TRIS POV
Tobias breathes in constricted bursts, sometimes not deeply enough and sometimes desperately. Even that hurts—I can tell by the way his eyes tighten—and the strong pain medication that the nurses periodically return to give him can only do so much.
"She has to go," he grumbles out of nowhere.
I almost sit up in surprise, but something tells me that my head would explode if I tried. He has barely spoken since he woke up hours ago, just grunts of helpless frustration when the doctor examined him; before that, he repetitively asked me if I was okay in a somewhat coherent state.
Although we haven't communicated much, there is a mutual anger simmering between us, and it is aimed at none other than Tori. She is the reason we are stuck in the infirmary with our injuries. She is the reason why there are people on the opposite side of the curtain crying out whenever the nurses care for them.
There are probably hundreds of Dauntless dead, and they would not have been if she hadn't been selfish.
And Tobias is right: she cannot remain in her leadership position. What she did not only undermined the other leaders' authority, but it directly slaughtered our faction. Regardless of the fact that we did secure Amity, that was the worst possible way for it to turn out.
"She almost got you killed," he says.
"She almost got you killed," I say weakly. "She does have to go, and we will figure it out. But right now, you need to focus on yourself, Tobias."
He sighs stubbornly. This is what I was afraid of. The day Tobias takes care of himself over others is the day Evelyn and I become best friends, and with the extent of his injuries, he can't afford to be that kind of defiant patient.
I got off easy with another concussion and a broken wrist. He, on the other hand, was pinned down in the Dauntless army's path and trampled. From what I have been able to see from my reclined position, he is quite literally black and blue and swollen to the point that it is difficult to breathe. What the doctor is most nervous about though is the internal bleeding, which is the underlying cause of the disturbing colors on his chest.
"I feel like I'm wasting space," I admit. There are people with gunshot wounds and other life-threatening injuries, and I'm taking up room in this hospital bed.
"You're kind of important," Tobias reminds me.
Not any more important than anyone else. It shouldn't matter to anyone that I am a former leader, but I suppose I will always receive preferential treatment from now on.
I fiddle with the strap of the uncomfortable brace on my arm. "Maybe they'll let me go home soon. I need a shower."
"Well, it sounds like I will be trapped here for a while," he slurs, the drugs tiring him out. "Promise you'll come visit sometime?"
His eyes display the same defeat that has his body pinned to the bed. Empathy spreads through me as a warm ache. We both saw what happened, and once again we have been reminded that war overwhelms everything. Every time I witness a tragedy I learn more and more that I need to make every second count. That I almost could have lost him permanently.
"Tobias," I murmur. "I'm not going anywhere."
He closes his eyes, the assurance helping him be content enough to finally rest. I try to drift off too, but it seems that every sense has been heightened, every noise across the infirmary amplified to bother my head.
And then the curtain is pulled back, and all chances of going to sleep are gone.
"Well isn't this a pathetic sight."
Zeke makes himself at home, sitting right at the bottom of Tobias's bed. Tobias groans when it jostles him a bit. Christina enters next, and then Uriah, whose whole arm up to his shoulder is wrapped in thick bandages and supported in a sling. He must have been involved in the Amity takeover.
"Wakey, wakey!" Uriah exclaims.
"Shhh," I hiss, the talking burning my brain. But his contagious smile is definitely a sight for sore eyes.
"Sorry," Zeke whispers. "So how are our two favorite Stiffs holding up?"
Tobias gives him a look like he will murder him—if only he could get up. I answer for the both of us, "We feel like we were run over."
Uriah and Zeke cackle at my choice of words. Christina shakes her head and sits on the edge of my bed.
"Were you all there?" I ask quietly, speaking as timidly as possible so that I don't disturb my jaw.
"Just me," Uriah replies. "Picked up a nice little bullet in my arm."
"I'm familiar with the feeling."
Christina cringes. "I watched him get stitches," she says. "He's going to have a bad scar."
"That's not fun."
He grins. "Are you kidding? Chicks dig scars."
I roll my eyes and instantly wince when I accidentally look directly at the dimmed light above me. Christina gives me a look that clearly says boys will be boys, and I would laugh if I could. It is a massive relief to have them here, cutting an edge off the darkness that threatens to tear my mind apart as I lie here, itching to do something about how many people were just killed.
