Chapter 37

I don't own Divergent! / & in dedication to my cousin, Joanna, who's belated birthday present is this lengthy (and slightly Fourtris-filled) chappie

[Tris]

The memorial is held in the Pit.

The incandescent lights that hang from the crevices in the rocks pulsate and thrum and coil through the legions of bodies that make up Dauntless; the bodies with faces that stream with tears.

With those that don't.

Eric doesn't make a speech this time as he did with Al.

As he did with Al.

Tobias does. I can only make out several of his phrases and catch them as they drift away into the darkness; my mind lies elsewhere.

Though all school activity has ceased for the day, we hadn't been informed on when it was to begin again. The third stage of the competition was to start soon.

Will was so stressed over the topic, the mere subject seems surreal in comparison to the funeral I stand at now.

"Tris."

I don't have to turn to know it's Uriah. His arms are around me before I have time to acknowledge him. We both find comfort in the silence that reminds us of the agony, in the knowledge that we both hurt the same way. "She still hasn't talked to you?"

His hands brush over the bandages that wrap tightly around my fingers leading up to my wrists.

"She has every right not to," I reply. From the chill I feel in my bones, I would expect my breath to be visible. It's not.

"No, Tris, she doesn't. You didn't do it to him. She can't blame you for being there," he says. His voice is rising. He's backing away, eyes shifting and palms clasping tightly. The snake that coils discreetly in the space of his neck, beside his ear almost seems to animate.

As if we both have the same idea, Uriah and I find our eyes shifting out to the crowd, directing towards where Marlene stands with Christina. Uriah told me how since Christina refused to acknowledge me that Marlene thought to comfort her.

I can hardly hear Tobias as he speaks.

Then Uriah's arms are strewn upon my shoulders again and his breathing is harsh, labored almost. "Shh, don't." His voice catches as I brace myself for the moments that come.

"She can't blame you." The round of cheers is deafening as Tobias finishes his speech. The Dauntless honor the dead in ways that are foreign to me. By speeches and quiet laughs, fists drummed upon tables that seem too loud, too poignant as if the acts can encompasses a life.

How can mere words encompass a life?

Why is Will's over?

Gazing at Uriah, I see his intent, the words in his eyes, in the shifting puffs of breath as we observe those who shed tears for a boy they barely knew.

His eyes are speaking: It's my fault.

I almost want to shout out what I had believed at Al's memorial, to make myself not want this faction. To believe that this wouldn't happen in Abnegation. Because it wouldn't.

Yet, it doesn't make me ache for Dauntless any less.

"It's mine too, Uriah."

We hold each other until the sharpness of the horror dulls. Lanterns lit, burning a harsh orange float as we do.

"Tris," a voice sounds to my side. It's lilt and curve plays at my ears with a vengeance. I can only hear Will's voice; the echo of his pain plays on a continuous track, the thump of a heart. I fight the urge to cover my ears so I can't hear.

I turn.

"Prior?" It's a new voice. It's weary, and cautious, though quiet in itself. Zeke. "Where's Uriah?"

I shrug, or perform something in the semblance of a shrug because my shoulders refuse to lift more than centimeters, blood pounds in my ears, deafening.

Uriah left moments ago, mumbling incoherently about someplace to be. I hadn't noticed his absence until now.

There is a heaviness that settles in the place above my abdomen that is so acute that I find myself slipping; hands grasping at the stone walls of the Pit in vain. As if it will somehow cease the feeling inside me. I prop myself against the chill of the rock and I want to speak, to voice something, something that will take back that moment so it'll never torture me as it does now.

To make the pain stop.

But, I'm only falling.

Zeke catches me as I do.

I don't realize that I can't move even after I begin to shout.

The pain wells up so tight in my chest that I need to scream, and in that act where I choose the mindset that thrashing should accompany mindless yelling, I notice that I can't even roll on my side.

"Did you straight jacket her, Eaton?" The statement is a joke, yet I can hear the quietness that exudes from Zeke's tone.

"I didn't do anything, Zeke."

"You would keep those types of things in your room—" The voice catches, dismembering any comical feeling the statement would bring on. "—wouldn't you." Uriah is at my side as my screams die in my throat.

I will myself to control the heat at the back of eyes, yet it finds its way out, and turn away from the prying eyes, from the burning light.

Uriah's hand strokes my hair almost absentmindedly. I don't look at him.

