Author Note: Hello again, everyone! I'm so sorry for the brief hiatus. Mid-terms and then a weeklong trip to visit family interrupted my posting schedule. Also, apologies – the first scene of this chapter should have ended the last chapter, but somehow I messed up when dividing the master document. I hope you enjoy it all the same. Also, for those of you who are diligent with my grammar and typos, I apologize for the state of the last chapter. I'm cleaning up the mess =P

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Later, in their rooms, Yuffie resisted the urge to hover. Chekhov had made it very clear that Tseng needed several weeks for his shoulder to heal properly, and that would only work if he stayed in bed and didn't overexert himself. Yuffie had already placed bets to herself on how long it would be before Tseng could no longer take being coddled and returned to his office.

"I'm not an invalid," Tseng said sleepily, his heart not in the protest. "I just need—" A huge yawn cracked his sentence in half. "—some time to heal. I can walk."

"What makes you think you need to tell me that?"

"You're hovering."

"I am not hovering."

"Then you're fidgeting."

His drooping eyelids snapped open long enough to give her a pointed look. She stopped pulling open the third drawer on her dressing table and realized she had already opened the previous two and strewn the contents across the countertop.

"Um."

Tseng's lips stretched into a dreamy half-smile as he drifted toward sleep again. He had a vulnerable look about him that pulled at her heart in a way she would rather not examine. Impulsively, she took four steps and then clambered into bed with him before he could protest.

"What are you doing?" he slurred. Yuffie wouldn't be surprised if Chekhov had slipped him a mild sedative.

"Shhh. Get some rest."

After a few minutes, his breathing deepened. Yuffie inched closer to him, suppressing a yawn. She was feeling the effects of the day, though not nearly as much as Tseng must be.

When she was sure he was asleep, she made a quick decision and reached forward to hold his hand resting on the covers. Shortly after that, she fell asleep.

She dreamed her body was bathed in a warm light, that scales the color of the sea on a clear day sheathed her skin.

.

Yuffie had a meeting scheduled with the Mighty Gods the next morning. She was not enjoying it for a variety of reasons. At the moment, she was having difficulty explaining her two dead guards and the two dead assassins in the memorial garden.

Gorki rubbed his huge hands over his face, pinking his skin. "We'll have to do damage control with this one before the media has a field day, my lady."

"I know. The cops were suspicious enough. The chief said, 'again?' I think he expects me to just leave dead bodies on the doorstep like party favors."

Shake sniggered, and Chekhov rolled her eyes.

"We must discuss the possible motives," Staniv said. He stroked his severe facial hair, a sign of his complex thoughts.

"Funny you should mention that!" Yuffie chirped, her voice notably nervous. "I brought someone to help us."

Gorki struggled not to smirk. "It's a shame the art of subtlety is utterly lost on you."

Yuffie glared at him as she stood. Three steps took her to the door. She opened it to reveal Tseng.

Shake's humor evaporated. "What's he doing here?"

"Well, Shake, as he is the Emperor, I thought it might be time to include him in affairs of the state."

"That is not," Shake snarled, "why he's here."

Shocking Yuffie, Chekhov spoke up in her sharp voice. "Pray tell, Shake, why is he here?"

"To sell our secrets to the Shinra!" he declared, standing and slamming his open palms on the tabletop with enough force to rattle Gorki's cup of coffee. "What other reason could he have?"

For his part, Tseng stood quietly as Yuffie barked, "Shake, you will have respect for your emperor!"

At the use of Tseng's title, Shake's face flushed very dark. "I will never," his voice shook with fury, "bow to this dog of—"

"SHAKE!" she roared. "Get out of this conference, and get out of my sight!"

The fire did not go out of him at her reprimand. Instead, he stared at her, tight-lipped, knuckles white on the edge of the table. When she did not back down from his gaze after a long moment, he pivoted smartly and stalked from the room. Tseng stepped out of the doorframe but not before Shake jostled his injured shoulder hard. He did not react visibly, stepping into the room and bowing deeply.

"My extreme apologies, Honorable Ones."

Staniv cleared his throat, stood, and bowed in return. "There is no need to apologize, your highness. You are beyond welcome at these meetings."

Gorki did not look as convinced as Staniv sounded, but he said nothing. Chekhov had on her legendary poker face.

