Ziva stared at the battered woman in front of her, rendered motionless by shock and surprise.

She'd come to the bathroom to relieve herself, taking advantage of her new freedom—such a concept seemed so foreign to her, even now—that had been afforded her with her crutches. The sight of someone in the small room with her had sent her pulse racing and her muscles tensing as she readied to defend herself. But when she froze so did the shadowed figure, and she realized that it was not an intruder, but a mirror.

And for the first time in two years, she had the chance to look at what she had become.

She hadn't realized how gruesome her scar was, even when Tali's tiny fingers had traced over it two days ago. It tore across her face, from the hairline of her left brow, across the bridge of her nose, and down to the edge of the right side of her jaw. It ended somewhere between her jaw line and her neck, and as her own fingers ran over the furrow it made across her features, she remembered the Game in which she'd received the life-threatening blow.

It had started like all the others, but it had ended differently.

She still managed to defeat her opponent, though she still wasn't sure how. She'd caught his knife in the face, and her skin had parted beneath the blade like soft butter. Blinding pain had gripped her, but the blood that had poured into her eyes left her helpless against remainder of the onslaught. Only instinct and training kept her alive that day, and only dumb luck had allowed her wrest the knife from her opponent before plunging it into his throat.

She'd collapsed, and woken some unknown amount of time later, her skin tight with crusted blood that had only been half-heartedly wiped from her face. For days, she'd thought she would never see again, but then the swelling had diminished to the point where she could open her eyes. She wasn't sure how long she'd lain there on her, unable to move through the throbbing pain that lanced through her entire body whenever she did anything more than breathe. She'd thought Damon would throw her away, that he would have no use for a woman who was so disfigured, so damaged.

But she'd been wrong.

The blood and the slow-healing wound had only excited him, intensifying his obsession. She hadn't been all that surprised though—she'd been his for so long by that point, she could barely imagine what it would be like to not be under his control. She'd hated to admit it then, but the possibility of being discarded had frightened her. Being as incapacitated as she was, only Damon's claim on her had kept the others at bay.

But the wound had eventually healed, and the skin around it had tightened, and the sensation had slowly become familiar. And looking at it now, it was a shock to see it for herself, but it was not difficult to accept. She'd already had time to adjust to its presence.

What made her gut churn dangerously was the swirl of black that laced the skin of her left temple. Strands of ink swooped up to her forehead—where it was fractured by the scar that found its start there—and trailed down to the curve of her cheek. It was graceful and gentle, but every single line and finger of the tattoo ended with a pointed spike. It looked violent and hard, and the dark color against her skin looked more like a turbulent storm than a swirling breeze.

The design had no rhyme or reason to it, but it was distinct in its outline, and in it Ziva saw the tattoos that had graced the flesh of her tormentors. It, like theirs, was hard, and vicious, sharp and glaring against her skin.

Only Bloods wore such tattoos—it was what set them apart from the other Survivors, aside from their bloodlust. Since the Incident, Survivors had learned to fear those tattoos, to know that their lives were in imminent danger the moment they saw such markings.

And now she had one of her own.

There'd been no one else among the Herd with a tattoo. They'd marked her, set her apart, and she'd never realized. How had they done it? How could she not have known? But…

There had been one morning—closer to her Capture than her Rescue—when she'd woken up to find her face aching. Her skin had burned, and felt hot to the touch. She'd thought it to be a new bruise, that she'd angered Damon the night before and he had knocked her out. She hadn't remembered it happening, but that wasn't uncommon. And the pain had faded, just like a bruise would.

But now… now she had a sinking suspicion that it had never been a bruise.

Her chest clenched painfully, and she struggled to pull in a breath past the lump in her throat. Apprehension filled her, and she closed her eyes against the offending sight of the abomination staring back at her. She heard the door creak open behind her, but still kept her eyes closed. She knew who it was without having to look—she knew him by smell now, by sound. And she knew him by touch—she did not flinch when his warm hands rested gently on her shoulders. Nor did she shudder in disgust when his breath tickled her neck. Instead she shivered, thrills of pleasure tingling her skin.

