Author's Note: This was a submission to my good friend Kat (Midori Aoi on and k-lionheart on tumblr) during a not-so-swell time she was having. It was heavily inspired by a short little piece on tumblr by alienheartattack and Doctor Who's "The Girl in the Fireplace" episode.

It's dark when he steps out of the Machine, its soft whirring noise quickly sputtering out from the landing—dark and surprisingly warm. He doesn't know where he is this time—let alone when—but the scroll-design wrapping around the foot of the four-poster bed and on the matching boudoir give him some idea: Renaissance Italy. A very vague determination, considering the Era of Rebirth endured the longest here—roughly three hundred years. Upon closer inspection of the wood, the thin swirls reflect that of Michelangelo under early Medici patronage, which narrows the time period considerably.

He frowns. The fifteenth century was most definitely not when his orders had demanded him to visit—the Masters had said something about the early sixteenth century—and judging from the carvings, he is about twenty years off. Yet it appears he has made it to the correct country at least (it wasn't his fault the Machine had decided to break down and expire last time, dropping him amongst a very belligerent group of samurai) and he breathes a sigh of relief, turning around to try again—this time for the correct decade.

"Signor…Forestiero?" a small voice whispers behind him. Mr. Stranger?

He freezes, suddenly aware of the other presence in the room. Turning around slowly, he finds a small girl around eight years old at his waist. She's dressed in a pure white dressing gown, the high empire waist cinching her small frame and contrasting sharply with her straight black hair; even in the gloom of early dawn he can tell she will be gravely beautiful.

"Shouldn't you be in bed at this hour?" She looks up at him with tired eyes, her face like porcelain.

For the first few seconds, he says nothing, cursing in his head at his stupid mistake—he's been seen in the timeline, and in accordance with the Masters' interminable list of Rules, he must remain in it. There go another fifty years of his life.

Crouching down, he smiles at the girl. "Signorina," he begins, testing out the language—of the hundreds of tongues he was forced to learn, Renaissance Italian is not exactly one of his strongest—"Of course I should be. It seems I have lost my way to my bed and wandered into…" He quickly scans the room, searching for any sign of what purpose it might serve to the household.

"My room." The little girl frowns and crosses her arms.

Oh. His eyes adjust to the dim light and he can now make out the figures of small dolls and feminine clothes strewn about the room. Definitely not where he is supposed to be.

"Are you one of Babbo's new tutors? He keeps making me get up so early in the morning for lessons now." She stares him down with such conviction, he is almost tempted to say yes.

"Er, no, I'm not." He raises his eyebrows at her words. "Who is your father, signorina?"

Her eyes brighten. "Babbo is a very important man!" She exclaims. "Signor da Vinci says if he is not careful with what he says, Mamma will leave him." She covers her mouth and giggles. "But Mamma and Babbo are much too in love, he tells me."

Da Vinci. Leonardo da Vinci. He groans and almost flees the room. If the little girl mentioned da Vinci with such fondness—not to mention the fitting time period—that would mean "Babbo" was Lorenzo de' Medici, Il Magnifico. So the Masters had dumped him into the house of the most powerful family in Renaissance Italy, expecting him to just "fake it until he made it." If he managed to get out of this, he was quitting school once and for all, graduation be damned. "Signorina Medici?" He asks hesitantly.

"Sì, Signor?" The little girl answers—confirming his fears—and giggles again. "You can sleep in my room if you can't find your bed. Our house is too big for me too."

"I am not sure that would be a good idea." He looks around the room again. Hazy sunlight is beginning to creep in from the tall window and he can hear the hollow chirping of birds through the glass; morning is fast arriving and he needs either to escape back to the Machine and leave the timeline, or stay and face the wrath of Lorenzo de' Medici. "Your father would not take kindly to a strange man sleeping in his daughter's room, signorina."

"Why are you dressed all funny?" She places a palm on the sleeve of his shirt, running her slender fingers up and down. It seems she has lost interest in talk about her father, much to his dismay. He needs to leave now.

With a sigh, he reluctantly answers, "I'm a visitor from another…country." He's not sure whether this little girl can keep a secret or not, and doesn't reveal his true homeland, which is much, much further from Florence, Italy. "This is what we normally wear there. Why are you wearing this?" He smiles faintly and points to her flimsy gown.