"She won't what?" It's Zeke. I hadn't noticed Uriah's absence as I'd composed myself, but now he situates himself to the right of his brother, wearily yet still animatedly discussing a topic that appalls the older Pedrad. "I'll talk to her; she can't be blaming my little brother and sister—"

"She's not your sister, Zeke," Tobias interjects almost as if amused, yet his face betrays his quiet shock at the situation.

"Damn as well be," Zeke responds taking care to quickly throw a wink at me, attempting too hard at lifting me from my stupor.

I still can't move my arms.

"Well tell Christina that she can shove that up—"

"Zeke!"

"I'm just saying that Tris doesn't need crap from her right now and neither do you, Uriah!" Zeke's voice is rising with an intensity that only familial protectiveness can bring on.

Slowly, as if being lifted from a fog, I realize that I am the topic of their conversation.

Christina.

My head spins a white heat envelops my lungs. I can't breathe.

I'm back in the Training Room, Uriah at my back, Will in his fury, finding utensils and deeming them fit as projectiles.

Though I have never found myself so desperate, I close my eyes. I find myself spiraling into oblivion, to an unsubstantial darkness that I cannot grasp, because I will it.

The words FEAR GOD ALONE accompany my spiral.

"Do something with it, Tris," Tobias says quietly.

The layout of the CC Room is too close to the appearance of the Training Room, and I find myself with a palm to my forehead. A fine sheen of sweat coats my skin and when I slide my fingers horizontally the slickness comes with it.

"I can't." My voice is short of a whisper.

The ingredients are laid out in no particular order, only designed in the preference of the chef; a fresh head of lettuce sans its core and quartered, a lone piece ginger halved, prepared to be diced finely on the wooden cutting board it lies upon.

Zeke had brought me to Tobias's dorm room in a state of panic. After realizing my struggle against the few blankets that cradled me was internal, and I broke free rather easily, the boys had agreed—argued and fought—on a means of distraction. Glancing at Uriah now, the sickly pallor that shows on his face that most likely reflects my own, I wish I hadn't come.

"What're we making?" I ask my voice almost inaudible over the pace of my heart. I refuse to let my eyes meet the stove, the utility I've done well to distance myself from once we entered the room.

Tobias's gaze is hot on my back; I can sense the chiding expression he carries. I'm finally aware of my question, of why the silence in the room is palpable.

I've moved without being aware that my hands are on the flat coils of the stove. My palms force harder against the cool surface of the device, running across the edges. Then my fists flatten to the ridge of the side where the device meets the counter, where it registers in semblance of the area where the pot had toppled over before. There is a wetness that streams down my face, thickening when I hear a muffled sob.

Uriah and I find ourselves in the same position as we were before, arms linked, breaths heavy as we slump against the ebony tile. My fingers ache. I've never seen Uriah cry before yesterday; I shouldn't have ever seen it.

The white of the bandages on my hands taint with a spreading crimson.

"God, I'm so stupid," Zeke's comment is muttered when he aides Tobias in gently tugging us to our feet.

Tobias embraces me and I think nothing of what Zeke might presume from the act. He most likely already knows.

"I hate it, Zeke! Why did it have to be him? I could've been there —if I had just…" Uriah's voice is broken, loud and piercing. It only makes my own tears escape more rapidly. Zeke says something quietly that I can't hear. He grips his younger brother's arms, anchoring him.

When I feel I can no longer find tears in me to cry, I notice Tobias's soothing words, quiet sentiments. I tilt my head up to see him. "I'm sorry, Tris." His eyes show dark, the navy penetrating. A tuff of hair stands near the crown of his head and I think of Christina's suggesting remarks in class, me agreeing: he's still so handsome.

Then it feels as if my stomach drops out from under me. Christina who hates me.

I nod, wanting nothing more then to rid my mind of stoves and pots, burns and hospitals, good friends lost, to find a way to flee my own thoughts.

My eyes find the counter where the cloves of garlic are situated, peeled. The placement of pots and pans, utensils and utilities are all too familiar.

Escape.

The culinary arts were nothing if not a route to liberation.

[Tobias]

There's something twisted in the way that the culinary arts can provide as a means of freedom while simultaneously being a means to someone's literal ends.