It was a foreign sensation, and the pleasure made her uncomfortable. Then she remembered what she had just seen in the mirror, and she wondered how he could touch her, knowing what she had become. She almost shrugged his hands away, but the sound of his voice preempted her from doing so.

"You okay?"

She almost nodded on autopilot, brushing off his concern. But she stopped herself at the last moment, knowing that he wouldn't believe her, and it would only hurt him if he thought she didn't trust him. And she did trust him, didn't she? Yes. Yes, she did. She knew that, and he had to know it too.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to admit her distress. Nor could she open her eyes, and that was enough of an answer for him.

"Stop," he said gently.

"Stop what?"

His hands squeezed her shoulders. "Whatever's going through your head right now. You need to stop, because whatever it is, you're wrong."

Dozens of protests ran through her mind, ready to throw one at him as a diversion, to give her time to put her defenses up. But his astute comprehension of her discomfort cut through each and every one of them.

"I don't understand," she whispered. "I don't understand how Tali didn't run screaming the moment she saw me."

"Why would she run from you?"

"Look at me, Jethro!" Her eyes flew open then, and found that he was already meeting her gaze in the mirror, looking over her shoulder from behind. But there was no judgment in his eyes, no disgust or horror or any of the things that swirled violently within her.

"I'm a mess," she whispered, some of the fight draining from her. "It's bad enough that I don't look like me anymore, but…" She sighed in defeat. "Why didn't you tell me they Marked me?"

That seemed to take him aback. He withdrew slightly in surprise. "I didn't—I thought you already knew. It's not really something you forget." He paused, something in her gaze catching his attention. A moment later, comprehension dawned. "You didn't forget. You just didn't… Shit." He ran a hand over his eyes. "How did they…?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know, I can't remember." She tried to take a deep breath to steady herself, but when she nearly choked on it, she settled for short breaths through her nose. "I thought I'd be able to pretend that none of it had happened. That I could just put it behind me and focus on Tali, on the Residents, on you." The past few days, that had been all she could think about. She didn't want to feel sorry for herself, to dwell on the years that had been lost.

"You still can," Gibbs whispered. "If you want to."

"They turned me into one of them—"

"No. No, they didn't. You're still you, Ziver."

"But—"

"No buts." His voice was low in its seriousness, and there was nothing Ziva could do but listen as he continued. "You think Bloods stare at themselves in the mirror and feel horrified at what other people might see? That they're worried their friends, or their children, might be afraid of them?

"No…"

"Exactly. You're still Ziva. You're still Tali's mother, you're still Abby's friend, and you're still my wife. We don't care what you look like, Ziver. That's just what happened to you. It's not who you are." His eyes met hers in the mirror once more, and held them intently. "You're still you. Not a Blood. Bloods don't wear collars."

Ziva flinched at the reminder of the metal that had trapped her for so long, but his words rang true. She was not a Blood. They had never treated her as a Blood—they'd made her kill as one, Marked her as one, but she'd been nothing more than toy. And in that moment, the tattooed reflection seemed to shift as she stared at it in the mirror. It didn't fade or disappear, as much as she wanted it to, but it did change. It became another scar—just one more badge of Survival she'd picked up over the past two years.

And with the Mark-turned-scar came relief. Suddenly she could breathe again, and she relaxed into Gibbs' touch. Her hands tightened on the grips of her crutches, and she turned her head to rest her forehead against his cheek. His hand came up to brace the back of her head, and she leaned into the contact.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told myself I wouldn't…" She gave up trying to explain. It didn't matter anyway. "Thank you," she finished simply.

"Any time," Gibbs returned softly. His hand stroked her hair gently, and once again Ziva was grateful for the feel of clean, combed hair.

Silence followed for a few long moments, though Ziva's mind still continued to churn through her concern and apprehension. When the quiet was broken a few minutes later, it was Ziva who spoke.

"These are not my only scars." Her voice was tentative, probing, testing the waters of his acceptance. Would he accept such an open-ended declaration? Would he love her even without knowing what else might come to the surface in the time to come?

"I know," he murmured back, his voice tender.

Apparently, he would.

He did.