Acknowledgment: As with the many, many thousands of other NCIS fanfic stories here on FFN and elsewhere, characters and events borrowed from NCIS for amateur entertainment only. No profits made.

Yeah, it's another post 11x2 story: Count me in as one of the TIVA crowd who isn't crazy about how things have gone for them since Ziva left. I suspect the main reason that there are so many of these stories is that those of us saddened by events had to find a way to process Ziva's choices, and her departure, within our understanding of the characters.

This is how I've worked things out for myself.

THE HEART HEARS; THE HEART KNOWS

"Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know." William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

18 months earlier:

"Why? Why should I not be angry, with all that has been taken? Why should I have faith in you? Show me a sign," she had prayed. "Show me a sign that I should not lose hope."

Ziva could feel the solemn air around her as she sat, alone, in the small, unassuming synagogue, could smell the familiar scents of the wooden benches and spent candles, of worn scrolls and books and the faint remaining scents from the wedding held there only hours before...

"Show me a sign..."

Only a breath later, she heard a sound, and when she spun around, ready to defend herself, there he was. Her partner. Her partner. Tony. Ready to do her bidding; ready to do anything she asked, to be there for her, offering to give her whatever she asked.

"Show me a sign..."

And the Master of the Universe answered.

Present:

Ziva awoke with a small start, finding that the gentle rocking of too-warm train and her hours without sleep had let her nod off – something still startling to her and that even now rarely happened, given her life. Her eyes darted around the compartment and she saw the sympathetic eyes of the older woman across from her – her abrupt awakening must have caught the woman's attention. She lowered her gaze apologetically, and turned to look out the window again toward the French countryside, again unseeing.

The persistence of the now-recurring dream rattled her slightly, appearing again at this moment, and under the circumstances. Ziva was not overly religious; she did not actively practice her faith but growing up in a country founded less than a century before, the fruition of the Zionist dream of generations, it was and always would be a part of her, written into her DNA. Beyond that, she had taken deeply to heart the lessons Gibbs provided, and his insistence that there simply are no coincidences colored her reaction to what had happened that day, months ago, in the synagogue.

"Show me a sign," she had prayed. It was not even a moment later that she turned, and there was Tony. "Show me a sign," she had prayed, and not just that; "show me a sign that I should not lose hope." Gibbs would tell her it was no coincidence; God would tell her, was telling her...

What? To stop struggling? To listen?

Ziva sighed, leaning back into the seat cushion, troubled. Perhaps it was simply the stress of this journey, she reasoned, and what waited for her at the end. She immediately discarded the thought; the memory had begun haunting her many days before she learned that Monique was so ill. But the circumstances facing her now – the prospect of losing yet another person from her past, this one for whom she felt such respect and affection and esteem – simply underscored for her that no matter her purpose, no matter what she told herself (and Tony) about her need to find herself in her past, it was not waiting to welcome her: to teach her, yes, to explain or elaborate or emphasize. But the past was gone, and no amount of searching, no amount of desire or need, would stop time or would allow her to find what was gone forever. The child she had once been was gone. That world was gone.

Her family was gone.

"Your biological family," whispered a tiny part of her. "You have others, no less family for being forged in a different kind of blood."

Monique was family. She was the older sister she longed to have, to be for her what she had tried to be for Tali. But now Monique was fading. Mossad and its people, another family, were not the same as those she'd left behind. Other than an individual here or there she might still know in Israel, they too were from different life, another time; those faces had changed, as surely as she had changed, once away from their teachings. As she focused again at the countryside beyond her window, seeing the first promise of color beginning within the rolling landscape's endless fields of lavender, Ziva finally came to terms with the idea that Israel held no answers for her now.

Ziva's journey was a long one – two flights, three trains, and an elderly rural bus was needed to reach the small stone abbey ahead. The scene was one out of countless tourism brochures: a rustic, rural route along the "lavender road;" a centuries-old abbey that still served as home for a small group of Cistercian nuns known for the honey and lavender sold in their gift shop, and the fine embroidered ecumenical stoles and the christening gowns they produced. Less known was the neighboring spiritual retreat and hospice they had taken over a decade earlier, sheltering and caring for the select few over the years who knew its existence.

This region was Monique's home. Ziva never learned the exact location of her friend and mentor's childhood, but she knew of Monique's return here over the years as escape and restorative, both physically and spiritually. Both over time and in recent years, Monique had been generous with the sisters here, providing them with the funds she could have used to buy a villa on the sea.

Did she somehow foresee that one day, she might need the sisters' shelter and care herself? Ziva closed her eyes at the thought of Monique's loss, a concept that still sounded impossible to her. She might have thought that one day, if she survived her dangerous life long enough to become an old woman, she would like to spend her last days here, Ziva reasoned. But she never, ever would have thought those days would be possible so soon...

The train stopped at the small, nearly deserted station that Ziva remembered from her other visit here, lifetimes ago. It took her only a moment to decide not to wait for the bus she knew would come by eventually, but to walk the few kilometers past the lovely old abbey and on to the hospice grounds. Only moments past abbey, she recognized at once that one of old stone buildings had been restored and converted to its current use, most likely as the sisters' production moved to newer and more cost-effective buildings on at the other side of the lavender fields.

Passing white birch trees that led to the retreat's entrance, she saw movement, as a small, grey clad figure emerged from the long covered walkway ahead. Ziva came into the cool stone entry where the woman stood to meet her, and said tentatively, "I believe I am expected – Ziva..."