Tseng rose from his bow and took the now-empty chair to Yuffie's right. She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if that might have been a purposeful move on his part. He merely nodded to her, though, a minute tip of the head.

"Now that that's over with," Yuffie said, "I believe we can get on with this. Tseng, before you came in, we were talking about possible motives for the attacks yesterday."

Tseng nodded again. "Have you fully debriefed the Mighty Gods?"

"No. I was hoping you could do that for me."

"Very well." His expression sharpened as he looked at each of them in turn, placing his good hand on the table in a relaxed pose. "Yesterday at around oh-fourteen-hundred hours, Lady Kisaragi and I arrived at the memorial garden to pay respects to Lord Godo. Approximately seven minutes after arrival, we were attacked. The first assailant, a long-range combatant, initiated the conflict by throwing kunai in the Empress' direction.

"The second, a male, did not appear to be working in tandem with the woman. As our two escorts had already been murdered, we split up to take care of them. After the Empress had disposed of the man, the woman attempted to take her hostage. I did not comply with the female assailant's requests that I lay down my weapon, though I had sustained a bullet-wound to my left shoulder."

He paused, flexed the fingers on his left hand, and said, "I shot her and freed Yuffie." The longer pause indicated his story was finished.

Yuffie jumped in. "We didn't find any identification on the man's body," she said. "But we didn't get a chance to check the woman."

"I presume because of Lord Kisaragi's injury," Chekhov said.

Gorki turned his gaze to Tseng. "You say you took down the woman?"

"That's correct."

"With your left hand? Which hand do you shoot with?"

Yuffie grinned with immense pleasure. "His right."

"Well then," Gorki said, after a moment of silence. He cleared his throat and seemed to move on. "We've taken the bodies into custody. No identification was discovered on either suspect, and their faces do not appear in any database."

"No leads, then?" Yuffie just narrowly avoided cursing in front of her honorable peers.

"No leads."

She sighed. "So we have no idea who might be trying to kill me?"

"Or kidnap you," Staniv pointed out.

"This indicates there might, in fact, be more than one group targeting you."

"Chekhov, don't say that," Yuffie groaned. "Just what I need. People trying to snatch me and people trying to stick me full of daggers."

"Nevertheless," Gorki said, exasperated, "we will continue to investigate. From now on, I think it would be a good idea if you did not leave the palace unless absolutely necessary, your highness."

Yuffie groaned but knew there would be no arguing with Gorki. The rest of the Mighty Gods and Tseng would, no doubt, agree with him. She had to admit that every time she tried to leave the grounds, she got shot at.

"There is another matter we must discuss, your highness," Staniv said, pulling out a sheaf of very official-looking papers. They practically reeked of money matters. "Funding."

"Oh, gods, funding," she groaned, dropping her head into her hands.

"While we all admire your efforts toward rebuilding the school system in the capital and surrounding areas, my queen, I'm not sure if we have the money to finish this project you've started, however necessary it's been."

"Is there nowhere else we can cut the budget and funnel toward this project?" she asked, at a loss. Yuffie had been aware of the money problems, of course; they were, primarily, what stood in her way for change in Wutai. "If we gun for education, everything will benefit. I just know it."

In full Head Accountant mode, Staniv massaged the bridge of his nose. "I have done all I can with our current funds, your highness."

"May I make a suggestion?" Tseng interjected smoothly.

"Go on," Gorki said, after a cautious glance at Yuffie, who smiled just a bit.

"The palace seems to have a rich cultural history. I've seen paintings and sculptures here that must be hundreds of years old."

"I can't seem to get rid of Great Aunt Wu's portrait," Yuffie muttered.

Tseng glanced at her with what she swore was amusement, but he did not miss beat. "If you feel that any of these historical items are expendable, I propose we hold an auction, the proceeds of which would go toward building, staffing, stocking, and opening new schools."

"Yeah, but… who would buy that crap?"

Chekhov shot Yuffie a severe look. Yuffie wondered, for the millionth time, if Chekhov had anything besides severe looks. Tseng shrugged one shoulder. "Actually, I've been surprised over the years at what people will pay to get their hands on something labeled historical."

"It's settled then!" Yuffie clapped her hands together and beamed at Tseng. "Staniv, you and me got an auction to plan."

