Epilogue

The dirt lane was one of the best features to the house; it stretched out from the parting trees and sloped up to meet the veranda, affording those inside the modest dwelling the ability to assess any guests coming up their drive.

In this case, she'd heard the visitor before seeing him—rather, she'd heard the distant whicker of his horse.

Military, if the sigil and colors on both beast and man were anything to go by. An envoy, most likely. He was alone, but she'd learned by now not to trust appearances. She waited until he was a few yards from the porch before swinging open the door.

The day was lazy, the air humming with the summer breeze and the gentle keen of cicadas. It was a misleading kind of calm, and the unexplainable trepidation she'd felt that morning suddenly made sense. Some part of her, for whatever reason, had been expecting this moment. She pulled a smile over her face.

"Good day, ma'am," the stranger called, his voice cordial enough. His hair was gray, face pleasantly weathered, though he was far from doddering. He was more kindly than venerable, and for this matter she elected to pay him closer attention.

"Good day."

He left her no time to question, dismounting before the front steps and launching into his reason for visiting without preamble. He was looking for Captain Ackerman. An envoy he was, then. While she appreciated his willingness to announce himself at her doorstep, his politeness didn't make up for the underlying air of expectation in his countenance, and she couldn't help but bristle when he shoved the horse's lead into her hands.

"I trust I can impose upon your good graces to mind my horse while I speak to the master?" Spoken as a question, but he expected no reply. In fact, he wasted no time in making his way up the porch steps, all before she could utter a word. Dismissed.

The front door gaped wide in her periphery, and she turned her head to the pair of sharp gray eyes observing the scene. He regarded her from the kitchen table where she'd left him. The exchange lasted barely a second, but in its span she asked a question and he answered. Then he nodded.

The envoy paused before the door, blocking her view of the table. "Oh, and keep him away from pasture. He's liable to bloat on the green."

She met the gray eyes at the table one last time before the door closed behind the envoy.

The next fifteen minutes proceeded, more or less, about how she'd anticipated. Indeed, the afternoon visitor had not come alone, and she encountered his compatriots in the stable. They weren't very friendly, to say the least; like their superior, they underestimated her, brushing her aside as no threat at all. Their mistake.

She dealt with them easily enough. Still, it left her in a wretched mood. A headache was already beginning to form in her temples—though this wasn't anything new. The dizziness usually followed.

Opting to renter the house through the back door, she paused in the kitchen to retrieve a fresh stash of black tea. She rested a hand against the counter, head swimming. The envoy spoke quietly in the other room, followed by a familiar, deeper tone; beneath the latter's customary, dry delivery, she detected a note of agitation. Time to make herself known.

"Mikasa, this is Mr. Leslie Bartlett. He's here on what he claims is official military business." Levi spoke without turning to her, knowing it was she by the careful press of her feet upon the floorboards.

Mikasa pawed at the front of her shirt, wiping off the excess blood from her hands. Deep down, she let herself enjoy the rather dramatic way Mr. Bartlett's eyes widened with shock upon seeing her emerge from the kitchen. He looked at the blood on her clothes, her hands, and then back to her face. He paled.

"Mr. Bartlett," she intoned, adjusting a tendril of hair that had fallen loose from its clip. It was getting long. She'd need to cut it again. "You should have told me you'd brought company."

The envoy gaped, omitting little sounds as he tried to form words.

"You've made two mistakes in your short time here, Mr. Bartlett," Levi said, and the envoy's eyes snapped back to him." The first being when you assumed Captain Ackerman to be a man."

Mr. Bartlett continued to gawk, rising from his heels in an affronted manner only to descend flat again. His pale eyes flickered back to the only woman in the room. "But...she is—"

"Mikasa Ackerman of the Survey Corps," Levi informed. "Captain to an elite force of soldiers known as the Special Operations Squad."

Mikasa picked up the teapot at the table's center and began to refill it with tea, catching Levi's eye as he flicked his gaze across her grisly appearance. This time, it was he who asked the question. She replied with a curt jut of her chin. I'm fine.

"But you…" Bartlett began, still insistent upon addressing Levi, "you are—"

"Retired. And annoyed." The chair creaked in protest as he pushed away from the table and stood. "I suggest you stop talking out of your ass and explain why you're really here."

A beat. "So, you two are married?"

"No. We share a clan name. And an inherent dislike for people who waste our time." Levi hooked his foot around the leg of a chair and pulled it away from the table. "Sit."

Bartlett sat instantly.

"That was your last question. Answer mine before I lose my temper. What are you doing here?"

Mikasa crossed around the side of the table, holding a fresh cup of tea. She placed her free hand on Levi's shoulder. Bartlett would interpret the look she gave him as one of the reprimanding spouse, no doubt. Let him. Levi made a show of backing down, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the table.