"Because Babbo said I must start acting like Mamma, and that I cannot wear my pants anymore." She pouts. "I hate it."

"Surely your father knows best, signorina." He rises to leave, but she tugs him back down.

"Where are you going? Don't you want to sleep?"

He lets out a deep breath. "I'm afraid I can't stay. I must return home to my own family." The lie catches in his throat and he can't say any more.

"But you're nicer than the rest of the teachers Babbo sends." She frowns again, her little red mouth pinched in disappointment. "Can't you stay for just a little bit, Signor Forestiero?"

He doesn't have the heart to correct her and her expression is so crestfallen he almost says yes, his chest suddenly aching for his lost sister. They are so much alike, she and her. "I must go back home." He repeats gently, prying her small hand off his shirt.

But the entrance door to the large room suddenly opens with a short screeching noise, revealing a rather average-looking man in full court regalia, a few books in his thin hands—and his expression is not welcoming. "Ah. I see you've already begun the lessons for the morning. Eccellente. Your presence is now required in the drawing room, signor, since my wife is…impatient above all things." He grumbles and scowls.

The little girl runs to the man, exclaiming Babbo Babbo! Buongiorno!—leaving Signor Forestiero stunned and confused. Lorenzo de' Medici embraces her, now smiling happily.

Is this part of the assessment? Is he supposed to follow through with this? Signor Medici has mistaken him for his daughter's tutor—surely that has not been by accident? Usually his unannounced arrival in timelines includes some form of death threat, along with the occasional death sentence for "breaking and entering,"—but considering how far he's gotten with the Masters' help, he trusts them fully and figures he might as well give them fifty more years of his life, deciding to stay. The past one hundred and eighty haven't been easy, but they were fruitful and he has learned much. He nods quickly. "Er, sì sì, I shall. But, er—"

"See! You are my new tutor! Why didn't you say so?" The little girl has turned back toward him and is pointing at him accusingly. "You're funny Signor Forestiero!" She laughs.

"Signor Forestiero?" Signor Lorenzo raises an eyebrow. "No, no, his name is Signor Giovanni Rossi, cara mia Mikasa. Not Forestiero." He casts a regretful smile over his daughter's shoulder.

"Giovanni…Rossi." Mikasa says slowly. "I liked Signor Forestiero better."

"Of course you do. Now, enough. We must get ready for Signor Rossi's interview."

"Signor Giovanni Rossi" is still standing by Mikasa's closet, his mouth slightly ajar. He's concerned, of course, but more so by the fact that it seems he was expected—right now, right here—than by the extremely generic name bestowed on him just now; he might as well be called "John Doe." Hastening to straighten his appearance and claim authority over his jaw again, he steps forward purposefully and leans into the bow of the Florentine Court. By now, Signor Lorenzo de' Medici is sure to be ruler over the Republic of Florence and Giovanni Rossi must make an exceptional first impression if he is to stay. "Sì. I am ready, Signor. If you would excuse me, signorina." The foreign words come out before his brain can catch up.

Signor Medici nods and releases his daughter, whispering something into her ear. "Your interview will be short. Mikasa will be present, so you may walk her to the drawing room after she readies herself into something more suitable." The commanding man gives another curt nod and exits the room with a swish of his cape.

"We're going to have so much fun together, Signor Rossi!" She is jumping up and down now, giving him a small headache from her intense vitality this early in the morning. "Mamma is always complaining how I don't spend enough time indoors like a proper lady but we don't have to tell her. My old teacher used to sneak me out after lunch to go play with the boys next door, can we do that?" She continues to babble nonstop as she is undressing behind the changing curtain while he almost collapses from relief.

So the Masters had sent him to be a tutor for one of the Medici daughters. An easy Final Evaluation compared to some of their other tests he'd had to endure, but knowing their cunning and sly wisdom, he knows there has to be something else. Obviously, they already know how this would end, or else they wouldn't have sent him in the first place—every Final Assessment ended in success, but just how much and what kind of a success depended on the Apprentice. Saving an entire race and being crowned King was clearly considered a Success, but so was barely escaping a timeline with your life. The Masters wouldn't have sent him here to this point in time, this particular household, this country, this world, without having a seriously legitimate reason. His life depended on teaching this little girl, apparently.