While Zeke and Uriah try to get Tobias to grunt out more than two words, Christina slides closer to me on the bed with sympathy written all over her face.
"Another concussion?" she asks.
I sigh. "Yes."
"How bad?"
I'm tired of people caring about me when I should be the last worry on their minds, but I can't exactly tell her that when she is simply showing care for her friend. I press a hand to my face and answer quietly, "I'm much more worried about him."
We still don't know the extent of Tobias's bleeding. And with all of the other soldiers in critical condition, he won't be due for a scan for a while longer.
"You'll both be fine. You're the two most stubborn people I know." Christina rolls her eyes before settling back into a solemn appearance. "I know this isn't the right time to mention this, but...are you feeling any better about..."
My gaze drifts away from her. We talked about Dez yesterday afternoon—if today even is the day I think it is. It was a very emotional discussion filled with fond memories and mutual grief, but I think in the end it made it a thousand times more bearable to finally talk about her with someone who knew her in the same ways I did.
Still, I am sick with mourning. And the miserable part about it is that I don't have time to resolve any of these feelings.
The boys laugh at something that even gets Tobias to crack a brittle smile. I drag my eyes away from them and back to Christina. "I just want to avenge everyone I can," I tell her.
I don't even know how to accomplish that. But I do know that as soon as I am healed, I will be right back at the front lines this time, fueled forward by the hundreds of Dauntless that lost their lives.
"Well, we can start with Evelyn."
Being underground all the time makes it difficult to know how far along in the day it is. Normally though, I am able to guess based on the lighting that passes through the Pit.
But not in the infirmary. It is an endless cycle of discomfort and stressing and sometimes dozing. Every Dauntless that lands themselves in the hospital is desperate to leave as soon as they arrive, and although I have always strayed from being like them, this is something I can definitely relate to.
Sleeping is a valuable skill here, one that has to be practiced to get good at, and it helps pass the time. The key is focusing on monotonous, predictable noises and drowning out all else, like the steady beeping from heart monitors nearby. If I ignore the groaning and hear only the calm beeping—
"Beatrice?"
Caleb stands at the opening of the curtains. I don't know what I feel, seeing him here after we have been butting heads again, but I feel like hating him is on the bottom of my list of priorities right now.
"What, Caleb?"
He shifts on his feet before stepping closer. "Where is Four?" he asks.
"They took him to get a scan," I respond slowly, having no idea why he cares all of the sudden.
My brother gulps. I watch him nervously glance around all of the machinery in the room before I repeat, "What do you want?"
"I can't come to see how you are doing?" He frowns. "You think my heart didn't stop when I heard that you were in the infirmary after being involved in the Amity attack?"
"I wasn't involved. Not really," I deny, though I suppose the details don't matter.
"You look like you were kicked in the face."
I lick my lips, noticing how dry they are. This is beginning to be more awkward than agitating. "I was."
He wrings his hands and steps closer. "Beatrice," he says. "I'm your brother. I don't care how different we are from each other or how many times we fight, you can talk to me."
The stark contrast in our beliefs and our personalities, after growing up together in such a sheltered place where no diverse behavior was allowed, is something that will always keep Caleb and I apart in some ways. But he is right about one thing: we are family. We are the last Priors.
And in times like these, we can't afford to be arguing over our stifled grudges that stretch as far back as Abnegation.
"What is there to say?" I mumble. "A large part of my faction is dead. One of my friends is dead..."
A lump forces its way up my throat, and my eyes are suddenly wet when I don't feel like ignoring my emotions anymore. Except, I can't cry, unless I want my head to be throbbing in pain. But maybe that is fitting; maybe I should be feeling that pain every time I cry, reminding me with each pulse in my temples that it hurts.
Caleb watches me, still not well versed in what to do when someone is upset. Then he eventually tells me, "I don't know if I've ever said this, but you're strong. Stronger than anyone I know."
My eyes flick up to his, perplexed.
"Even when our parents died, you held it together when I couldn't." He fidgets with the sleeve of his black jacket that is too long for him. "You survived so many trials that I couldn't have survived, and I probably don't know about a lot of them. And somehow, after people do terrible things to you, you are able to forgive them." He shakes his head in disbelief. "You were able to forgive me."