.

"That went well, I think," Yuffie mused.

Tseng tipped his head as they traveled to the hospital wing. Chekhov had said she would meet them there after she nipped down to the kitchens and ordered lunch. "Shake, however…"

She shrugged, scowling. "Forget Shake."

"Are you sure pushing for my acceptance is worth jeopardizing your friendship with Shake?"

Surprised, Yuffie tried to keep her eyebrows from shooting up. "That's nice of you, but Shake needs to recognize my authority and yours. We need a united front, and the Mighty Gods are an important part of making this work in the long haul."

"I hardly think a year is 'the long haul,'" Tseng remarked.

Yuffie's stomach dropped, and she struggled not to show her embarrassment at her gaff. These days, when she looked toward the future, she automatically envisioned Tseng as being part of it. "Well," she tried, going for natural, "a year's long enough anyway, and he needs to get used to me making decisions he doesn't like. It's obnoxious the way he's acting."

Her husband slanted a look at her as if to say she was one to talk about being obnoxious, so she punched him on his left arm. "Shut up, you."

They had arrived in the hospital wing for Chekhov to check the progress of his wounds and change the bandages. Yuffie could have checked and redressed Tseng's shoulder herself had changed bandages many times in her battle-peppered life, but Chekhov was always a complete control freak about any patient brought into her care.

As they walked through the door, Chekhov arrived, bustling Tseng over to the bed with just a look. Yuffie followed to observe.

"You know I could just do this myself," she said to Chekhov as Tseng removed his outer robes to reveal the bandages. Yuffie very carefully did not stare at his chest, focusing hard on the bandages around his shoulder.

"Do you have somewhere to be, my lady?" she replied sharply. Yuffie opened her mouth to reply that she always had somewhere to be, since she was the Empress, but Chekhov cut her off. "I think not. You can afford a few minutes for my personal care."

Tseng shot her a questioning expression, and Yuffie smiled. "She's always been like this. I fondly recall being her patient when I was little."

"And I fondly recall you being the worst patient I have ever treated," Chekhov retorted.

She scowled. "That is so not true. You're a tyrant." The bandages were falling away, almost to the skin now.

"And you're a brat," she said without even looking . "Now, let's just take a peek at the…"

As Chekhov's sentence faded half-finished, Yuffie stared openly at Tseng's shoulder. His wound had all but disappeared. There was some scabbing, but the bullet-hole did not have the puffy red of recently stitched skin.

"That's interesting," Tseng said into the silence.

Yuffie blurted, "Have the Turks been treated with mako?"

He shook his head. "No."

"So you're just badass on your own then." She grinned at him, and his lips curled up, just so.

"Excuse me," Chekhov interjected. "How did this happen? Your wound should look like this weeks from now, not overnight."

Yuffie shrugged at the same time as Tseng said, "I have no idea."

With a deadpan expression, Chekhov stared. "Praise Leviathan, we have a miracle."

At Chekhov's words, something stirred in Yuffie's middle, something snakelike and content. In her surprise, Yuffie rubbed her abdomen and frowned. She had trouble, sometimes, discerning the god's emotions, but the water dragon seemed… self-satisfied. Yuffie wasn't too familiar with this emotion.

"Are you all right?" Tseng asked, as Chekhov poked and prodded at his shoulder.

"Just hungry," Yuffie said a bit too quickly.

He did not look at her for so long it seemed strange, though. He nodded, then turned to Chekhov. "Is there anything more to be done? I believe my queen and I must attend lunch."

Chekhov swiped a hand over her severe hairstyle, smoothing the gray strands back toward the bun. "Let me just rewrap this shoulder, and you can go. There's not really anything else I can do but stare."

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The Pagoda had a small meditation room. Yuffie loved the way the skinny blue Leviathan carved into the floor molding actually looped the entire room and devoured its own tail.

Meditating before bed helped stave off nightmares of her father dying, of Meteor hitting, of Aeris's death. She hadn't dreamed of Aeris dying since she was about nineteen, but with the stress she'd been under lately, she'd been revisiting many of the negative periods in her life. She woke at least once a week with visions of long brown hair disappearing below the surface of the lake.