"Signor Giovanni?" Mikasa's small voice says to his right. She has finished dressing and is staring at him questioningly.

Giving her one of his rare smiles, he leans down and says softly, "Call me Levi. But just between you and me, Signorina Mikasa."

She grins back and nods excitedly. "Okay, Signor Levi. Just you and me. I won't tell anyone."

Looking down, he sees she has taken his hand, her small palm fitting snugly into his, and she is tugging him toward the door. Taking one last look behind him at the hidden Machine, he thinks this timeline isn't so bad, and lets her lead him toward the next fifty years.

Six years later, the Lion of the Medici family is dead. The family bank and affairs falls into the hands of Piero di Lorenzo—the eldest son—and under his arrogant and wayward direction, the family is forced to flee to Venice. Their living quarters aren't as elegant or spacious as in Florence, but they are residing in the city comfortably, and in peace—for the time being.

Mikasa has grown into a quiet but headstrong teenager, and Levi soon learns that she and another clever boy her age in the household—Eren—are, in fact, not related to the Medici family by blood. A generous and hospitable man, Signor Lorenzo—God rest his soul—had adopted the two children at an early age and brought them to live with his family, and they are treated as respectfully and royally as his other six children.

Levi is permitted to stay with the family as Mikasa and Eren's tutor and their progress has been astounding—not to mention his own. It's tough work, trying to teach two precocious teenagers, and sometimes he wonders if he is the one being taught instead of them. Mikasa excels in all areas, but her and her adopted brother's favorite subject—or rather, pastime—is swordplay.

"You slowpoke!" She exclaims during her lesson today, "That's three times I've gotten you, Levi!" She sheaths the sword at her side and grins down at him, offering him a hand.

Taking it, Levi pushes stray hair out of his eyes and heaves himself up. It's true: she's bested him this whole hour and hasn't tried to hide her satisfaction, something he's secretly glad to see. "I'm afraid you have surpassed my level of knowledge with the sword, Signorina Mikasa. Perhaps you should find yourself an instructor who isn't so easily beaten by children." He says and dusts himself off.

"I think not." She says haughtily with a toss of her head. "You've been my tutor for this long and I refuse to give you up. You're the only one that's stayed." Mikasa trails off quietly and stares at the ground. She seems lost in thought as she plays with a delicate chain around her neck, her hands fiddling with the thin metal.

Levi eyes the adornment, already knowing what she will say next. He spares her the anxiety. "Have you met him yet?" He must tread carefully around this subject, for she has taken to bursting into tears spontaneously at the very mention of her betrothed.

She doesn't say anything for a few moments before tucking the necklace back into the collar of her training tunic. "I haven't. But it's all arranged anyway." A glimmer of desperation passes over her face and she digs the toe of her boot into the grass, her voice wavering. "Piero says the date is already set and that he has made all the necessary preparations."

"Surely your brother knows best for his sister." Levi says monotonously. Arranged marriages are not uncommon for young girls in this age, and Mikasa is no different. Though adopted, she is still considered a profitable part of the Medici family and any union with a member of another powerful family—Italian or not—is considered a gain.

Mikasa shakes her head, her hair falling from its place high on her head. "I do not wish to speak of this now."

Levi nods, but he is frowning. He has been in this country for six years, and though he has quickly learned the different mannerisms of the citizens and mastered the language, he believes he will never understand the impracticalness of the inhabitants of this Earth. Marriage is seen as a venerable and revered custom of his own people with both parties agreeing to accept the other—not this…interesting set of rituals used to gain power over others. A very odd culture indeed. "Shall we ready for your next lesson?" He asks softly, unsure of whether he has upset his pupil or not. Her mood is varying wildly these days—something to do with the female human body, he is certain.

"You've never told me your birthday, Levi." She does not answer his question—something he has unenthusiastically acknowledged over the past years—and is suddenly beside him, so close he can smell the sweat and sweet flowery perfume she is wearing. "Six years and you've never said anything about it. Not even how old you are." Taking him by the arm, she pulls him toward the manor.

He has dreaded this question and the ones that are sure to follow. He has successfully hidden his age from everyone in the Medici household—not that they would believe him anyway—and has never made mention of when or where he was born, or even made comment about his family, his home, or how he came to be in Italy. He has a task to complete and if this kind of information is not necessary to his success, there is no need to disclose it.