"Your men are dead, Mr. Bartlett." Mikasa's tone was blithe, as if informing him she'd opted to add sweet feed to his horse's stall. She passed him the steaming cup of tea before pouring herself a cup. "It's just us."

The calm delivery of her threat was oddly menacing, and Bartlett's hand shook as he lifted the tea to his lips. "Please," he murmured, lips bumbling with his tongue, "they weren't my men. I'm just a messenger."

"And what message have you to give?" Levi uttered, voice deep and slow.

Bartlett's cup rattled against his teeth. He refused to meet their eyes.

"An assassination," Levi scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Really, did you even do your research beforehand? Did you think this would be easy?" He shook his head and reached for the teapot. Mikasa's hand intercepted his midway, fingers curling around his own.

The gesture was odd—not the intimacy of it, but rather it's abrupt display—and Levi's composure faltered just the slightest. Mikasa's grip on his hand was firm, nearing painful.

"Look, they don't tell me much. I'm just the mouthpiece," Bartlett squawked. "They mentioned something about testing you. About seeing if the rumors about the Ackermans were true." A nervous chortle. "Clearly, the two of you live up to your name as Humanity's Strongest." The teacup rattled as he bumbled another sip of tea. "There will be more coming, I can assure you. When the men tonight fail to return, they'll send more—"

"And who are they, exactly?" Mikasa demanded, her hold on Levi never faltering.

Bartlett inhaled to speak. Then stopped abruptly. As if suddenly overcome by a bout of indigestion, his throat worked, eyes stretching wide and fluttering in an odd manner. There was a pause, a dawning panic, and then he lurched to standing, his cup tumbling to the floor. "You bitch!" he screeched, shaking a trembling hand at Mikasa.

Levi looked from the irate messenger to the dark-haired woman beside him. Then down to the tea between them. "Oh, you clever girl."

Bartlett tugged at his collar, panic-stricken. He skirted backwards as if to flee, but the effects of the tea were already taking hold and he stumbled over his feet. He caught the back of the chair before his knees buckled, eyes going wide. "What have you given me?" he managed to slur, before his hands slipped and he collapsed to the floor. Motionless.

"Did you kill him?" Levi drawled, grimacing at the broken shards at his feet.

Mikasa shook her head. "Of course not. I used some of the mandrake." She bent to the fallen envoy, turning him onto his back with a shove. "I wasn't so lenient with his friends, however."

"Good." Levi hauled her to standing by her elbow and pulled her to him. She gasped against his mouth, surprised by his sudden passion. "Are you alright?" His gray eyes tore over her form, thin brows furrowing as he took in the sight of the blood turning brown on her clothes.

"I told you, I'm fine," she huffed, but her fingers dug into his shirt. "None of this is mine."

"Don't remember you being messy."

"I needed to improvise," she chuckled, recalling the hoof pick.

"How many?"

"Only two."

Gray eyes hardened, anger slipping beneath his composure. Some at her, mostly at himself. "I knew better. None of it felt right. I should have been with you."

"Since when did I become an invalid?"

Choosing to ignore her quip, he smoothed his hand over the front of her blouse, across the gore, to rest on her lower abdomen. "It's not just you I'm worried about."

Mikasa swallowed any irritation she felt toward his fretting and covered his hand with her own. "We're fine."

The room suddenly felt too large, too exposed; whatever bombast and pretense they'd clung to a moment ago was slowly leeching away, leaving a rising alarm.

"Right," Levi began, holding her to him as the wheels turned in his mind. "We need to go."

Mikasa hummed, already in sync. "There will be more."

"We got lucky. Their first hand was weak." He cast a condemnatory gaze to the man at their feet. "What was he going to do, distract me?"

"What do we do?" Mikasa curled her fingers around his chin, bringing him back to her.

Levi's eyes softened just the slightest as he took in her face, the crease in his brow relaxing. He licked his thumb and wiped away a dried fleck of blood from her chin. "You pack. I need to send a letter." He waved his hand, eyes screwing shut as he shook his head. "No, actually, I'll pack. Your penmanship is better."

This was true, but she also knew it caused him far less anxiety to be the one packing the bags. They'd had more than one spat over her questionable methods. Despite the circumstances, Mikasa couldn't help a wry smile. "And I'm writing to...?"

"Efran. Tell him I'm ready to take him up on that favor."

A/N: And that, my dears, is that.

Who knows if I'll do a sequel. I have ideas, but not so much the itime,/i to see them realized. We'll see. I will, however, be writing more RivaMika. More in general. Probably a much shorter projects, though. TSRTS was nearly a year-long endeavor. Doesn't seem like much, but if I think about where I was in February? Ha.

Anyway. Until next time.