I bite my lip. It is so unusual to be complimented by him about anything, and I am awed that he would admit that I did something right after being scolded for so long.
"I am not Dauntless, and I haven't been staying here long enough to know much about strength. But I know that you have real strength, even if I don't ever say it, and the members of this faction see it too."
By now he looks sheepish, like maybe he shouldn't have said anything. But it was all he had to say to remind me that our complicated relationship is worth it.
"Caleb," I whisper, my heart bleeding. "Thank you."
He pulls his gaze away from his shoes. "That being said, I know you can take care of yourself," he adds, ignoring my words. "But sometimes you end up like this, and you shouldn't have to. You don't have to."
The same selfless struggle I have reflects back at me through his soft features. Maybe Caleb still does display some of the Abnegation values he faked for so long after all, or maybe now they are just appearing.
"They're coming for my family," I tell him sternly. "My faction."
His eyes plead with me, and I see our mother in them again, but it is a hopeless cause. This isn't like the first war, in which I was on a race to the grave after losing my grip on reality; this time, I know the consequences, and I know that I would gladly fight until I'm on my knees rather than let the factionless get what they want. No amount of begging from anyone will change that.
"If the factionless took them from me, then I would have nothing to live for." I learned that all too well over the last few months. "I'm not going to try to pretend to be selfless anymore, Caleb."
He blinks at me. "What does that mean?"
But he knows. He knows that the factionless have overstepped my line, and they won't get a step further toward the rest of my family.
"It means that you can't taunt flames without eventually getting burnt."
Tobias does not look well. But the relief he exudes when I return from the apartment with a fresh change of clothes brings some color back into his face.
"One more night," I remind him with a subtle smile.
He groans with disbelief. "This can't go by any slower."
Carefully, I help him sit up by his shoulders. He trembles with the effort just to push himself off the bed, breathing heavily even with my help. By the time his legs are hanging off the edge, his eyes are squeezed shut.
"Good?" I ask.
He grunts, "What do you think?"
Ignoring his sharp reply, I slide the hospital gown off over his head while he winces in between small movements. The doctor said he would have mood swings, among many other side effects. And since it is Tobias we are talking about...well, I guess I should prepare for worse than normal.
I can't help but cringe when I take him in for the first time since I have been able to sit or stand up straight. The multicolored bruises are so severe that I have to dart my eyes away and instead focus on getting a shirt over his head or else I will stare for too long.
"What did the doctor say?" he asks, holding his arms up as far as his body will allow without causing him pain. After a very careful struggle of avoiding his IV port, we get the shirt on. "All I remember hearing is that I'm going home tomorrow."
I massage my temples, the stress of simply thinking finally about to knock me over. I have no clue as to how I managed to walk to the apartment and back and take a shower without collapsing from the dizzy spin tormenting my head, even with the several times I had to stop and sit down.
"They said that although you're still bleeding on the inside, they know the places it is coming from, and it isn't bad enough that you need surgery," I answer. "That's why they're keeping you one more night, for observation just in case. They said you'll be dizzy and nauseous and in pain, but if you rest and use the healing serum, you'll be better soon."
Tobias sighs, his dark eyes unsteady and tired. "How soon?"
The Tori situation is still weighing on him, pressing him to fix the issue of having her in power while he is tied down. I doubt Mike is letting her have any sort of leeway at the moment, but I know that Tobias will drive himself insane over not being in control of her after she just practically massacred our soldiers.
"If you rest—and I mean seriously rest, as in you don't move for a few days—then you should be better within the week," I bargain with him. I don't know if that is actually true, but I know of his resilience, and how therefore his healing time is usually half an ordinary person's. Or so he makes it that way.
He closes his eyes and wraps an arm loosely around my hips to make me come closer. I rest my forehead against his, my hands on his shoulders because it is probably the only place I can touch.
"Everything hurts," he mumbles.
There is nothing anyone can do to change that, and it frustrates me. Before I can tell him that I'm sorry, he asks, "Are you okay?" again. And I almost want to hit him for asking that in the state he is in.
"Tobias, I'm fine," I assure him. "I've had a concussion before."
He tightens his jaw and reaches up to hold my left hand, which is wrapped in the brace. The fabric separates our palms. "This is my fault," he murmurs, staring at my broken arm.