To his relief, Mikasa is still talking. "Eren says you look no more than twenty-five." She cocks her head in his direction, peering at his face. "But you have small lines around your eyes that even Babbo did not have in his thirties. So I told Brother that perhaps you are just a very old young man." She laughs, her mirth quickly filling Levi with warmth, a feeling he has since become accustomed to having in Mikasa's presence. His time with her is something he looks forward to every waking day, and though he dismisses it as nothing but fondness and pride for his bright student, he can no longer ignore the tight welling in his chest every time his name passes her lips.

Levi decides to give a small hint—not necessarily against the Rules, but he has never seen Mikasa look so jubilant since her marriage arrangement and wants to gratify her. "Much older than twenty-five." He states, and before she can interject, he holds up a hand. "But my real age is a riddle not even intelligent young girls of the Medicis are able to resolve." He smiles cheerlessly, the exact number reminding him of his duty, and her despondent gaze nearly sends him toppling. "Perhaps later…you shall know." He says quietly.

"But we've celebrated everyone's birthday except yours." She almost pouts. "Why must you hide?" They have reached the entrance into the house now and the lower servants are scurrying around them in the hallway, sending knowing glances at the pair. It is no secret that young Mikasa and her mysterious tutor are extremely close—some would say too close for a lady of her station—but she does not have many friends outside her family and any interaction with others is encouraged by her imposing brother.

"You would not believe me if I told you." He answers flatly. "Signor Piero would probably not approve of his young sister spending so much time in my company if he knew my real age. I will say no more." Levi presses his lips together and escorts his young charge back to her quarters. "Your Latin lesson with Eren will begin in ten minutes in the music room."

Mikasa nods and hangs her head before entering her room, wisps of her hair flying in the breeze from the open windows. "I apologize, Levi. Please forgive my intrusion. That was not my intent."

Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, Levi lifts the corners of his mouth in a small smile. "You have done nothing wrong, signorina. Now, please excuse me." He gives a short bow and walks away, his heart pounding.

If this were any other situation besides his Final Evaluation, he would have told her without any hesitation. Twenty-five—they thought he was twenty-five! It was almost absurd—they would absolutely never believe him if he told them he was at least ten times that, and still considered young by his people's standards. They would think him mad and throw him out—and where would he be then? A sure path to complete failure.

Sighing, he opens the door to his own small room, glancing fondly at the Machine that his brought him so far for so long, and changes into appropriate "teacher-like" attire: neutral colors and simple. He has yet to become used to the tight pants that tuck into his boots, and the billowy tunic is not what he would usually pair with such an uncomfortable garment, but he has no choice here. Nevertheless, he readies himself—albeit grudgingly—and gathers up the small books and parchment for Mikasa and Eren's lesson.

As he makes toward the main seat of the house, he wonders just how long he is expected to stay at young Mikasa's side—surely Piero would not let his sister's childhood tutor accompany her to her new husband's home, but then again, he is under Mikasa's service, not her brother's. She may choose to have him accompany her if she wished and the thought is enough to bring a smile to his face. He would not part with her unless absolutely forced to—she still needs him.

Or does he need her? The line is beginning to blur between them and Levi thinks these past six years may have been the easiest part of the fifty he has promised away.

"Levi." Says Mikasa commandingly, her hands clasped in front of her on the skirt of her wide dress and a solemn scowl on her normally calm features. "You at least owe me this one thing."

They are standing in her room again. Not the one he had accidentally stepped into from her closet in Florence twenty-one years ago, but the room she was gifted when she was made Madame Jean Kirstein of France, eleven years ago now. Her marriage has been rather uneventful as her husband is continuously at Versailles Palace and rarely at home, but as Lady of the House, she has been free to do what she wishes with his servants and household while he is away. In less formal terms, she is lonely and only finds solace in her childhood tutor, whom she has brought with her from Italy—something Levi had been triumphantly expecting.

But now, he is standing at the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the large garden, his back to her, and his heart finally weakening. His chest is constricting with every painful breath and he is afraid he has finally lost everything. Because he has done the one thing the Masters had warned him never to do in any timeline—Rule Number One—never become attached. He says nothing, unable to look Mikasa in the eye.

