A/N: This is about Ziva in Somalia, and the aftermath. It doesn't follow the show's story, but isn't that what fanfics are for? This is a whole different writing style as my other stories, but I really enjoy writing like this. So, please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.
The first time, she is sitting alone in a dark cell. She is thinking. She is thinking of words and meanings, and words that have no meaning at all. But this one has.
Light.
– Noun. 1) A measure or supply of light; illumination: The wall cuts off our light. 2) The state of being visible, exposed to view, or revealed to public notice or knowledge; limelight: The outcome has placed her in the light. 3) A gleam or sparkle, as in the eyes: The light in her eyes hadn't returned. –
She longs for the light. She needs the light, like Gibbs needs his boat to sail on seas of loss and like Tony needs his girls to make sure he doesn't love again and like McGee needs his games to forget the pain of real life. Like she needs them, to be complete, and she will never be complete again.
She never believed in good or bad, not even as a little girl. She isn't even sure she has ever been a little girl.
No, she may have been young, or small, or inexperienced, but she was never little.
This isn't voicing an opinion, but a fact. A fact she isn't proud of, or sad of, or even angry. She doesn't feel anything about it, and that isn't any different from every other thing these days.
What is different, is one thing. Ziva now believes in evil.
Evil.
– Adjective. 1) Morally wrong or bad; immoral; wicked: evil deeds; an evil life. 2) Harmful; injurious: evil laws -
She now believes in pure, poisonous evil that burns and aches and is ruthless and cruel. And she knows what it is, what it is like to be a killer, and to murder and destroy lives and hearts and nations.
She, however, was never evil. She can't say she never enjoyed the feeling, the adrenaline rush when executing a target, and the feeling of pride before her father sends her away, wishing for more, looking for perfection he will never find. But she never did it just because she could. She never killed just because, just because of the rush, and the feeling, and maybe even the excitement –she is not even sure what excitement is anymore- because if she would have done that, she would have been evil.
Evil like the men that took her here, the men that were wounded by her knives, her fists, her guns, but not where it mattered. Saleem lost some of his men, and of that Ziva is proud, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to stop them.
The second time she sits again, and nothing has changed, but everything has.
She is still alone. It is still dark. She still longs.
Longing.
– Noun. 1) Strong, persistent desire or craving, especially for something unattainable or distant, filled with longing for home. 2) An instance of this, a sudden longing to see old friends -
She longs for the light, for home, for her friends.
She remembers sitting on a chair, being bound, and hit, and sore and aching. She was all of those things, but never this. Never broken. All those tortures in there, in that godforsaken hellhole in some faraway country, hadn't broken her.
What did, was coming home.
Home.
– Noun. 1) A house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household. 2) A person's native place or own country -
No, she thinks. This is wrong. She is back in her house, her apartment, the shelter that is her usual residence. She is back in her native place, her native country, but she doesn't feel at home.
When she thought of home, she thought of them. Her light, the ones that weren't evil, not like the men that hurt her -they hurt her, and she hurt them, but they weren't evil- and the ones she was longing for. The ones she missed
To miss.
– Verb. 1) To fail to hit or strike: to miss a target. 2) To regret the absence or loss of: I miss you all dreadfully -
Gibbs. Oh, how she has missed his head slaps, and 'gear up's', and the way he gently kissed her on her cheek, and the way he held his hands on her back, guiding her, back home, back to them, back to the light.
Tim. She has missed his stuttering, his nervous ramblings, and the way he looked annoyed but smiled a little when she and Tony were bickering. The way he looked at her, a true, genuine friend.
Abby. The way Abby hugged her, and the way Abby cheered her up, and wrapped her in love, and care and family –the real kind-, and the way she was happy.
Ducky. How could she not have missed Ducky, missed the way he calmed her, and made her tea and listened to her, and the way he took care of his guests –that's what Ducky said they all were, guests of life- and talked to the dead, and didn't mind them not providing any answers.
Palmer. Yes, even Palmer was missed, and she had never expected to have so much room in her heart, to fit them all in.
Tony. She hadn't missed him. She hadn't missed his way of joking, of quoting movies just to make sure nobody cracked trough his shell –though colourfully painted in charm smiles and flirting and expensive clothes, is was still a shell- and she hadn't missed him.
He had always been there.
Every beating that had been taken, every insult that was made, every bone that had been broken, Tony had been there to help. To make sure she didn't give up, because he believed in everything she wasn't. He believed she was a killer and a loving woman, a soldier and a beautiful girl.
That false sense of the belief, the trust she was sure he had in her –his own ninja- is what kept her going. It is what made sure she could be home again.
But she isn't. Not now, not in this hot country that is so full of life for some, but deserted and empty to her, that is her native land but never was and never will be her home.
So, she calls him. She tells him everything, from the beatings to the insults to the realisations to the words. From her broken bones to her crushed heart, her bruised cheeks and her sore eyes. She tells him of the horror when they cut her up, of the gasps for air when they held her head under water, of the pain in every inch of her body when they made her stand for hours. She tells him everything, except for the one thing that matters to her – of him.
"Come home, Zee-vah" And she longs for it, wants it, needs it. But she cannot. Correction, she does not. Not before she is done here. Not before she proves to herself that she is broken but can be mended, she has to be.
She realises.
Realize.
– Verb. 1) To grasp or understand clearly 2) To make real; give reality to (a hope, fear, plan) -
The third time, she is laying on the ground, staring above her, at the stars.
Star.
-Noun. 1) Any of the heavenly bodies, except the moon, appearing as fixed luminous points in the sky at night. 2) a person's destiny, fortune, temperament, regarded as influenced and determined by the stars -
She feels a presence approaching her, and oh, how she wants it to be him. But it cannot be. He is in America, safe, and warm and happy and loved.
She quickly tilts her head, ready to attack if needed, and sees it's a little boy. A little boy that looks just like Tony.
Tony has a lighter skin, this boy's skin tone is darker, Tony has green eyes, this boy has brown ones, Tony's lips are fuller, this boy's are thin. But he is innocent, not aware of the wars and battles that are fought, but just pure innocence. Just like Tony.
He lays down next to her, and instead of being frightened of her -a woman that could kill him in a thousand ways, in the country of fighting, and of mothers grieving over lost children and fallen sons- he begins to sing.
It is a prayer, for all of those who died, who gave their lives or maybe just lost them, and for those who were left behind, empty, in pain and a part of them forever gone.
It is a prayer she recognises, for she had sung it a million times. For her mother, her sister, her brother, and all the ones she did not know but deserve a prayer nonetheless.
She starts to sing, too, and the boy turns around, facing her, an angelic expression on his face and his eyes filled with hope and pride, fear and grief, endings and beginnings.
Beginning– Noun. 1) The point of time or space at witch anything begins: the beginning of the route. -
Yes, this is a beginning, it would be slow and painful and maybe even impossible, but this is the beginning, and she sings once more –high and pure, softly and tenderly- and by the time the song ends, the boy is gone, and so is she, long lost in the darkness of the desert.
A/N: So? It's kind of a new style for me, and I have no idea if anyone likes it. The only one who already read it is my sister, and she is twelve and doesn't understand half the words I used so it doesn't really count. So, I need feedback! Review!