I don't like it when he is injured or sick for obvious reasons, and one of them is that he tends to reflect harshly back on himself when he has time to think about it. It is when he is helpless that he hates himself, and I can't help but come to the conclusion that it derives from his childhood; after he was punished, Marcus left him to contemplate his mistakes.
I frown. "If you hadn't pushed me out of the way, I would have been where you were. And I would have died," I retort.
It is clear that he is not going to argue. We share the same breaths for a moment, his eyes fluttering as they try to stay open. Most of his time in the last couple of days has been spent sleeping, yet I don't think he is sleeping well.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers.
"Yes." I press my lips to his cheek before glancing at the clock. "How about I help you sit back, and then I can go get some real food from the dining hall?"
He agrees. So I make sure he is situated on the bed before I leave him, wandering out of the infirmary, each step jarring my head.
I barely make it a step outside before I run into Mike.
"Tris," he greets. The dark circles under his eyes give away how he has been during the last few days, and he sees how I am similarly haggard and decides to skip the pleasantries. "I was actually on my way to see Four. I figured he was still in the infirmary."
Shifting my balance from one foot to another, I say, "He is."
"Could I talk to him?"
My first instinct is to guard Tobias from any distress right now, which this conversation is bound to bring, but it is his duty to know the latest news. Unfortunately, leadership duties never pause, even after near-death experiences. I'm familiar with the protocol.
I rub the exhaustion from my eyes. "Yeah."
Mike follows me back into the infirmary, past the rows of beds that are surprisingly not all filled. I hadn't noticed much until now.
"There were more casualties than this," I remark.
"Yes, there were," he confirms. "We couldn't move everyone back here, so some of them are still being treated in Amity."
I should have known. Just because I was lucky enough to end up on the train back doesn't mean everyone else was.
When I reach the makeshift room across from the pharmacy, I slip through the curtain with Mike right behind me. Tobias straightens in the bed as much as he can at the sight of his fellow leader.
"Four," Mike says. "I'm sorry to bother you right now—this is clearly terrible timing—but there are some things we need to discuss."
Tobias clears his throat. "Of course."
Mike takes a breath. "I don't even know where to begin."
"Well, you can tell me what happened in the first place."
Mike shakes his head disappointedly. "Tori mobilized troops in the middle of the night. I wasn't aware until they had already arrived at the wall," he explains. "She told everyone that it was a unanimous decision by leadership, and nobody questioned it."
Leave it to the Dauntless to blindly follow whatever they are ordered. Although how were they to know that they were heading directly into a war that they weren't prepared for? They have trusted Tori all their lives; she has been a friend, a mentor to most of the Dauntless as a tattoo artist, someone they could pour their hearts out too because she could keep a secret.
And she betrayed them for her unknown interests.
"I got there after the damage had been done," Mike continues. "They lost more than we did, but we lost many."
"How many?" Tobias asks hesitantly.
"187."
The number almost knocks me over. I knew it was a lot, I saw them all, but knowing the official body count is much more real. It sinks into my stomach, creating a hollowing pit.
Tobias pinches the bridge of his nose, visibly but silently upset.
"Despite the loss, we did take Amity. We sent about half of our soldiers out there to hold it, but I think the factionless took too great of a hit to come back for now."
With a heavy sigh, Tobias says, "Good. But no trains. We should only use trucks to move the food for the time being."
"I agree."
I bite my lip as I watch him, amazed that he can naturally make the right decisions when he is bleeding on the inside. It is apparent that his attention is declining though, the longer this conversation drags on. "What are we going to do about Tori?" he finally asks.
Mike crosses his arms. "I think it's safe to say that she will not maintain her position."
"And she won't leave willingly."
After a pause, Mike suggests, "Why don't we just tell everyone the truth? Some of them saw that battle. They all know that that many people shouldn't have died. What they don't know is that it could have been handled differently."
Tobias contemplates it. "Maybe we should let her step down," he tells him. "Things are fragile right now, and I don't want her to point fingers and try to turn some of them against us."
Mike nods. "We can bring her in as soon as you're up for it. Then we will give her the choice to step down peacefully and we will chalk it up to a mistake, or we will force her out. Either way."
The heart monitor beside Tobias's bed quickens momentarily before returning to a normal rhythm. In the solemn silence, Mike points out, "That leaves the question of who our third leader should be. Tori sure isn't recommending anyone."
