," he says.
"Uncontained," I say.
A few minutes of perfect silence pass. A slight breeze causes the weeds to bend and pull up and down. I am not chilled, though. I am on fire.
"Do you believe anyone is up there?" he asks me suddenly.
"Do I believe if God and heaven are up there?" I ask.
"Yes," he says.
My parents pray around the dinner table. I participate, but I wonder exactly how much of myself I put into it. Do I follow it because it is duty to my parents? Or duty to God?
"Do you?" I ask instead.
"Yeah," he says. "It's the hope of it, really. To think that someday we'll die and go somewhere far better than here. And of course you have to believe in God if you believe in heaven, for who could have made it? Made heaven? Made that promise?" He turns so his head is balanced on his hand. "Do you think heaven exists?"
I ponder a moment. "Yes," I say slowly.
"Good." Another moment passes. "I hope my mom is there when I die."
His mother. I remember her funeral, remember attending it. It was grey and blank and raining. Afterwards had been a lunch at the Eatons. Suddenly I find a small boy in the corner by the window, not saying a word but leaning his head against the cold glass, watching the rain, and attach him to this man in front of me. The one and the same.
"That's all I've got," he says. His eyes drift to our hands. His thumb rubs against my skin. It's . . . frightening. The touch. But not him. He isn't scary in the slightest.
"Believe in it, then," I say.
"I will. And I do," he says. He heaves a heavy sigh. "Tris . . . how long do you think this will last?"
"What? Our night out? There aren't any wild animals coming to get us, are there?" I ask, sitting up straight suddenly. The reason the fence is up is to protect us from what lies outside it. I've been told of fantastic accounts of sightings of animals that are ravaging beasts.
"You're perfectly safe with me, Tris," Tobias says. He frowns. "No. That's a lie. But lay back down, Tris." A moment passes. I stare at him. Finally, he says, "I don't want this to end."
"Why end it, then?" I ask.
"It's inevitable. We spend so much time together it's strange that we're not married," he says. "We're expected to, or else news gets around. People won't say anything, but they will sure as hell be thinking it."
He curses and I don't care.
"So you're expected to settle this?" I say.
"Yes. But I don't want to unless you feel comfortable with it. I don't want to hold this against you." His tongue plays at his cheek. "You can have a say in this. If you want to marry me or not."
The parents definitely take a key role in the engagement process. My opinion does count, yes, but to be selfless is to do what my parents want me to do. But I know that I cannot be Abnegation. All my life, I have struggled. For once, I have to think about myself.
"I wouldn't mind." No. That sounds wrong. Like the least I can do is tolerate him. I sit up a little. Something catches in my throat. I swallow. Close my eyes. Whisper. "I want to marry you."
I open my eyes. No smile is on his face. Nothing but a flickering of . . . relief in his eyes. The stars reflect off of them. Those dark blue eyes. Like the color of the sky.
"I . . . I will talk to my father about it, then," he says. "Marcus . . . is aware . . . of my thoughts about you. He hasn't said anything against it."
If he did, I would have heard. Or known. Tobias wouldn't be seen with me then, if the intentions of marriage were gone. No. They are still there, so close I can touch them. It scares me that I can reach out and touch them. They're so close. After so long, marriage. What my parents have.
I lick my lips and take a deep breath. The freedom has left the air. Only a heavy air of the future lies around us. It's making my heart beat harder, sweat collect in my palms. I stand up, taking Tobias with me.
I don't know where I'm walking. But my feet carry me away from the field on towards Amity. They have no guards, for they welcome every faction. And person. Such as the factionless. It's all quiet, no lights on. No one out and about. Just the two of us roaming around the orchards like we've lived here our entire lives.
My hand runs up an apple tree. It has no fruit. No flowers even. It's too early in the season. But the leaves that hang low enough I touch. My hand slips out of Tobias's and I carry myself up the limbs of the tree. My shoes fall again and again, but I brace myself, grind my teeth, and I climb up the tree until I swing onto a branch. But that isn't enough. I can't see out of the lower leaves. So I climb and climb and climb until the branches are no longer there. The ones I am on support my small weight.
