AN: 3 chapters down and I've held my tongue - I wanted to let the suspense play out a bit, but here we are, and Tris is alive :) This chapter can get a bit angsty but please bear with me, I promise it will get better (eventually.) Thanks for reading and extra thanks to those of you who left such kind reviews on the last few chapters!
I am surprised when we pull up to old Dauntless headquarters as the very first hints of dawn start to soften the nighttime shadows. Since the Restructuring, when the faction system was dismantled, it's been largely purposeless. A few loyal Dauntless, unable to fully give up their faction-led lifestyle, have stuck around, but most moved into the new post-faction housing with the rest of the citizens.
"We set up an apartment here," Christina turns around to tell me. "They're going to come looking for her – our apartments aren't safe."
Matthew reaches over to check Tris' pulse. I haven't let go of her for a second since we freed her from the gurney back in the research compound. "She's resting now, but we need to get her inside quickly. Let's go."
Quietly, we all hop out except for Zeke, who speeds off to return the van and weapons, obvious evidence of our operation. Christina leads us down the familiar stone paths into old Dauntless. I shiver with a sense of déjà vu as we pass by the chasm, where I carried a battered Tris home in my arms once before. She was still so strong then. I can hardly stand to look down at her decimated figure, anger nearly eclipsing me each time I do. Instead I look to her eyes. They're closed now, but they're still her… still my Tris.
We arrive at an apartment door tucked far back around a bend in a vacant hallway. The compound is eerily quiet without the raucous echos of the Dauntless. Christina unlocks the door and ushers us through the sparse quarters to the bedroom, where medical supplies are already stacked. They were so prepared all this time, planning their strategy with detail before I ever knew a thing. I lay Tris gingerly on the clean bed, still wrapped in the white sheet from the facility. She doesn't stir. Matthew wastes no time, inserting an IV into her arm as soon as she hits the mattress. I can't bring myself to back away – I simply stand beside her, stroking her lank hair.
I feel Matthew's hand on my shoulder. "Four, I need to check her over…" It wasn't an admonishment, but rather a request for permission. I understood his meaning.
"She at least has undergarments beneath the sheet." I grit my teeth as another wave of fresh anger sweeps over me and gesture for him to continue.
"I'm sorry," He says. "It's necessary." I nod and move back half a step to give him an inch of space, but no more, keeping my hand on Tris' forehead. Christina helps Matthew remove the sheet. The revulsion is clear on all of our faces as we see the damage clearly for the first time. I fight a steep wave of nausea, choking back bile and unadulterated anger.
She is a skeleton. I can see every last bone in her form, which, although strong, was birdlike before this torture. Now she is barely a wisp of life. Her ribs flutter unsteadily with each shallow breath, and the white elastic band covering her chest nearly falls off her emaciated form. Between her ribs and jutting hipbones, her formerly toned abdomen is a hollow crater. Even her femurs are visible. The skin around her wrists and ankles is scarred from the restraints, but also red and scabbed in some areas, evidence of a more recent struggle. The place where the serum drip had been inserted beneath her collarbone is bruised and swollen, and numerous scars mark her forearms where blood tests and injections appear to have been botched repeatedly. There is a deep bruise on the inside of her left thigh.
"Oh, Tris," Christina murmurs, her eyes filled with horror.
I have seen much worse in my short lifetime. I've fought, I've witnessed the gore of war, I've killed. The Dauntless in me has allowed me to carry through, like a machine. I am hardly affected by violence, stoic and un-phased. But as I look at Tris, so small and so wrong, I can't evade the revulsion that wells up inside of me. I bolt into the adjoining bathroom and retch, unable to handle the scene before me. When I am finished, I wipe my burning eyes. The joy I felt at finding her alive is crushed by sickening guilt. For her own sake, I nearly wish she would have been killed, rather than be forced to endure this misery for over two years. Two years…alone and tortured and left to rot alive for two years. The bile rises and I retch again. When at last I can compose myself, I come back into the bedroom to find her covered once more. Christina has gone; I can hear her and Zeke, who must have returned, conversing in low tones in the living room. Christina sounds like she's crying. Matthew stands by the IV, administering another vial of medication into the clear bag. He eyes me, gauging my composure.
"She'll pull through," he reassures me, checking her pulse again. "She's strong." I thank him with my nod and move to stand beside her again. There is now a slight color in her cheeks, and tucked under the blankets, the deathly chill of her skin has begun to warm. "I'll be back in to check on her soon." I don't look up as he slips out of the room.
Alone with her, I feel the cacophony of emotions inside me start to crescendo. Carefully, trying so hard not to disturb her, I slip onto the bed beside her. She is covered now by the heavy blankets, so only her gaunt face is visible. I reach over and tentatively stroke my finger down over her forehead, tracing the bridge of her nose, her eyelid, her cheekbone, her lips, the curve of her sharp chin. So weak, so fragile. In the lines of her face, though, I can still see Tris. She is Tris, but still so far removed from the powerful, ferocious girl I left behind that last day.
I take a deep breath and try to steady my racing heart. It's not like me to be so affected, so shaken. But how could I not be? For two years, I'd been stuffing her skeleton into a closet in my mind. I finally accepted that she was gone forever, slogging my way through the mourning and grieving. Everything in my life has been centered around healing from her sudden disappearance from my world. And now, without warning, she's been dragged, barely hanging on, back into my life. Alive. I can see my hand trembling as it traces over her face. I know I am in shock. But what am I supposed to do about it? What do I want to do about it? Will she even remember me when she wakes up? If she wakes up, I think darkly, and the trembling increases.
I'm not sure how long I lay there, tracing her face, relearning it. Lost. I float, unattached from everything; I feel as though all the strings tethering me to what I understood of the world have been cut, and now I have no way to get back. I just keep touching her face, praying that the fire will come back to her eyes. Praying that the fire will come back to her heart, and that she'll still welcome me there.
At some point, Cara is beside me, handing me a bowl of something hot - Mac n' cheese. I wonder vaguely when she got here. Christina must have called her. I don't remember eating the food, but I must have, because she comes back later to take the empty dish. She stands for a while beside Tris, stroking her hand. Before leaving, she pats my shoulder. The trembling eases some, but does not go away.
Eventually I have to get up from my vigil and get myself together. I shower in the guest bathroom. I stand under the hot steam for a long time, letting the soothing flow ease away the anxiety that has locked itself in my muscles. When the room becomes so steamy I can't breathe, I step out, changing into a fresh pair of clothes from a duffel bag somebody had thought to pack up from my apartment. I wipe the steam from the mirror and am caught off guard by my haggard appearance. I hadn't realized how shaggy I'd let my hair get over the last several months, complemented by several days of unshaven stubble. Tris would be shocked.
I dig around in my duffel and am surprised to find that whoever packed it included not just my razor, but by trimmer as well. They must have hoped I'd take a hint. Probably Christina. Attaching the longest guard, I turn on the trimmer and run it over my head, the movement practiced and familiar. Dark locks of hair fall into the sink. I leave it longer on the top, somewhere between abnegation and dauntless style. I finish with my razor, removing the unkempt stubble from my face. As I wash the hair down the drain, I see a bit more of myself in the mirror. A bit more of the man I was for Tris.
It's too much to think about, and I turn away.