His gaze drifts over to me, his eyebrows raised in encouragement. I shake my head. "I appreciate the offer," I tell him. "But leadership isn't for me."
It is clear that he was sincerely hoping I would consider the position again. I try to think of who I would pick, but although I place a lot of trust in my friends, they wouldn't want the responsibility of leader.
Impatiently, Tobias decides, "We'll leave it up to a vote if we can't think of anyone."
With that, Mike takes his leave, ordering Tobias to rest so that he can be back on his feet as soon as possible. I meet Tobias's eyes when the curtain closes.
"187," I repeat.
"I just want to know," he says, "why she did it."
Neither of us knows the answer right now. But I have a feeling it has something to do with revenge.
Revenge chars away people's senses. I know this all too well.
The next couple of days are spent strictly on taking care of him.
I help him eat, cover his body in ice packs, and routinely deliver his medication. When his nausea is overwhelming, I support him on the way to the bathroom.
But most of the time, I watch him. The uncertainty in his breathing patterns is sometimes panic-worthy, and on occasion I am on the verge of waking him up when I am not sure that his next breath is coming. It is a dreadful wait for him to heal, and I don't sleep a lot.
All I can think about, as I watch his chest rise and fall shallowly, is the place I was in about a month ago. If he does die in this war—again—what will I decide to do? It makes me choke on air to think about that possibility when I know firsthand what it would do to me, but let's face it: his odds of being killed in action have skyrocketed since I named him leader.
And hopefully I will never have to decide. Because I know that I would never stand to suffer that way again, and I love him even more now than I did when he supposedly died.
Tobias tries to distract us both from our destructive thoughts that form during our monotonous days. He asks me to tell him about what Amity was like during this last summer when I was living there, and we laugh about the time I was injected with peace serum. He asks me to teach him the card game that Uriah taught me, and we play that on the occasions when his pain medicine has hit its peak.
It works for a while to tear us away from the poisonous reminders of the war happening outside the compound, but it doesn't stop the nightmares from tormenting me on the occasions that I do sleep. And I can tell something is bothering him beneath his physical discomfort, though he won't mention it.
Eventually, his bed-ridden days start to agitate him. Tobias once told me that he depends on action; that is why he used to participate in the recreational fights. He is loathing each boring minute, and the longer he is down, the more discouraged he becomes.
"You're getting better," I try to convince him. It is the third day since he came home, and I have noticed an improvement in his motions.
"If I was, then I would be able to walk to the bathroom on my own," he growls.
I sigh, not at him, but at this entire situation. "You should take a bath. It might help."
He glares at me darkly, indicating that that isn't happening. I don't even know how I would manage to help him in and out, so I guess that was a stupid suggestion. But he hasn't been able to shower, and although the nurses did their best in the infirmary to clean the dirt off so it wouldn't infect anything, they couldn't exactly do a decent job.
"Fine, sit up," I order. Then I pause. "Do you need help—"
"I can do it myself," he snaps.
My own patience is beginning to wear thin at this point. With a calming breath, I walk over to the bathroom for some distance.
A few minutes later, I return with a bowl of warm, soapy water and a cloth. Tobias has managed to push himself up, his legs over the edge of the bed.
"Put your arms up," I say.
He does, and I work his shirt off over his head. Blue and purple and even some black patches catch my eye, and I force the horror to stay off of my face as I reach for the damp cloth. It is even worse to consider that his back probably looked this extreme for the duration of his childhood.
If he catches the pity in my expression, then he doesn't say anything.
The doctor warned that although he took a lot of the direct damage to his back, the bruising could look more severe on his chest and abdomen. From what I have seen, there are only a few visible bruises on his back, just faded green colors in between the ink of his tattoo.
I carefully drag the cloth across his skin, keeping in mind the places that make him flinch from the contact. While the discolored areas are cause for concern, it is definitely difficult to stay completely focused when I have to graze every muscle in his torso. Despite having ice packs pressed to his skin for most of the day, he is warm, and I wish I could touch him without it hurting.
He has been abnormally silent. When I glance up at his face, there are tears on his cheeks, and his eyes are closed.
Immediately, my hands drop. "What's wrong?" I ask, frantic. "Where does it hurt?"