My mother (before her gaping absence), in passing, would comment on the significance of a meal cooked—how some would find the task grueling, almost acquiring no meaning from the process of self-preparation. Watching Tris and Uriah now, I understand how she felt. There is a steady tempo as silence descends, as Uriah shifts and slides, his hands working across the expanse of counter. A concentrated beat when Tris mentally measures the amount of salt needed and sprinkles it in to the awaiting bowl.

Zeke sits at a desk, ruminating on the meaning of Dauntless cake while consuming a slice in the process.

The way Will's death will haunt the initiate class is the same way that I will always be marred by the scars that taint the skin of my back. Tris's eyes still show red from tears, Uriah's matching almost exactly.

I almost feel guilty in breaking the silence, "Don't forget the corn starch, Uri, it ten—"

"Tenderizes the meat," Tris finishes instantly flushing.

Zeke's ears perk, as if an animal sensing danger. Except I know he senses a public embarrassment opportunity, not a threat—he, himself is one.

"Not to break the consuming quiet, but was that some weird form of culinary flirting there?" Zeke's ask. Uriah snorts. I roll my eyes and Zeke's grin widens. "I still need an update on this whole situation, I mean this isn't like a student-teacher thing is it because I mean that'd be hot—"

There's a beat as Zeke trails off waiting for an interruption. Tris provides one.

"God, Zeke…" Her expression is bewildered and I want to laugh in relief because it's her normal mien. I had woken with a hollow in my chest from the thought of Will, one that grew as I stood to recount the significance of a human life, even one lost; he had been one of the good ones. She must've woken to much worse. "Stop."

"Aw, Tris that's cute. So are you and Eaton a thing? What's that "shipping" thing people do? Fourtris?" Zeke asks lips quirking at the prospect of a relationship name.

My eyes widen at the same time as Tris's do.

"Isn't that just putting both of their names together?" Uriah questions his original state of humor returning in stride. The darkness that shadows his eyes finds solace in the change of conversation.

"I agree? And what the hell is shipping anyway?" I question moving to Tris's side.

She continues to dice the bell peppers. Her hands work quickly, expertly at the scarlet vegetable. The almost fluorescent hue accentuates the appearance of the dish as she passes the finished product along to Uriah, who then adds in a half a teaspoon of pepper as the pan heats.

Wary of the blue flame, Tris backs off allowing Uriah to sear the chicken. The smell permeates as I tug at her elbow.

"It's this thing people do when..." Zeke's voice trails as I lead Tris away.

We find ourselves just outside the propped door. It's wooden. She doesn't make eye-contact and I don't know if it's because she still hurts or if it's from Zeke's comment. I instantly feel selfish at the latter thought; obviously she's grieving.

"Do you want to talk?" I want to hit myself.

Talk? After Evelyn's false funeral I had wanted to hit something, to cause pain because I felt so much of it myself. Remembering now, I wasn't the one who had the opportunity to resort to violence.

Her eyes shift to mine, blue and grey. Dark and resolute. "It shouldn't have happened."

I nudge her hand with my own, so small in comparison, when her gaze ends on my shoes.

"It shouldn't have," I agree. Then I realize what the root of the problem is. "You don't blame yourself." It's not a statement, it's insistent.

Her head lifts slowly, her gaze almost accusing.

"You won't blame yourself." I rectify the phrase.

Head already shaking she begins, "No, Tobias," My eyes flit to hers when I hear my name, "I can't."

My hand brushes her chin, tilting it upward, "You can."

She bites her lower lip, ruminating. "If I hadn't been so stupid... It wouldn't have happened."

I'd gotten a slight run-by of what exactly occurred yesterday and the memory of Will in the hospital is enough for me to want to repress any culinary-related injury I've ever seen. I close my eyes grimacing. His bone was visible.

"Maybe, but we have to let the guilt remind us to do better next time."

Her face softens, recalling that day not too long ago when we didn't know each other. When her arms wrap tightly around my stomach, I sigh taking the silent message we both know is being screamed out, with me, to somewhere dark.

Because after Al, this was a next time. And the guilt was an all too heavy reminder.

"Goddammit, Uriah, hoisin sauce not soy sauce," Zeke scolds Uriah as the dish comes to a finish.

The lettuce wraps remind me of what I've been running on: two hours of sleep and half a bottle of water. I slide my fingers through the piece of hair I'd slept on that refuses to sit. Eric would suggest something stronger for an event like this. He did when our instructor was found dead in the Chasm days before graduation and our final exams.

