Exhaustion seeps into my bones and spreads through my body. I'm aching everywhere from my guard's attempt to get me to speak. The only thing I've told them has been the location of the factionless, though that could change soon. They haven't used Tris again, yet.
I'm resting with my back against the windowless wall, sitting on the bed. I may be hurt and my body may be screaming for sleep, but I have never been more awake. I want answers I know I won't get. Still, when my usual guard comes in to escort me to Jeanine—or to make sure I haven't escaped—I ask the question I always ask upon her arrival.
"How's Tris?" I don't put my whole heart into it, mainly because she never answers. So when she does respond with a hint of pity in her voice, my head shoots up.
"Her execution has been rescheduled." She quickly corrects her tone and glares at me, unfeeling.
I spring up from my position, panic numbing the pain from her assaults. I don't even attempt to keep the fear out of my voice. "When?" It's more demanding than normal, and I can see her shock for a brief second before her scowl returns.
"Now." She turns to leave as my heart stops. Tris. My Tris.
I thought maybe I would be able to save her, to rescue her in the process of gathering information, but there is no chance now. It's my fault. If I hadn't come, Jeanine wouldn't be able to kill her. They would need her for experiments. But now she has a replacement.
I am that replacement.
Immediately I sprint to the door and bang on it. "Tris!" I shout, tears threatening to spill.
I rarely cry. I cried for my mother and then vowed to never do it again. But then I met Tris. She changed me.
She made me stronger, happier, lighter. Safer. She gave me something to cry about. She gave me something to love. She made me come to life.
And now she'll never know. I have to tell her, to hold her, to whisper the only advice I can offer. I have to save her. But I can't.
"Tris! I want to see her!" I scream louder now; the tears already burn a trail down my cheeks. I wipe them away furiously. "Tris!" My hand probably hurts from pounding so hard, but I don't notice. Not with the only good thing I've ever had being ripped away from me.
And then, as if by some bizarre miracle, her hand appears, pressed onto the glass. I study it for a second, recomposing myself before daring to look out the window.
There she is. Her golden hair. Her slight yet perfectly strong build. Her stormy eyes which hold more secrets and stories than ever to be discovered. There is also fear hiding behind those stories.
Still breathing shakily, I press my hand against the outline of hers. The lack of her warmth on the glass frustrates me further. She can't leave me. I will break. I love her. My forehead pushes against the cool surface, and my eyes squeeze shut.
My head screams a mantra through my thoughts. I don't know if it is for her or for me, but I try to spread the message to both of us.
Be brave.
I can't open my eyes.
Be brave.
She won't be there. She never will be there.
Be brave.
I inhale sharply, and fall back on the bed, thinking about nothing and everything. Trying not to shatter.
Be brave.
But I am a coward.
I stand up, yelling and throwing my fists against the wall. My head throbs and my heart is gone. Tris took it with her.
Tris. Her name forms in my mouth, but I quickly replace it with a frustrated sob. No sense in yelling for the dead.
But she isn't dead. Not to me. Her flame will continue to burn. She will always be in that chasm, staring at me intensely, curiously, learning my past. Becoming a part of my life. Becoming a part of me. My better part.
Gone.
It's not fair. She was a bird with her whole life ahead of her. Yet she was trapped in a society that clipped her wings and warred against her. A war that settled in her mind after the simulation attack.
And that war led to the destruction of my heart, to the destruction of her.
Be brave.
I don't know how long I lay on my mattress—it now rests on the floor, partially destroyed—but it feels like years. Time seems to have stopped altogether. It gave up its life when she did. The pain of the past few hours has come to me, making me unable to stand. It almost numbs the memory of Tris. Almost.
I am vaguely aware of the keypad being pressed, of the door sliding open. But when my eyes land on Peter's blurry face, I come out of my painful haze and jump up. it was unwise for him to come here when I am like this, especially since he played a part in the execution. "What do you—" I stop when I notice her.
Her legs are draped over his arm, and her short hair falls in layers towards the tile. Face pale. Eyes open. Tris. Dead.
My heart seems to jump back in my chest at once, but it appears to be incapable of pumping blood. All of the memories spill open, and my pain is raw again. I'm dead, too. She came into my life and changed me. She was the one thing I'd found that I was terrified of losing. And here it is, my worst fear, splaying out in front of me, ebbing my life. I find my voice.
"Oh my God. Oh—" I am cut off by Peter. My horrified gaze remains glued to Tris.
"Spare me your blubbering, okay? She's not dead; she's just paralyzed. It'll only last for about a minute. Now get ready to run."
Slowly, my heart starts to pump again. She's not dead. I'm not dead. We're alive. All of the pain flutters away for this one moment of relief. My love. Alive. But we aren't safe yet.
"Let me carry her," I plead distantly. I need to feel her, to hold her again, to know if all of it is real.
"No. You're a better shot than I am. Take my gun. I'll carry her."
The logical part of my brain understands, so I run my hand briefly over Tris's forehead. Sure enough, the warmth of her life sends the familiar shock through my fingertips. She's alive.
I take the gun from Peter's holster and lead us through Erudite headquarters, listening to Peter's shouted directions, not hesitating to shoot anyone who gets in the way of our escape.
When we reach a room with trash cans lining the walls, Peter drops Tris and shuts the door. I rush over to her.
Crouching down, I press my hand to her cheek. She looks tired and hurt. But she remains strong. She manages a small smile for me. I can tell she still carries the weight of paralysis along with fatigue.
"Tris." My voice sounds scratchy—from screaming probably—and I know I must look terrible. I probably would cry, too, but I'm cried out. I got her back. She would've died. But Peter saved her…? I decide to think about that later.
"Beatrice," she corrects me softly. I laugh at her ability to still have some humor at the most inappropriate times. I almost lost her. I don't know if I can go through that one more time.
"Beatrice," I repeat before pressing my lips to hers, soaking in the warmth that I have longed for for so long. Her fingers twist around my shirt collar, holding me closer. She's like a painkiller, and I am hopelessly addicted. Never in my life have I hated someone as much as I hate Peter in the moment he interrupts us, even though I know he's right.
"Unless you want me to throw up all over you guys, you might want to save it for later." My annoyance soon vanishes when I remember that he saved Tris and is helping us escape. I don't really know how to feel about that, but I suppose it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that Tris is alive.
I don't plan on having her die anytime soon. She is a permanent part of me, even if the inevitability of our death is so high in this war. We will be okay, in the end, because we have each other. And that's all we need.