But nothing in his face or his body indicates pain. Tobias stares down at his lap and takes shaky breaths as I watch him with concern.
"I almost died," he says brokenly. "I was being trampled and I was suffocating and all I could think about was how I was going to die and never get to come home to see you again."
The way he rambles, the way it chokes him on the way out tells me that this is being wrenched up from somewhere so deep within him that I probably wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't influenced by the drugs. I frame his face in my hands and wipe the tears away for him.
"When I was living factionless, I knew I was almost certainly going to die. And I accepted it. I actually accepted it," he tells me. "I was so flippant and stupid."
A brief sob wracks his body, causing him to gasp at the stabbing ache it brings right after. And I understand more than most people what he is trying to say. You don't know how permanent death is until you are staring straight back at it, and only then do you have regrets as your body is moments from shutting down.
His eyes betray just how fearful he was, even if he has been trained his whole life not to display cowardice. But sometimes it isn't a lack of bravery to admit that you are scared.
"I don't want to do this anymore," he whispers.
I know. It splits me in half to see him cry. The rare times Tobias has cried were when he was in agony, and unfortunately every time usually has something to do with me, I have noticed.
My chin quivers as it takes every ounce of strength in me not to shatter with him. "Tobias," I murmur. "Come here."
Burying his face in my shoulder, he clutches at my waist and heaves in hiccuped breaths. My arms wrap around his neck, and I stare down his back, where the factions that we once wanted to break free from climb all the way up.
"I love you," I tell him. I sound on the verge of tears. "I love you so much."
Remorse sets in as I remember that just recently I was prepared to charge back into the heat of battle for all of the Dauntless lives taken. It was as if I needed him to remind me that we put each other first now, that my self-destructive tendencies must be long forgotten. It makes me sick that I wanted to try to be the hero again, after how many times I hurt him in the process.
There is a wet patch on my shoulder when he pulls away. And the way he kisses me makes my own body hum with the same angst he feels. I hold him there, desperate to share something good with him because neither of us have the resolve to take on this disheartening world anymore, and passion is our last hope to ignite it.
"We're alive," I whisper, my forehead pressed to his and his tears smudged on my cheeks. "That's all that matters."
TOBIAS POV
The crushing pressure comes in unexpected bursts.
One boot, its sole like shards as the foot of its owner bears down on me. Another, and the wind is knocked out of my lungs.
There are hundreds, thousands it feels like. When I believe that the worst is over, I am in the thick of it again, soldiers tripping over me and flattening me in a stampede that I am afraid is never going to end. I didn't know that people could be so heavy, but after this relentless trampling, even the lightest woman sends me sprawling into the snow.
I gasp for breath in the dense air underneath the cornstalks that are being mowed down along with me. The desperate inhaling inevitably brings dirt and snow and dead things from the earth, and I cough between each slam of bodies on top of me.
I gag and a bullet narrowly misses my arm. Another heave, and there is someone else down here with me, though they are no longer attempting to breathe.
Despite how weakened my entire body is, despite how quickly it is depleting every second I let myself become part of the ground, I claw my fingers into the rough soil and try to escape when there is a brief window of opportunity. It is helpless, and I yell something incoherent and infuriated.
Someone collapses, their elbow cracking into my spine. It makes me choke on air. As I roll over to shove them off in pure rage, there is blazing torment in my stomach when someone kindly steps directly on it.
A wheeze sends me flat on the ground again. More steps, and no air. Each pounding of military-grade boots snatches away the oxygen.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
My vision begins to darken as my smashed lungs attempt to drag in air. I gasp again and again but it isn't enough to keep me alive.
The dark closes in. I am in a closet that is too cramped for me to spread my legs out. My knees are pulled to my chest; my hands are full of loose dirt.
"Dad! Please!" I beg.
I'm trapped, I'm trapped, I'm trapped.
A brief second to catch my breath. And another wave of soldiers, my face pressed to a patch of snow, my throat constricted. It is too tight.
"Let me out!"
With a strangled breath, I wake up.
My eyes dart around in the pitch black, and I don't know where I am until I hear an unconscious sigh next to me. I focus on what is beneath my hands: a bed with soft blankets, not the crumbling earth. When my vision adjusts, I can make out the lines of the room where the walls and the ceiling meet.