"For so long, Levi. I have trusted you with everything, from my darkest secrets and my highest hopes, save one." She doesn't move from her place, but from the corner of his eye, Levi can tell she is wringing her hands.

For twenty-one years, he has watched her grow from an outspoken little girl to a lonely teenager, and finally into an assertive and beautiful young woman. Her features have sharpened and narrowed into the woman he has fallen in love with, and he is almost ashamed of what he says next, if only to save her from her imminent disappointment in him. "But I have not trusted you in the same manner, signora." The honorific denoting her marital status comes out thickly, and his heart shatters.

There is silence behind him, only the faint rustle of skirts brushing against the plush carpet. Levi's hair falls over his eyes as his head droops, and as his hands move to clasp behind his back, he hears a sharp intake of breath.

"Ever since the moment you walked out of my closet, I have trusted you." She says quietly. "Have I not earned the same?"

"You give your trust away too easily then, signora. That is where we are different, you and I." He snaps back, desperately trying to quell the guilt and rage bubbling in his stomach—it isn't supposed to happen this way.

"A little girl of eight does not know any better." She challenges back. "Least of all to expect the man blessed with eternal youth! Perhaps if you had told her who you truly were, she might have thought differently." She titters wistfully. "If only Babbo were here."

Levi stares out the window. Rain is beginning to fall, creating tall strands of steam and cold moisture outside the glass, and he empathizes with the weather: a fitting storm for this mournful conversation. Mikasa's shadow edges closer to him until she is standing by his side at the window but he does not turn to face her.

"I did not have the courage to face the wrath of Signor Medici or your brother, Mikasa. I was a coward." Levi murmurs. "I still am."

He feels something soft against his cheek and looks up into her charcoal eyes. Her smooth fingers are stroking the side of his face and pity outlines her expression. "Twenty-one years." She whispers. "And you still look the same as when you walked out of my closet. Even the wrinkles." Her hand drops and her eyes mist over. "Signor Forestiero."

At the sound of her childhood pet name for him, he closes his eyes, unable to control the ache anymore. "I will always look the same." He replies miserably. The skin where she has touched him is burning. He refuses to lie to her anymore. "Two hundred and ninety-seven years I have been granted, and I fear more are on their way. Too many for either you or me to count." He manages to gasp out. "I did not lie to you the first time, I had been sent to watch over you, for what reason I cannot fathom."

Levi expects Mikasa to run away, to yell for the guards to subdue him, to finally reject him so that he may wallow in this misery. He curses the Masters, for they knew this would happen and yet they still sent him to chase the impossible: he loves her but cannot do anything about it because such a union would be disastrous, and he is close to throwing everything away. One possibility whispers slyly in his ear and he bitterly realizes he must take it, no matter the consequences—there is no other option or salvation from this mess if he stays.

But she does none of those wretched things. To his surprise, she instead draws nearer and clutches at his arm, her fingers massaging his skin through the rough fabric of his sleeve. "Signor Forestiero." She whispers again, but this time, her voice is filled with compassion.

"I must leave, Mikasa." He forces out, hearing his own voice crack. "I cannot stay any longer, for fear I may have angered my Masters."

"You cannot." She says obstinately, and grasps his arm tighter. "You have just told me you are nigh on three hundred years old and have been my guardian for some unknown reason. I have waited twenty-one years for this, Levi. You cannot leave when you have told me your life is a fairytale." She swallows hard. "You cannot tell me the man I love is choosing to abandon me."

His head is reeling and he steps back, his eyes wide with baffled wonder. "You…love me?" He grips her hand back in insistence, emboldened by her words. Thunder cracks outside, an audible echo of what his body is suffering from.

"I have loved you since you walked out of my closet in your funny clothes." She smiles sadly. "But my status in life did not grant me permission to love you. Unattainable, lowly tutor to a spoiled girl though you were!" She laughs harshly. "Now my final secret is out. And you must tell yours, Signor Forestiero. That is only fair."

"You have forced me to watch you enter a loveless marriage, and tortured me with endless conversations about the noblemen that come to your door seeking company. My only secret is that I did not have the fortitude to tell you what you wanted to hear so many years ago." Levi sighs sorrowfully, but now his body is tingling with miserable yearning that will go unappeased.

