Summary: At some point in our lives we have to make the decision that is the hardest we will ever make, and for Ziva, that point came when she was eight. A fic about how she came to be who she is; based on what she had said about her father not attending her dance recitals.

Disclaimer: You know I would have sent Eli to her dance recitals if I owned NCIS :(

Spoilers: None

Okay, this may be a little weird, unless you think about it from an eight-year-old's point of view. It is very sad and slightly disturbing, so read it at your own discretion. If your discretion advises you to read it, please review it too!

-Soph

Betray

Ziva's fingers rubbed anxiously against the edge of her tutu as she scanned the entire area for the familiar face that she needed; the familiar face that wasn't there at the moment. Above her, her mother fussed with her hair, sticking pins in at every possible angle to make sure that the braided bun held tight. Ziva winced as a pin poked her scalp. "Ima," she looked up to gain Rivka's attention.

"Yes, Ziva," her mother bent down and started brushing off the invisible dirt on her costume. That annoyed her, because it meant that her mother was looking forward to the performance more than she was, and that was a fact she felt guilty about. But she just couldn't look forward to her performance when she knew that her father would disappoint her again. Months of practice and he wouldn't be there; she knew that, but she still had to ask.

"Ima, where's abba?" Ziva put a hand on her mother's arm to stop the flurried movements. Rivka froze, staring with wide eyes at Ziva's sad brown ones.

She sighed. "You know he never comes, Ziva."

"I had to ask," Ziva said in a small voice.

Rivka blinked back her tears and gave Ziva a hug.

"He promised he would come," Ziva's muffled voice said from beneath Rivka. She let go of Ziva and leant back to look at her.

"I know. And when we go back, I am going to give him a good scolding. But it is almost time for your performance now, Ziva, and you must try not to think about it, okay? You need your concentration to dance."

Ziva nodded.

Rivka ran her hand along the soft tulle of Ziva's skirt. "I think you are ready now." She gave Ziva an encouraging smile. "Give ima a kiss and go join your friends."

Ziva obediently kissed her mother upon the cheek and went off to join the other ballet dancers with whom she was performing. They were all dressed like her, in gentle shades of pinks and whites, the buns on their heads tight and the nervous energy rolling off them in waves. Ziva alone stood out among them; her poise was confident, her figure erect. But she looked just a tinge sad.

Rivka felt her heart harden as she turned away. She was furious at Eli. The breaker of hearts and of promises. She could no longer count with ten fingers the number of times that he'd promised his daughter he would go, only to not show up in the end. Ziva always forgave him, and so had she, but this time was just one time too many. It was Ziva's time to shine; she had been given a solo and had worked harder at it than she ever had ever worked before at anything in her life, and there Eli was, casting the one dark shadow upon what was supposed to be their daughter's most important day.

She glanced with contempt at the empty seat beside her as she sat down in her assigned place, and threw the invitation down upon it with a huff. If he was not going to show up something else might as well take his place. She continued to fume until the lights had dimmed and the audience had quieted. The curtains started to open and Rivka lost her anger just then, enthralled in the world of music and of grace. It was a world in which she had always lived, and to which she had introduced the both of her daughters in the hopes that it would make their lives as rich as it had made hers.

Ziva tried to concentrate on her steps as she danced, but despite the fake smile on her lips her eyes roved constantly and desperately among the audience's faces, looking for the formidable face that she knew so well. Yet all she could see was the kind face of her mother, and somehow that hurt her even more than if her mother hadn't been there at all. Because now she could see the empty spot beside her mother like a spotlight had been trained on it, and she could see a cream-coloured invitation occupying it where her father was supposed to have.

She did well in the end, making only a slight mistake with her Cou-de-Pied. Her performance earned her a standing ovation; for an eight-year-old she was incredibly talented, and every member of the audience could see that. But the applause rang hollow in Ziva's ears. There was one person whose applause was still missing to her, and as she stood smiling and curtsying to the audience, all she could hear was the absence of it.

Eli didn't get home until late that night, and as soon as she heard the front door slam, Ziva bounced off her bed and went down the stairs two steps at a time, eager to tell her father about her evening's successful performance. She screeched to a halt in front of his study, and was about to reach out her hand to turn the doorknob when a voice from inside the study stopped her.

"You missed Ziva's performance." It was her mother speaking, as loudly and as clearly as if she had been right in front of Ziva. Her voice carried a hint of anger and threat; the way it always did when she was tempted to start an argument with Eli.

"I know." Eli's was dismissive, telling her that it was not the time to discuss the matter.

"It was her first solo performance, Eli. You could not have left your work for that?"

"I was not at work."

"Then where were you? With another woman? Because I know -"

"I have never cheated on you, Rivka. How can you even think that?" Eli sounded hurt.

"Well, I cannot think of any other plausible reason as to why you would miss your own daughter's first solo performance."

"Did you not think that I might have been watching from behind?"

Rivka scoffed. "Behind! When you have a seat ready for you? I cannot believe that you are so very stupid."

There was a thud, and Ziva jumped. She knew from experience that this meant her father had pounded his fist against his desk.

"I will not let her see me offer her support for this, Rivka."

"Why? Because dance is too beautiful for you? You were never happy that I let her -"

"It is weakness!"

Rivka hissed. "You did not think that it was weakness when you married me."

"You are different. You are protected. You have your brothers and your uncles and me. You do not know what the world out there is like."

"And you have a wish for our daughters to know it? I can see it in your eyes; each time you look at them you wish that they can kill, like you do."

"I am only trying to protect them, Rivka! I do not wish for them to kill. I wish for them to be able to protect themselves. I will not be here forever, and then what? Who will protect them then?"