A relieved sigh escapes my lungs. There is a dip in the bed as Tris shifts, and I freeze, hoping I haven't woken her. She has been looking after me nonstop, and she needs the rest she struggled to find the last few nights; I am not the only one who was injured.
Her body settles. Then it is just me and my heartbeat in the early morning darkness.
In a few hours, I am going to confront Tori along with Mike and the other advisors. Tris will be there as well as Uriah—the sole reason for his presence has something to do with the bullet in his arm, I assume. He is probably the only person attending that was involved in the battle firsthand, and I know he wants to be there to watch it all transpire.
I wish it had not come to this. This isn't something I am looking forward to, but it is my duty to protect Dauntless's interests, and Tori has the opposite idea.
Tris is coming for her "peace of mind". I just think she doesn't want me to walk to the meeting by myself, since I am still not at a hundred percent—probably more like fifty percent. But she definitely has her own grievances with Tori, so she should be there too regardless.
My head tilts to the right to look over at her, since I have no desire to roll on my side and ruin the absence of pain. I don't want her to worry about me. I notice how she winces at bright lights or loud noises and how the blood rushes to her head so she has to pause when she stands, and the last thing she needs to be stressing about is how I am.
Maybe she has noticed that I have been waking up from nightmares, maybe not. I just went through a traumatic experience, and I am convinced that they will fade in the following weeks, like how some people panic at the sound of jarring noises for some time after hearing gunshots.
I don't have time to heal. I don't have time to sink into the murky depths of depression.
I'm restless again, fidgeting with the covers and glancing over at Tris every once in a while hoping that she will eventually wake. It has been a new form of torture waiting for days on end to get back to whatever it is that resembles my daily life, and it doesn't make it any easier when Tori believes that she is still running Dauntless unchecked.
Eventually the dawn does come. Tris and I inject ourselves with the healing serum, get dressed, and eat a quick meal that I initially refuse; that is, until she threatens to force it down my throat.
Then we are making the agonizing trek up to the Pire.
"Tell me if you need to stop," she says.
I tighten my grip on her shoulder and breathe through my nose harshly. She steadies me with an arm around my lower waist, carefully placed so that she won't accidentally touch any bruises.
But that might be inevitable. Everything hurts. The ache vibrates through my abdomen the most and radiates from there with every step.
Several onlookers stare when they see me, and before I can let their attention make me feel weak, I level a glare at them that forces their prying eyes away.
I resort to distracting myself with conversation.
"Who came by the other day?" I ask. "The time when I was really out of it."
Vaguely, I remember Zeke knocking on our door a couple of days ago and ushering himself in with enough food to last us a while trapped in our apartment. He tried to say something to me, and I think I snapped at him, and Tris laughed and told him not to take it personally. I will have to thank him. And apologize. Maybe.
But before that, someone else visited while the pain medication had me in another world. Tris bites her lip before answering carefully, "It was Caleb."
Pressing my lips together, I train my gaze forward again, to the elevator at the end of the hall.
"We've been getting along better lately," she admits, sensing my distaste. "I've noticed that when he is being less protective, he seems to be more bearable."
"Tell him to be like that all the time, and maybe he and I can be in the same room," I quip, trying to catch my breath.
She gives me a look, and I grin. Her eyes are brighter this morning, the prominent bruise on her jaw finally starting to yellow.
"Don't try to act like you're never protective."
It reminds me that I haven't been very protective as of late—in fact, she has needed to be protected from me. I don't recall all of the sharp comments I have made towards her during these hazy days of recovery, but I know that they have probably been frequent.
"I'm sorry if I have said things recently that sounded harsh," I tell her slowly as we step into the elevator.
With a laugh, she leans her head against my shoulder and says, "Nothing I'm not used to."
Once again, I am hit with the same feeling I had the night when we were heading out to Amity. I think it is because she stayed. I was awful to her, but she loves me, and so she understood, just as she has hundreds of times before. And this time, I truly let myself believe it.
Everything with Tris feels permanent, like there won't ever be a day when I can't approach her about something, like she will always be my ally in anything I do. I know this, but why do I feel so terrified by the idea of making it permanent?
I stare down at her, at the hint of a smile on her lips, and I decide that it would be better to fully consider the idea when this meeting isn't weighing my mind down.