"This is why you cannot leave!" Mikasa exclaims. "I—"

"I must." He interrupts her. "I can't stay with you. Nor can we be together the way we both want." He turns to the double doors of her room, wrenching his hand from her grip.

"I love you, Levi." Her voice trembles. "One night." She whispers behind him, so softly his ears are straining to hear her. "One night is all I ask. Then I shall release you from your service to me."

Levi stops, his hand raised in midair toward the handle. His heart makes the decision before his brain can, and he turns back to her, almost rushing into her arms. He has lingered so long and now the opportunity has finally presented itself so easily, awaiting his decision—refusal would be madness. Her hand is outstretched, waiting.

He takes it, and no words pass between them for the rest of the night, because there is nothing else to say.

He rises just before dawn and dresses quickly—into the clothes he arrived in twenty-one years ago—and as he pulls the long sleeves up his arms, he is suddenly reminded of a small hand patting the material gently, a simple question floating in the air. It seems so long ago now, and almost like a fantasy.

Their night of passion has patched his broken heart, but this parting will be the grievous blow yet. Looking down at her, she is sleeping soundly, her black hair swirling behind her on the pillow and onto the spot he has just vacated, and her eyes are fluttering beneath her white lids as she dreams. He strokes her hair and leans down to give her a soft kiss on the forehead, pouring all of his devotion and tenderness for her into the gesture, but she stirs and doesn't wake, her hand reaching out and almost catching his shirt.

Deciding he has lingered long enough, Levi casts one last look at her in the large bed before shutting the door, tears threatening to fall from his usually-sober eyes, and quietly makes his way to where the Machine is hidden. It has been so long since he has last entered it, and upon entering it, he finds it is a bit more cramped than he has remembered—and more cold and uninviting. A quick punch to the controls sends it roaring to life, and with one last farewell kiss to Mikasa, he is flying through time and space back to his own world.

He has never felt so alone in his life—not even when his sister Isabel died—so alone and empty. At last it seems he has finally found the one thing the Masters had told him he would never achieve and obtain—and could never—and he is forced to throw it away before it can blossom. A rare twist of Fate, since it is, indirectly, the Masters' fault, and he curses his ill luck, resenting his lot in this incessant life.

A hot splash hits his leg and Levi finds that the floodgates have broken. Mikasa will be fine; she was never one to depend on others for help or to get what she wanted—and he hopes she will find comfort with Monsieur Jean Kirstein. He is a powerful man within the French Court, and favorable to the King—and with her luck, Mikasa will benefit greatly. Her gentle face appears in his bleary vision, and he heaves a great sob, desperately trying to force her, his beloved, from his mind.

Levi hopes she will forget him, the stranger in her closet, and decides the past twenty-one years were the most significant and heartbreaking his lonely life will ever attain.

Another splash falls, and this time, he doesn't hold back.

He is four hundred and seventy-four now—almost two hundred years have passed since his heart was broken—and when he is summoned to the Masters' Council for a reason he is not entirely sure of, there is a strange swelling in his chest. Remarkably, he had passed his Final Evaluation—no words had thankfully been said of his last night with his charge—and has since been working under a certain Erwin Smith in the military, believing he will be a soldier for the remainder of his days. Yet this summons is clearly not of the militant type and he wonders why the Masters would want to see him again after he has passed their cruel test.

"You are needed again on Earth." They say to him the second he walks through the enormous doors to their meeting room. Tinkles of glass on the ceiling echo under the dome covering the expansive room. Twelve men and women are seated on high pedestals in front of him, scratching on paper with black pens and stars illuminating their eyes, and their faces are stern but not angry. In fact, they look full of melancholy and sympathy.

Levi nods, but doesn't say anything. Mikasa's laughing face burns in his mind, but Earth has billions of timelines, surely they wouldn't—

"In sixteenth century France with Madame Kirstein."

Their words are short and formal, but Levi's brain is suddenly racing with images of his last night with her, her hands roaming greedily over his chest, and he twitches with hesitancy. No one has taken her place in his life—no one ever will—but he is not sure whether he is willing to return; she has most likely cursed him from her life and begun anew without him. A silent longing erupts behind his heart though—the desperate kind—to see her again. His chest almost detonates with anxiety.

"You will leave Erwin Smith's service and depart this very day. Await instructions there."