I look out the canopy and see the wind, the birds, the tops of the buildings in the Amity compound. I am in awe of how different it is from Abnegation. Just like Tobias said. Lived in this city for so long and I haven't seen this. Haven't seen the glass houses sheltering plants or ones that have pipes creeping along the walls like vines. Or the gardens, the rolled up sheets against a tree, chalk in what must be a game across the black ground.
It's beautiful. Not simple. Not plain. Beautiful.
"Tobias," I say, looking down. He stands next to the tree, his hand touching and leaving its bark. "Join me. The view is amazing."
He steels his mouth in a straight line. His attempt is feeble but quickly abandoned. "Tris, are you even human?" he says, barely above a whisper.
"It's a simple climb. You won't get hurt and fall. I promise," I say.
"I can't, Tris," he says insistently.
"Why not?" I ask. "Tobias, come up."
"I can't, Tris," he repeats, grinding his teeth. He bites his lip and looks at the ground. "I'm afraid to."
I don't say anything. I'm too surprised. It's a simple climb. I don't think it's so high off the ground. But for him it must. Just like how his hand clutching mine sends panic through me. . . Fear. We have fear. Fear of different things. Suddenly my fear is so much more childish than his.
He sits against the trunk of the tree. I stay at my post. I don't know if he is angry at me or not for provoking him. Maybe I said too much.
I'm not apologizing. It is simply not something I should have to apologize for. I apologize for too many things in Abnegation. We're in Amity. No apologizing. Just peace.
So I climb down, my hands easily finding grips on the tree. But then my hand slips. I bite my lip and lean against the branch as the blood seeps out. No. I won't say a word. I am better than this. I am not Abnegation. I am not weak.
Tobias looks up when I come down. My thumb presses into my injured hand's wrist so that the pain isn't as harsh. The surprise on his face is more than I thought him capable. He reaches for my hand. Despite my shaking my head and saying that it's fine, he holds and inspects it like the damaged hand of a child's.
I watch his hands as he says nothing. They're long and thin. Scars, two or three, lay across them, white against olive skin. My thoughts wonder as to where they could have been from.
"It could have been worse," he says. His grip doesn't lose my hand. It only loosens gently. "It will heal."
"Have you seen worse?" I ask.
"Yes," he says.
"Did you volunteer at the hospital or the old folks' home?" I ask.
Something in his expression changes when he realizes he has shaken his head. "I was a reckless child," he says. That seems to clench the conversation, saying silently he wants another subject.
"Very reckless?" I ask.
"Enough to aggravate my father," he says.
I nod. "I know what it's like to disappoint my parents."
"I did more than disappoint him, Tris. He locked me away for years because of my actions," Tobias says. "He . . . people think I ruined him. That I'm not worth much because I am a blemish on his perfect record."
"I'm a blemish on my parents' record," I say, looking up and meeting his eyes. Natalie and Andrew Prior, perfect, model Abnegation. Except for their daughter. Their daughter who falters. Their daughter who doesn't truly belong to Abnegation. Their daughter who is Divergent and can't say a word because of it.
His smile is genuine. Even holding the arrogance of the Dauntless. "Miscreants," he whispers.
"Perfectly horrible people," I say. "We're such troublemakers."
"Delinquents."
"Second only to the Dauntless."
"By just a tiny bit."
"Selfish."
"Thoughtless."
"Imperfect."
"Human," he whispers. He hesitates, but then pushes hair back from my face. "I never see you with your hair out. It's always pulled back."
"It's the hairstyle every woman has," I say. "Out of face, out of sight, out of mind."
"Our faction covers up everything beautiful," he says. "For the mere reason of it not providing a sensible application to our lives or to others'."
Beautiful. I say it with no sound on my lips. Watch him with a gaping mouth. He called me . . . beautiful.