For some reason the thought makes my head spin with confusion. I can almost taste the bourbon on my lips from that night, yet the memory tugs at me vindictively.

"Um Uriah, please don't tell me you weren't about to squeeze an orange into the chicken," I say rubbing the heel of my hand to my jaw attempting to rid of the trailing feeling.

He stops midway in his attempt to add flavor to the dish and puts down the slice reluctantly. "I don't even know how he got into this school," his brother mocks.

"Ye of little faith," Uriah begins, glaring as he speaks, gaze pointedly directed towards Zeke and me, "shall go to hell."

Tris whose eyes fight to break away from the stove abruptly scoffs, laughing. Uriah registers the same surprise as I do and he wants her to keep laughing. I can see it from his gaze. I want to reach out to her and say something that will rid of today's evils, but the younger Pedrad beats me.

"Only Tris here can actually cook if I'm to be honest," he says offering her a half smile. The act doesn't seem just friendly to me.

The off-kilter sensation returns, but the cause isn't a memory. Uriah takes Tris's hand and spins her in a half circle, a dance. Her laugh spurs me again.

"Right now, I have to agree, the food your preparing is about to be wasted," I say gesturing to where the plate tips over the edge of the counter. I catch it in time, handing it to Tris, our arms brushing. Uriah is gazing at me oddly.

Then hands are gripping my shoulders pulling me to where the desks are situated. I throw them off of me out of reflex. "God, Zeke, what?"

"Easy, sous-chef, your envious blue eyes aren't doing you any favors," He taunts, though his voice is amused.

My eyes find Uriah who is gripping Tris's hands, eyes wide at the blood that stains her bandages. I can't seem to stop the creasing of my brows, the narrowing of my eyes. I turn back to Zeke.

"You think I'm jealous?" I ask incredulously. I straighten out my fingers, unclenching them from the fists they were in.

"Eaton, why are you jealous of Uriah? The kid can flirt but he definitely isn't doing it now. Plus I think he has something going with another one of those Dauntless borns," Zeke says his grin widening.

"Well…I—I… God, I feel so stupid," I'm running another hand through my hair. "And shut up Zeke, don't look at me, and I swear if you say some stupid crap about—"

My feet sound too loud against the floor.

Damn it I'm blushing.

Zeke slaps my back and I roll my eyes making my way to the food on the counter. "Don't fret the girls still think the brooding thing is super hot."

Before I turn to exit the door, I cock my fist and punch Zeke in the face.

His laughs echo even as I make my way down the hall.

"Tris?" I ask. She stands outside my door and I gesture for her enter.

We stand in an uncomfortable silence, and I hook my thumbs through my belt loops as if they will provide a distraction. I fight to find words realizing I don't want to speak at all. I want to know what she thinks of me, but the thought is just as selfish as it was earlier and I think of something to say. I open my mouth—

But we end up speaking at the same time.

"Uriah was saying you were giving us a weird look and—" A new wave of heat flushes down my neck at the prospect of what she's about to say. "I'm sorry if—well if…"

My head snaps up from where my gaze had been situated on the dull carpet on the floor. "Are you apologizing, Tris? Why are you apologizing?"

Her expression becomes confounded. Then almost amused.

"You weren't reassessing why you said you liked me." It's a statement, one that she waits for to be confirmed or maybe, denied.

Now I'm almost amused.

"Reassessing? Are we supposed to assess this at all?" I ask fighting off my grin. Her face takes on a hue of pink and I can't help but continue the banter. "Hm maybe I don't like you at all…"

The shade deepens. "Oh? And what is this, Tobias?" She asks gesturing her arms wide as I did.

My eyes widen. Then I become silent because her question is real one. "It's us."

"Us? Because I didn't think that you—"

I bring my mouth to hers before she can finish. Like before, she's unsure, but I take the moment to tilt my head back and say it again, "Us, Tris."

She ruminates on the fact for a few seconds. Then she's the one who kisses me. Bringing her closer, I deepen the kiss. Her hands run up my back, coiling to my neck, running through the hair at the nape of my neck.

I find my lips on her cheek, her temple, the back of her ear. She makes a soft sound and my breathing becomes ragged. I can feel my smile against her lips, hers against mine.

Then a voice sounds. It's from the speaker above.

"All sophomore initiates are to report to the Pit for further instruction on their class schedules and confirmation of eliminations."

Eliminations.