So he quietly affirms he will follow their guidance and leaves the Council, his body awash with a terrible conglomeration of ecstasy, sadness, and apprehension. The familiar trip through time and space is one full of doubt and unease, his mind flaring with colors of passion and impatience, but his urgency and restless eagerness to see Mikasa again drives him forward.

His arrival is not much different from his one previous: it is dark, just before dawn, and he exits a vast closet again, stepping out into a spacious room, the floor littered with dark objects. Leaning down to examine a few of the items on the carpet, he recognizes that some are the exact same he had observed during his very first meeting with Mikasa: little girls' toys and dolls, and some dresses and nightgowns have been tossed around haphazardly.

Levi wonders if the Masters have made a mistake and sent him back to his initial encounter in the late fifteenth century, but he can do nothing other than wait in the lightening gloom.

Await instructions there.

What further instructions could they possibly give him? Was he to start over and try again? He was older now, and more mature than when he had first been sent, but why would they make him do it all over again now, of all times?

The quick patter of feet on wood interrupts his thoughts and the door on the far wall cracks open. A little girl slips in, sighing as she presses her back against it, and then slowly stumbles toward her bed—toward him.

Levi holds his breath, waiting to be found.

She spies his figure in the doorway of her closet, her mouth going slightly open. But what she says next catches him off-guard in the most complete sense. "You're him, aren't you? Signor Forestiero!" Running at him, she collides into his legs, embracing them tightly and refusing to let go. "Signor Forestiero! You've finally come!"

He doesn't know what to say and tries to get a good look at the girl, bending to one knee. Mikasa's nickname for him has apparently traveled into this little girl's timeline—whoever she is—and more importantly, it seems she was expecting him as well. Perhaps the Masters have manipulated it somehow? But how? "Signorina…Mikasa?" He tries softly, the language coming back all too easily.

The little girl laughs into his pants and tightens her hold around his waist, still hugging him. "No, silly! My name is Aiko!" She giggles again and looks up.

Levi almost chokes. Her features reflect Mikasa's perfectly: the delicate shape of her nose, the little red lips, her long black hair. But her eyes…her eyes—

"Levi?" A painfully familiar voice whispers hoarsely from the doorway, hope rising in the syllables. "Is that really you?"

Mikasa stands in the doorway, her hair down and a loose dressing gown draped over her thin figure, and her expression is somewhere between shock and exhilaration. Picking up the hem of her dress she rushes over to him and the little girl, a hand outstretched…

"It is you!" She flings herself around him and Levi can already feel the warm wet of joy on his neck. "You came back!" She whispers and releases him, staring at him in elated disbelief. "Your face…your beautiful face…it's changed but a little."

Levi offers her a smile, his hands shaking. "Mikasa…" he starts, and looks up from his bended position on the ground, his heart racing. She is more beautiful than the last time he saw her, and he wonders just how long he's been away. Enough to move on without him and have a gorgeous little girl, he realizes, but the look on Mikasa's face says otherwise—it is still full of the same adoration and ardor she gave him that night—no glimmer of anger or fury mar her features.

"Mère." Mother. The little girl finally releases Levi and he is left in quieted shock. "Signor Forestiero came tonight. Does that mean he's really…?" She doesn't finish her sentence—a mixture of French and Mikasa's mother Italian, Levi notices—and buries her face in her mother's skirt.

Levi doesn't understand the meaning behind her cryptic statement, but it seems Mikasa has and the expression on her face has gone hollow. "This is Aiko." She doesn't answer her daughter's question and leans down, straightening her clothes.

"I'm six years old!" Aiko almost shrieks in glee, holding up as many fingers.

"Yes you are." Mikasa smiles down at her, stroking her inky hair. "I gave birth to her after you left. Jean wasn't here." She bites her lip, her chin quivering. "He's gone and left me, but has since consented to let me live in the same house as my own. It's just me and Aiko and the staff now."

"Mikasa, I am sorry." Levi rises and reaches for her hand. He is almost overjoyed to hear that she is without a companion, but his heart aches for her. She is once again lonely, and he is responsible, sadness washing over him.

"Mère," interrupts Aiko, and this time, she is looking directly at Levi. "Does that mean he's…?" She doesn't finish again, still leaving him bewildered.

