So far, the story has focused a lot on Ziva's interactions with the rest of the team. So I figured it was time for a more introspective chapter with Ziva by herself.


Chapter 7
The Decree

Ziva goes for a jog that night, hoping that it will clear her head. Her new apartment is smaller and less luxurious than the one that was blown up, but she loves the neighborhood. It's only one block down from a busy street with a corner cafe where she buys coffee in the mornings, and a bookstore where she browses in the evenings. She smiles every time she sees the display table of Deep Six.

This evening, though, Ziva pulls on her tennis shoes and starts jogging down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, away from the shoppers and the red signs blinking Open. There's a residential neighborhood this way - quiet streets lined with houses and manicured lawns, popular with joggers and dog-walkers. It's just what she needs. She certainly isn't going to stay in her apartment, alone with her thoughts.

It's a cool evening, and soon Ziva has settled into an steady rhythm. A cherry tree down the street is in bloom, so thick with tiny white flowers that she can't even see the branches. As she approaches it, a breeze kicks up. It smells like rain and springtime, and Ziva closes her eyes as it blows across her, cooling the drops of sweat on her face. The leaves rustle as the tree branches sway, and just as Ziva jogs past, the tiny white blossoms scatter in the wind. She slows down to watch them swirl and fall against the pale green grass. It looks like a waterfall of beaded white light.

It's easy, during moments like this - quiet, peaceful moments that she tries to find every day, and grab onto - to pretend that those three months in Somalia happened to someone else. She's here in DC, whole and unharmed, and the cherry trees are blooming. It's a world away from blistering desert heat, sand in her clothes and blood in her mouth. She can almost trick herself into believing that it wasn't her who spent weeks tied to a chair.

A few blocks later, the sky is overcast. The gray clouds seem to hover low, right above the tree branches. Ziva keeps jogging even as she feels the first few raindrops fall on her arms and face. Then -

A hand slides under her cheek, gently raising her head up from the rough floor. A moan escapes her; after the beating she took earlier, it hurts too much to move her head. But before she can black out again, blessedly cool drops of water splash her face. Ziva gasps at the strange sensation - she hasn't had anything to drink since yesterday - and another hand brushes her hair back, then raises a cup of water to her parched lips. Her eyelids are sticky with blood, but she forces them open, and Tamir's face, looking down at her with such pity, swims into focus through the pain. She tries to sit up, but -

The rain rips her out of the flashback just as suddenly as it had triggered it. There was no rain in the Somali desert, not like this. It's falling fast and thick now, until Ziva is soaked to the skin. She stops at the next corner and bends over, her hands on her knees, breathing hard. The rain feels good on her body, cool and cleansing, and the sound of it drowns out her pulse pounding in her ears. She straightens up and stretches, then resumes her jog, despite the weather.

Her feet pound the sidewalk steadily, and with each step, Ziva feels her anger rising. At Tamir. At herself. She hasn't flashed back like that in months. She can't let Tamir effect her like this. She picks up her speed and jogs several more blocks on anger alone. The spring rain stops - or maybe she's just outrun it, and she wonders vaguely if she could outrun all her problems if she just kept jogging long enough.

Chukat, Ziva, she reminds herself. It was the name of the parsha that had angered her so much when she was young. Chukat. The decree. She's forgotten most of the parsha names by now, but not that one, even after all these years.

Right after her bat mitzvah, Eli had decided that Ziva would attend Torah study classes for a year, long enough to read every parsha once. He never asked his daughter whether she wanted to do it or not; he just made the decree. And since she was still a good little Jewish girl then, so eager to please her father, she had agreed.

It wasn't until many years later, after even surviving a suicide mission wasn't good enough for him, that Ziva finally gave up on trying to please her father.

The rain has stopped, but Ziva isn't sure if she's outrun the storm or if it just hasn't touched this part of the neighborhood. She still isn't quite used to DC's sudden spring showers, so different from the weather in Tel Aviv. Across the street, little girl rides down the sidewalk on her bike, her feet pumping the pedals with the slow, shaky movements of a beginner. A man - her father - is jogging right behind her, holding the back of the seat to keep her from toppling over. As Ziva jogs by, she turns her head and glances at his hand, strong and steady, keeping his daughter balanced.

It wasn't until many years later that Ziva finally understood Chukat. It had upset her so much when she first read it. Moses struck the rock to yield water in the desert, and in return, God made the devastating decree that he would not live to enter the Promised Land. Ziva went rounds with her Torah study teacher over it. She insisted that it was unfair. She kept asking why one defiant act was enough to cancel out years of service. She can't remember her teacher's answer now, just that it hadn't satisfied her.

It had frightened her too, that just one act of disobedience could incur God's wrath and make you fall from grace like that, even after you had worked so hard for so long. It reminded her of her father more than she could admit to herself at the time.

But on the worst night, the last night that she saw Tamir, she understood how one wrong action could cancel out dozens of right ones, just as if they never existed. Tamir had tended to her for months, bringing her food and water, treating her injuries. He was always kind to her, and even gave her a blanket to sleep under at night. But in the end, he hurt her worse than anyone else in that camp. Even though he was gentle. Even though it was brief. Even though he was hardly the only man in that camp to use her. Tamir was the only one that she actually trusted, and so he was the only one who could betray her.

Evening has started to turn into night by the time Ziva comes to a stop again. Darkness is falling around her while the stars come out above. Lights shine, warm yellows and whites, in the houses lining the street. Ziva stops at a corner and slowly turns around, looking back at the way she's come.

She made up her mind at the house today, right after she saw Tamir. She isn't going to talk about it. She isn't going to tell her team that she would've forgotten her own name if not for Tamir. He was the only one who ever called her by her name, instead of the black-eyed Jew or the many other, worse things that she heard in Somalia. She certainly isn't going to explain that she would've died there without him. She can't afford to let her team think that she is defending Tamir. He undid saying her name and saving her life and weeks of kindess to her, all in one night.

Ziva takes a deep breath before she starts back for her apartment. She's come farther than she meant to, and of course every step that she's jogged this evening is more that she'll have to jog back. Still, she has an excellent sense of direction. It's far, but she knows exactly how to get back to her apartment.

But she feels so lost.


I worry this chapter might have been a little confusing. If you have any questions about the story, please ask!