"Abnegation has its priorities in order," I say. "Adherence to its manifesto."
"True," he says. "But their manifesto can be wrong. Can't it?"
"Tobias," I say. I don't want to get into another discussion about the factions' relentless rules and boundaries. The talk gets us nowhere, nowhere at all.
"Yes?"
Both of his hands hold mine gently. His eyes hold my attention, not wanting to miss a single word.
I want to rip my hand out from under his. I want to hold him close and feel him touching more than my hand. My back, my arm, my face. My eyes drop down and focus on our joined hands. Almost like the sign of Abnegation. Two hands, one grasping the other, helping the other, thinking entirely of the other's feelings, their wants, their needs. But ours, ours are two equal parts. My hand lies on top of his, gripping them both. We hold each other tight.
"We shouldn't do this," I say.
"Do what?"
"Be here. Touch," I whisper. His hands make mine laced with fire.
"Fine." His grip loosens even more. A simple tug would make me free, the fire extinguished. "Pull out, Tris. Pull out. Prove to me that this is wrong."
I catch his eyes then. They burn. They shouldn't. But they must. They are the only part of him that can't be caught and taught to do what the selfless do. They don't follow orders. They are beautiful and free. Beautiful things shouldn't be covered up just because they are beautiful. But they are covered as I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I don't move. My hand remains, if tighten.
Please. I realize I say that. But that is all I can say. This is wrong. This is wrong. That is all I know. But . . . how is it wrong? How can I prove it is wrong when I can't find any wrong thing with it? None. There are none to be found. And he knows it.
I jump slightly when his lips touch mine. I was wanting them and not expecting them all at once. But I am still as I register facts. They're warm. They're his. They're uncondoned. They're soft.
My hand holds tighter to his. A lifeline in a swirling lake of mystery, of shadows and surprise and being lost. I hold onto him until he pulls off, and I bend my neck to hide the shame when I touch my lips together to feel his touch again.
My silence seems to unsettle him. He says, "Beatrice? I'm sorry."
I look up, my mind clear. "I am Tris. And don't you dare apologize."
"I shouldn't have done that," he says.
"So?" I whisper. "Who's going to tell? There's no one here." My hand pries his away from mine and holds it, balancing them both now in mine. Grasping them tightly. I breathe deeply. "Don't you apologize for something you haven't done wrong."
Every rule I know is gone. Everything I've ever known falls from my mind. I'm solely centered on him.
"Now we have to get married," he says seriously.
"Fine," I say, "and . . . I will look forward to it."
To being married to him. Being scared of his touch is hard, aching, but it is not worth living in fear when there is pleasure, need, mixed in. When his life is worth more to me than my own fear. When I can marry him and not be scared to be with him because of what I'm told I'm not allowed to do.
We stand up, hand in hand. He says after a moment of silence, "Can I hug you, Tris?"
In answer, I jump, my body colliding with his. His arms wrap around me, holding me tighter, gently, as my face disappears against his shoulder. After what we just did, this feels like nothing. I have seen children in school hugging. It was a sign of affection. I knew it then and know it now. Because my mother and father hug on occasion. They know touch is powerful, speaking more than a thousand words. I know it now. I know that touch is powerful. And I know it is beautiful.
Sometimes it feels like my mother can see right through me. I lie too easily, leaving Candor out of my Divergent test results. But she has an eagle eye. She also gets up early. Can notice tiny tracks.
A few days after Tobias kisses me in the Amity orchards, after many evening escapes with nothing but hand-holding and the gleeful smile, the relieved sigh, I return home in the still dark to see my mother by the kitchen table. I am in the house before I notice her eyes watching me. I freeze. It can't be but past four-thirty in the morning. My father doesn't wake up until five-thirty. I have never known my mother to get up before him. But there is a first time for everything. Like right now, at the worst possible moment.
Her eyes look me over. She turns to the stove and pulls off a kettle of water. Pours its contents over two small cups. The smell of tea fills the air.