Mikasa gives him a sad smile. "You did what you felt you must." She looks down and nods to her daughter, "Sì, cara mia. He is." She says softly and Aiko once again runs to him.

"Père!" Father.

Levi cannot tear his eyes away from Mikasa, knowing his face must betray his true emotion: fear. Aiko's eyes…he knew they looked too severely familiar for him to be mistaken, and as reality crashes against his knees, he can only pray to the deities to forgive him.

He has a daughter. And she is the most stunning thing he has laid his cold eyes on. She is mumbling something into his pants now, and when he leans down to look her in the eyes, he silently promises he will not abandon her or her mother again. His chest surges with remorse and his mind has crescendoed to a buzzing blur.

"Nine months after you left, Levi." Mikasa places a hand on his shoulder and he snatches it immediately, kissing the soft skin so passionately she gives a reluctant soft giggle. "I told her of the Man of Eternal Youth in my closet, Signor Forestiero, and she's been waiting for him ever since."

"How did you find out?" He murmurs, still clutching the young girl. Await further instructions—he needs no more counseling from the Masters to tell him what he must do.

"Two months after you left." Says Mikasa. The sun has risen now and its rays are shining into the room, shedding yellow light onto the small family. "Jean still believes she is his. But I am barren now." The last statement forces her to wipe her eyes hurriedly.

Levi is suddenly aware, and the guilt is beginning to weigh heavily on him. Of course: their coupling would have put enormous strain on Mikasa's foreign human body—compared to his—leaving her unable to produce any more children after Aiko's birth, and had he known then, he would have refused to allow her to touch him. It seems he is fated to destroy everything he has ever wanted and loved, and he resolves to make up for this cruel punishment he has unknowingly bestowed on her.

"I still love you, Levi." She says with a whimper. "You left me, and yet I still love you. How is that fair?" Tears are glistening on her cheek now.

"It isn't." Levi responds miserably, wishing he could take back these past years. Mikasa has been left without a partner, and Aiko has been left without a father; and just like the night they parted, he knows there is only one decision. "But I promise, I swear, that I will never leave again." His voice is low and he means it. "For the past one hundred and seventy-seven years you have not left me, and now I will return what you have lost." He tugs Mikasa down to the floor and catches her in a loving embrace.

"Père." Aiko runs her hands through his hair, pulling at the long dark strands and entwining them around her small fingers. "You have funny clothes."

Mikasa laughs out loud—a sweet sound Levi's ears have not heard for ages—and she reaches a hand to caress the back of his neck, sending tingles down his skin. "Shall we find suitable clothes for Babbo to wear today, Aiko?"

Aiko nods fiercely and jumps from her father's arms, running toward her door and shouting, "Signor Forestiero is my daddy!"

Levi smiles reverently and he and Mikasa both rise, their hands still clasped. "We cannot let her keep saying that, else the rest of the city will know—"

"That what? Her father is her mother's oldest friend?" Mikasa raises an eyebrow and continues to hold tight to him, as if he is once again leaving her. Perhaps she is still afraid he might.

"That her father was once a stranger in her mother's closet." He gives her a quick kiss on the forehead.

She rolls her eyes and pursues after their daughter, pulling him after her. "You have not changed, Levi. But come, today I will hear all about your life after me. Surely it can't be all that exciting if I wasn't there." Mikasa laughs again, this time heartily and with delight. She glides through her daughter's door, leaving him to follow.

It is fully bright in the room now, and looking outside, Levi sees that the sky is blue, hardly any clouds scarring its perfect surface, and he sighs contentedly, finally understanding why the Masters had sent him on this impossible journey so long ago. Mikasa needed him then and she still needs him now—if only for a different reason—and this time, they will not have to endure another sour separation until death. His chest is nearly bursting with love for his newfound daughter, her gray irises so much like his own, and she is what he is living for now: to teach her and be proud of her and nurture her—so much like the way he had with Mikasa years and years ago. They are a family now, and Levi swears he will never lie to her or her mother again.

"Aren't you coming, Levi?" Mikasa's head pokes through the door and she is holding up some strange looking garments: more weird, uncomfortable clothes, Levi notices reluctantly.

He nods with a grin and walks toward his beautiful Mikasa, thinking these next fifty years will be magnificent.