"Perhaps they do not need to be protected! It is only a man like you, Eli, who could bring them into such danger."

"I was not the only one who put them in this situation." Eli growled, "It takes two to tango, Rivka, and you are their mother. You are equally as responsible for it."

"I tried to bring them out of it with ballet," Rivka's voice was dangerously low, "But you are determined to strip happiness from their lives."

"I will not support them dancing ballet," Eli said determinedly. "I cannot stop you from letting them dance, nor do I want to stop them from dancing, but as long as Ziva stands on tiptoes she will not see my face at performances." His tone was final, and Rivka knew it.

"Coward," she snarled at him, "You will not support them openly, but you will stand in the shadows and stare at them while they dance."

"When you have lost your family to terrorists too, Rivka, you come and tell me that I am a coward. But just remember that if Ziva dies because she does not know how to defend herself, it is your fault."

Ziva stood trembling at the door, her face pale and her pulse racing. Death. It was not a concept that she had really thought about before; she knew that it happened to other people, but she'd never thought that it could happen to her. Except now that she thought about it, it made perfectly logical sense that she should one day die at the hands of a suicide bomber.

She slowly went upstairs and back to her room. She picked up the soft pink satin ballet shoes and studied them; studied the little marks that had been left on them from other performances, and the way they reflected the moonlight. Gentle and shiny, and now completely abhorrent to her. She threw them aside with disgust and curled up on her bed, the bile in her stomach rising up to her throat. Her father was right. Dance was weakness. Dance was art, and art never saved lives. Science did. The science of fighting. She had seen her father practise fighting countless times, and she couldn't remember ever not being intimidated by it. It was a science that had kept him alive.

She looked at the ballet shoes discarded on the floor, and made up her mind. Tomorrow she would no longer be Ziva David the Dancer; she would be Ziva David the Fighter. She would put her past behind her and go to her father to ask him to teach her how to fight. Because she couldn't die; not when she had thought about her beloved Tali, and Ari, and her parents, and she wouldn't. She was too young to die. But not too young to fight.

She was awake before sunrise the next morning, little knowing that it would become part of her routine for years to come. Dancing, at least, had taught her discipline, and she didn't mind the lack of sleep as she brushed her hair and put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She cast a disdainful look at her dresses in her wardrobe. They were a reminder of the time when she had wanted to danced; the time when her life had been about beauty and not about death. But if there was any part of her that had to die, it had to be that part – just so that the rest of her could live.

She was suddenly seized with the urge to cut her hair short. So she could look tough; so she could lose the part of her that was about beauty and gentleness. She snatched the scissors from the top her desk and held it to her hair – but she couldn't do it. Not when she saw the soft curls that fell about her shoulders; that gave her a look of luminescent grace. It was the hair that her mother painstakingly combed every morning. A hundred times, because Rivka believed that hair was a woman's crowning glory. And for her to cut it off would be for her to forever deny her mother's existence.

The scissors dropped to the floor and she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't say if she liked what she saw, because there was something hard in her eyes; something ugly, and yet her heart remained as soft as it had always been. She was, ultimately, still Ziva the dancer. But things were going to change.

She tied up her hair roughly and marched to her father's study. It was still dark outside, so that the voice that called out, "Come in," after she had knocked sounded slightly surprised. She entered.

"Abba."

Eli looked down at Ziva, startled. "Ziva. What are you doing up so early?"

"I have something to ask you."

"Okay." Eli took off his glasses and put them on his desk. "What is it that you want to ask?"

"Can you teach me how to fight?"

"Fight?"

"Yes. I want to learn how to protect myself."

Eli looked wary. "Ziva, did you hear me talking with your mother last night?"

"No." It was a lie and she knew it. He probably didn't.

Eli relaxed a bit and said, "Alright. But learning self-defence requires a lot of discipline. Are you capable of being that?"

"Yes, but there is one other thing."

"What is it?"

"I want to quit dance."

Eli's look changed to one of alarm. "Ziva, what I said to your mother last night -"

"I told you, I did not hear it. I want to quit dance because I am not interested in it."

"I hear that you are a very good dancer. And that you practise for many hours a day."

"It is a show, to comfort ima. What I really want is to become like you."

"Your ima will be very disappointed with that."

"It is time I stop living for her and start living for myself."

Eli stared at his daughter in stunned silence. If the words had come from any other eight-year-old he would have reproved them for disrespect, but Ziva had always been different. She was very mature, and very stubborn; once she made up her mind there was no changing it. And there was no cajoling her into doing otherwise; she was an eight-year-old with a mind of her own. He didn't completely believe her reasons either, but the truth was that he didn't want to know what the real reasons were. So maybe he really was a coward.

"This is something that you will have to discuss with your ima," he finally said with a sigh.

"Could you not tell her for me?" There was a tone of plea in Ziva's voice.

"It is not I who wants to quit dancing, Ziva. Show your ima some respect and discuss this with her, woman-to-woman."

Ziva nodded. She had always followed, and would always follow, her father's orders.

"Go and have your breakfast, then. And when you have talked to your ima we can begin your training."

"Toda, abba." Ziva breathed out and went to give her father a kiss before leaving the room.

And as she left she knew that she had passed the moment of change. The dancer part of her had died in the room, and even though she still had to talk things over with her mother she knew that her decision would never waver. This was something that she needed to do. This was something that would make her stronger and tougher, and in that way allow her to protect herself and her family.

She had never been one to be persuaded from doing something that she wanted to do. This time was no different. Except that this time she was betraying her mother and pledging her soul to her father.