I gaze down at Tris who stiffens in my arms, her cheek to my chest. My heart still beats too loudly.

Chef Max had no decency at all.

[Tris]

Though she stands by me Christina doesn't even attempt for eye-contact. Uriah nudges me with his arm when he sees my gaze fixated.

"I'll talk to her later, Tris-o."

Nodding I examine my surroundings. The entire sophomore initiate class stands shoulder to shoulder in the same solemn atmosphere as of earlier, our fear palpable. The chill of the cavernous area makes me clench my fists; the fading blue lights urge me to close my eyes.

Will's death has done something to us in a whole. There's a different type of sorrow then when Al was gone to us. Some type of poignancy that cuts deeper. Because for each of us, for all we know, Will could've be us. The underlying culinary aspect ties our roots together.

This is what Dauntless should be: being tied together by our passion. Yet, I only see broken faces and the whisper of dried tears.

Cooking earlier was only a short reprieve. But—Kissing Tobias earlier was better than a reprieve.

"Students," Chef Max's voice resonates throughout the Pit, echoing. "Today we celebrated the life of one of our dear students. We understand the risk of our actions—"

My sudden anger is white hot. He says it as if Will's death was a cause and effect. As if it had no meaning at all. I clench Uriah's hand. I begin to listen again when Chef Tori cuts in.

"Each of you, I am sorry for the loss you have experienced." There's a respectful pause. "It has been decided that classes will resume in a week's time. Eliminations will be strictly on the same basis as they are each year: if you do not pass both your final exams and the culinary evaluation set for the end of the year, you will not return to Dauntless." Chef Tori's eyes are weary. "Let there not be any more talk about rumors and the competition's requirements."

There is a murmur of approval but I want to hit something. Will would've been elated. Now he can't be anything.

The rushing of the Chasm's water seems to sound in agreement.

[Four]

I stiffen at the hand on my shoulder.

"Hello Mr. Eaton," Mrs. Matthews greets. Her eyes are cool, calculating—a snake's demeanor.

I keep my expression blank, a mask that resembles her own. Internally, I want to ask where she'd come from, if she knew this faction and all the others weren't for her to toy with, if she knew that we were in mourning.

I think of Tris in my room earlier. That we had lives of our own.

"Hello Mrs. Matthews. May I help you with something?" I ask in monotone.

"It seems as if Chef Tori is speaking? Would you please go inform her of my presence?" She asks.

The crowd of initiates several yards away seems too close now. I want to tell Tris she needs to leave. I came per Chef Tori's request. Eric stands near Chef Max. She wanted the instructors to hear the news. Now with this woman clad in blue near I can only stupidly wonder how the juniors will receive this.

"Of course."

My strides are quick, filled with purpose and something else I only begin to understand when I near Chef Tori.

Fear.

[Tris]

I am knocked out of my stupor when I see Tobias whispering words to Chef Tori. Her eyes register an undiscernible emotion for a moment before she nods rigidly.

"Why is this almost déjà vu?" Uriah asks me keeping his tone light.

His levity does nothing to ease my fear.

Then Mrs. Matthews walks to the podium and coldness fills my veins.

I gasp when my brother follows her.

Yet, I register something else also: They walk too close to the water, too precariously near the edge of the Chasm where there is no railing to save.

[Omniscient]

The students gasp when the snake clad in cobalt slips into the water.

Her cries are deafening as her companion joins her.

A/N: This has 1) left me emotionally exhausted 2) sucked up my entire day 3) was entirely worth it || Hi Fanfiction, how's you summer progressing? It wasn't a three month delay this time! I've obviously gotten way better in time management (nope not at all)

In short, this chapter was so fun to write because of the ending. I'm entirely too pleased with myself that I don't care that I just wanted to take a shower 10 minutes earlier.

Read & Review! Thank you (sososososo much) for the fairly positive feedback from last chapter even though I was debatably cruel. Please read and leave a review on what you thought of my writing, the chapter, the weather—mostly anything.

Last night I had a mini-cry fest over the end of Allegiant complete with both a reread of Tris's and Uriah's deaths so let's just come to the conclusion that more Uriah was completely necessary in the chapter.

P.S.— I'm entirely too curious on the topic of what country people are from and even though I can check my stats for an overall lookout, comment what country you hail from!

& a shout out to Taylor Swift for the music that I've listened to constantly while writing this.

— TFW