I stand stock still. I know what I should do now: apologize. I should be saying sorry so much that it loses its meaning. I should be granted forgiveness from her. Then this will no longer be remembered.
But she sits down, my slight mother, and wraps her hands around her cup of tea. Her voice is serious, but her smile is warm. "It is so cold these early mornings lately. I wanted to make sure you were warm when you came home."
I sit down across from her and take the tea, nodding in respect. I focus on the brown leaves, though, not daring to look up. I don't want to see her disappointment, though I know I should be the first to talk. To say something.
"Beatrice," my mother says, "were you with him?"
I say nothing. We both know who him is.
"Beatrice," she says gently, "look at me."
I look up.
"Were you with Tobias?" she asks.
I nod. "Yes, ma'am."
Her thumb rubs against the side of her cup; she bites her lip for a moment. Then: "Beatrice, your aptitude test results were inconclusive, weren't they?"
My out-right stare at her gives her my answer.
"We discussed how there was a student who had gotten sick and left by a different way. I knew it was you," my mother says.
"How?" My voice cracks on the tiny, tiny word.
"You are my daughter," my mother says, "and . . . I was expecting it."
"How?" I say again.
"Your father transferred from Erudite. I transferred from Dauntless. We're both not Abnegation." My shock mounts as I register that my mother is not from Abnegation. I knew my father was from a different faction, but after you transfer from one faction, in order to show your allegiance to your new one, you don't speak of your old one. You cut off the ties, the blood and the emotional ones. But my mother? Dauntless-born? Born of piercings and violence and arrogance and freedom?
"Those were the two test results you received?" she says.
I shake my head. "Two of. Abnegation was the other."
"Three?" she says. Sets down the cup. "Three. Unusual." Her throat clears. "That is why you stayed in Abnegation. It is the safest of the three factions. Nobody can question you."
"I also wanted to stay with you," I say.
"But would you have been willing to sacrifice that for freedom, or knowledge, Beatrice?" my mother asks. It is a thoughtful question, but her eyes staring into mine expect an answer. "Family and safety for fire and sparks?"
I stare at her. I had thought long and hard about my choices. Of the five, Abnegation was the more familiar. The other four, not so. But she is right. Is it worth it to be comfortable and survive a quiet life, or is it more worth it to live a dangerous, flying life?
"My answer is my choice," I say.
A moment passes. The tick of the clock on my mother's watch is the only sound.
"Would you change it now, if you had the chance, Beatrice?"
I hesitate. Then nod. "Would you?"
Her smile hurts me. "Not for the world."
That hurts. It makes me seem so monstrous to want something I can't have when she is content where she is.
"What do you and Tobias do when you go out?" she asks.
The truth is something that belongs to Candor, but I owe my mother. Owe her so much for talking this out, prolonging it instead of making me apologize and then get sent to my room to dwell on my thoughts in private. "Things that are not allowed in Abnegation," I say.
"Dauntless play?" she teases.
I can feel the blush. She says, "I raised you, Beatrice, and I hope that my training has stuck onto you. Adhering to the rules is an important thing, for it contributes to the society in keeping everyone in order. But . . ." My head turns up a bit. "You're not bringing any harm to anyone. Be careful, though. Or else I will have to tell your father."
The fact that she won't tell my father this surprises me. As a councilman, he has to have a good family to support his ideas and decisions, or he can't be trusted as much. If he doesn't know . . .
"You're not telling him?" I ask.
"No, Beatrice." She holds my hand with a maternal, loving hand. "Most secrets are dangerous. But some are benign. The point is not there to tell him something that would only burden him. Whoever knows will worry. Why worry him?"
I feel my first smile since entering our house coming onto my face. I realize from the one on my mother's face, the mischievous one that tells me I am protected, that we mirror each other. Even if I can only see my face on designated occasions, I can see mine on my mother's face every time I wake each morning.
*Cackles evilly*