When we step off the elevator, we walk around the corner to the conference room, where it seems that everyone is gathered except for Tori. Nobody tends to use the chairs in here, I have noticed, so I take the furthest one in the room, at the end of the table.
Uriah kicks his feet up in the one next to mine. "Glad to see my favorite brooders back to work," he says.
"Glad to see that even a bullet couldn't make you shut up," I grumble, not quite ready to talk to anyone this early in the morning.
"Geez." He gives Tris a knowing look. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you hated these leadership things."
She pushes his feet off of the table. "I'm here for support," she tells him, winking at me. "Quite literally."
Uriah snorts. "Yeah, right. Even internally-bleeding Four could kick my ass up and down the Pit."
Suddenly, Tori saunters into the room, her head held high. All conversation ceases as all eyes snap over to her.
A rush of hot fury passes through my veins at the sight of her, nonchalant and uncaring, like she hasn't lost sleep like the rest of us have. From her perspective, she did what the rest of us weren't bold—and stupid—enough to do, and she succeeded. She doesn't care that it ended with 187 Dauntless bodies. She doesn't care that Tris could have easily been among them.
Her eyes settle on me, sitting at the end. She seems shocked, and beneath her confidence there is a twinge of worry. "Glad to have you back, Four," she says. "Shall we decide what we are going to do about Amity?"
I clench my jaw and don't respond to her blatant denial.
Mike clears his throat. "We need to talk about what you did, Tori."
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "What is this, an intervention? While you two played around with the idea of attacking Amity, taking your sweet time, I got it done. Now you're going to chastise me?"
"You played around with 187 lives," I spit.
"There were going to be deaths no matter what we did. This is war."
After nearly a week of being bedridden and contemplating what she did, I can't help but silently seethe as I listen to her excuses. But I am afraid my temper might be uncontrollable if I said what I really felt, so I don't reply.
Mike shakes his head. "It doesn't even matter whether you won or not," he tells her. "Two out of three leaders voted against you. You defied us."
"As if neither of you have ever defied another leadership decision!" she exclaims, gesturing towards me. "Are we just going to forget about Four throwing a fit and making us all uncomfortable, arguing with Tris when we were in an important meeting?"
"That was staged," I retort. I want to explain to her that because of our careful treading and not outright force, we got what we wanted from Marcus. But I don't think she would understand.
"It's over, Tori," Mike says firmly. "If you step down calmly, we won't speak negatively of you during the announcement."
Only then does she realize that it is the end of the road for her. Her fighting spark dies out, and she clenches her fists while her gaze rests on the floor. Maybe she knows that the outcome was horrible but can't bring herself to admit it; I would have a shred of respect for her if she would.
"Okay?"
"Fine!" She throws her hands up. "Fine. Turns out, I don't want to be a part of you all running this faction into the ground anyway."
As she is about to storm out, something is still nagging at my mind, begging me to know the truth. So I call out, "Tori."
She halts, her eyes narrowed, daring me to say anything taunting to her. But I don't want to. I just want to know...
"Why did you do it?"
Why did she backtrack on her entire identity? How could she forget that she knew many of those people out there, marked them with their first tattoos and made them a part of Dauntless? How could she have treated all of us—her team, her friends—this way?
Searching for words, Tori eventually settles on saying, "We had Jeanine; that was the first part of the deal I made with Evelyn several months ago. She was under our roof, and she was getting what she deserved, but I knew that one day I would get to be the one to kill her. Then you sold her off to the factionless, and now she is dead. The woman who killed my brother. And I didn't get to do it."
When she exits the conference room, it is like a breath of fresh air for some. But for me, it is infuriating.
She had proven before, when she fought off Tris for the right to murder Jeanine, that she would turn on her friends at a moment's notice if it meant getting her revenge. Now she turned on Mike and I, silently opposing us at every turn because she had a vendetta against me for trading her selfish dream for Dauntless lives. In the end, an absence of vengeance is all that she regrets.
What she doesn't understand is that justice is futile, that some of us have been chasing it for all of our lives and never get any satisfaction even when we do catch it. That sometimes, the best revenge is swallowing those tragedies and moving forward with them, toward something better.
That is what I want for Dauntless and for the city. Unfortunately, there will be more bloodshed before that can happen.