"... David," the young nun smiled and nodded. "I would have known you by Monique's description of you," she offered in strongly accented English. "I am Sister Cleménce. Welcome."

Ziva felt a flare of hope to know that such a conversation took place, and she asked in a breathless rush, still in French, "She is doing better, then?"

The smile barely flickered. The woman might still be young but clearly was skilled in the way of handling difficult news. "She has her good days and her bad ones." Her soft, sympathetic words were offered in her own language now, in a lifting local accent. "Come – I will show you to your room."

"I would ..." Ziva began, then started again. "I am sorry. I don't wish to be rude, but ... I have come a long way and would feel better if I could see her right away."

The grey eyes were kind, but there was a firmness in her soft reply. "The doctor has just been with her, and she will likely sleep now through the day, possibly until morning." She paused and, maybe seeing something in Ziva's insistent worry, added in honest sympathy, "today was one of the bad days."

Ziva searched the nun's face – for a sign, for more, for hope; she wasn't sure. After only a moment, though, pained at the knowledge that she could not even give her friend the only thing she could offer in the circumstances – her presence – she blinked and finally nodded. "I see." She drew a deep, centering breath and agreed, "then, yes. I would like to see my room."

As they walked through the courtyard, Ziva could hear the strains of distant voices across the fields. As she glanced that way, her guide said, "Evensong, at the Abbey. You will often hear the choir or other music from the larger services even down here. And of course, if you would like to attend, many of the services are open to the public."

Ziva nodded and tried a smile in return, but found it difficult. Ever since she had heard that Monique was gravely ill, and only limited information about it available, Ziva had been distracted by her dread and fear for her friend. After she followed the woman for another few moments in silence, she asked suddenly, "Could I speak with her doctor?" Realizing that her blurted question sounded more like a demand, she explained, "I was not able to get much information about Monique's sickness or her condition – I simply received word that she was very ill and I took the first plane I could to come here. I have been out of reach for much of the last 36 hours and have not been able to contact those who might be able to tell me more."

The nun did not answer right away, but continued for another few meters, nodding ahead, "your room." She opened the heavy wooden door with an iron key, and led Ziva inside to see a stark but clean room with an old fashioned wash basin and pitcher, a small bed and duvet, and a smaller desk and chair. The thick stone walls were whitewashed, their only adornment a carved wooden cross above the bed. As Ziva put down her backpack, the woman said gently, "I will ask if the doctor can speak with you. I don't know her schedule for this afternoon, so am not certain how long she will be here. And it will depend whether or not the doctor has been given permission to discuss her condition and care, and with whom."

Ziva fought hard to suppress her frustration and anger at the circumstances. It was not this woman's fault that Monique was here, but she was a part of this hushed, devout community – one that Monique helped as she could, visited as she could – which all seemed so very wrong for the fierce and clever woman who was far too young to be wasting away. Ziva needed to see her, now, needed to know that any chance she might have to survive was being pursued, lest the too calm, too accepting sisters simply allow her to her fade away. And in this idyllic, pastoral setting – seeming more like 1214 than 2014 – it seemed as if modern medical care was the last thing offered here.

"I know you were provided with information about this place," the sister crossed over to open the window, letting in light and fresh air, "but I need to remind you that others in this place are here either for hospice care or for spiritual retreat, and we ask that you respect their privacy and solitude. The Abbey is a working community, and, with some obvious exceptions, our Order embraces silence. You are welcome to come and go as you please over much of the grounds, but we ask that you bear in mind it is the home of our Order, and to respect any signs or directions indicating that the public is not allowed access. You are always welcome to take your meals here when the others do, and there will always be one or more of us in the office you saw as you came in, where we met. If you have need of anything, you may ask there."

Ziva nodded, hoping she hid most of her burning impatience to press for more information about Monique. "May I come with you now, so I may learn if the doctor will speak with me?"

Whether she had or not, the young nun took the question in stride. "If you wish. I cannot promise how soon I will be able to speak with Dr. Laurent. You might enjoy a walk around the grounds while you wait. If you stay close by, we can call you in if the doctor can see you."

"Thank you," Ziva breathed, both in an effort to hold on to her fraying patience and in the continuing worry for Monique. She would not feel right until she could see her and assure herself that whatever could be done was being done.

Apparently, for the moment, that was all she could do.

To be continued.

A/N: I have become the queen of WIPs, though I never intended to be. This is not a long story, so I am hopeful of getting it done sooner rather than later, but as always, real life has first dibs and is killing me lately. This story has been in the mental works over for a few months and I had a bit of time to get it started. I promise I will try to get it wrapped up before too much more time goes by. I tried to hold off posting until the story was finished, but it wouldn't leave me alone this weekend, to the point that if I want to get RL work done, it needed to be up and out of my head for a bit. I really do tend to finish posted stories more often than those I've held onto, and I want to finish this to purge Ziva's departure and an unsatisfying Season 11 from my system in time to give S12 a chance. The next portion is already underway.

And a warning to those who are hyper-sensitive about how Ziva is portrayed in fanfic: I like Ziva; in fact, I like "my" Ziva more than the snarky, thoughtless, reckless Ziva the writers have thrown us. But I see her as a complex, unsettled woman who, because of her life and recent events, does not always make saintly or smart choices; she does not always see reality for what it is and does not always act kindly, even if she has the best of intentions. In other words, she's a good person but she's human. If you read this and don't like how she's shown, I respect your right to your opinion, but I respect my right to have one, too.

"This above all; to thine own self be true." Thanks, Uncle Willie. Would love to hear your thoughts.

~S~