She wanted to scream out, but couldn't. She couldn't let them know how much pain she was really in, not could she allow them to break her, less she chance revealing anything about NCIS. Yet, she could feel her willpower dying. Not to protect NCIS, there she was strong, but rather to live. She had nothing, but had lost everything. She was no one, yet everytime their fist slammed into her face, a little more of her died inside. Nor how, she could answer.
This was not her. She was not weak, nor was she inferior, yet here she was, failing to maintain her will to live. Even with the painful shaky breathing, she could feel the life draining from her broken body. Her heart was slowing down. She tried to breath, but it was too late.
Her lungs burned for lack of oxygen, and unconciousness was slowly pulling her back to it's dark tundra. She knew it was the end and did not fight death's grip. When along the long road of her life, did she lose her soul, the very basics of who she was as a person?
She did not hear her dungeon door slam open, nor did she see Tony burst in and free her from her binds. She didn't see him shead his $500 dollar armani jacket to keep her broken body decent, away from prying eyes. She could not feel the soft kisses he planted in her hair, for her light had already been estinguished.
"Ziva," he whispered into her hair, "Ziva please don't go. I love you Ziva." She never saw the pain in his eyes as he realised she had no pulse.