However useful meditation proved for clearing her mind before sleep or serious state business, this particular session was for a different purpose. Chekhov prowled the room around her, hawkish eyes trained on Yuffie as she paced.

"I feel like I'm back in training," Yuffie muttered.

"You are," Chekhov said, pausing in her endless circling to stare Yuffie down. "Now clear your mind."

Five minutes passed. Ten. Yuffie tried not to fidget. The end of her right big toe really itched, though. She wiggled it, then yelped when Chekhov slapped her across the top of the head.

"I said clear your mind! What is so difficult about this exercise? Your father and mother before you, and their fathers and mothers before them had the ability to clear their minds, no matter how foolish they were. Can you not master this simple task?"

"I can! Just let me concentrate." Her ears still ringing, Yuffie reflected that she really was back in training school if Chekhov was smacking her around.

Another five minutes, ten. Fifteen. Yuffie could feel herself teetering on the brink of a true meditative trance, but she couldn't quite breach it. Frustrated, she threw her hands into the air and rolled onto her back. Her crossed arms managed to block Chekhov's next strike.

"Wait!" she cried. "I'm trying, I really am! Something's wrong!"

Chekhov's threatening hand still hovered over Yuffie's defenseless form. "What's wrong is that you need to organize your mind. The only obstacle is yourself."

"No, really, Chekhov. Trust me. Something's not right this time, and it hasn't been for weeks."

"You've been experiencing a block for weeks, and you haven't told me?" Chekhov rolled her eyes. "Idiot."

Instead of smacking her again, Chekhov pushed Yuffie into an upright position and sat across from her charge with only a small groan. Her knees creaked, and when she saw Yuffie's lifted eyebrows, she said, "I'm getting too old for this job."

"No way. You're immortal."

"I am not immortal. I am sixty-one. Which is why I need you fully-trained so I can retire already. Staniv too."

Trying to imagine her life without Chekhov and Staniv to guide her would be, in Yuffie's mind, like trying to fly the Highwind through a hurricane and only just realizing as she entered the first set of tornadoes that A) she didn't actually know how to fly an airship, and B) the wings had vanished. She shook the thought from her mind and chose to focus on the present, lest she get all weepy and Chekhov slap her again.

Surprising her, Chekhov reached out and took Yuffie's hands in her claw-like grasp. "I want you to try again. Clear your mind. Focus."

Yuffie breathed deeply, in through her nose, letting her exhales filter softly from her open mouth. She took solace in the cool, dry hands encasing hers. Just how long had it been since anyone had touched her with any real care?

The minutes passed, this time, without her counting them. She could feel herself on the brink again, standing at the edge of a chasm in her mind. At the bottom, something gleamed, rope-like coils winding and slithering over each other in an endless tangle. She wanted to spread her arms and fall into the depths, but her feet would not move.

After a long time at the precipice of her consciousness, Yuffie retreated and resurfaced to find Chekhov staring at her with narrowed eyes.

"You're glowing," her mentor said with a small smile.

Yuffie was aware, suddenly, that the gleam in Chekhov's eyes was not mischief, but rather the reflection of her own body. Every inch of her skin gave off a faint but noticeable pale blue light.

She sucked in a breath, aware of everything in the room: the air drafting about her bare neck from the open windows, the soft mat beneath her legs, even the subtle bunch of fabric behind her bent knees. "What the…?"

"And yet I sense that you are still blocked. Yuffie, let me tell you something."

She refocused on Chekhov. "Uh, yeah?" It was very hard to concentrate with this new, enhanced sensory-input.

"You wield a connection to Leviathan the likes of which I have never seen. The Kisaragi family has always been well-liked by him, but you, in particular, have done much for this country and for his name. You have saved the planet three times over, and as this country's Empress, our God expects much more from you."

"Oh, cool, no pressure then." She flexed her fingers in front of her face, watching the light blue after-images her lantern skin left in the air.

Chekhov scowled. "Pay attention. You have not mastered the connection yet, or the influx of power this connection will lend you, but even here in the beginning stages you have far outstripped your father when he was your age. I knew you would when you bested the Pagoda at only sixteen."

Yuffie's eyes widened. She knew from the stories that her own father had waited until age twenty to ascend the Pagoda. Even then, he had set a record for power. She hadn't thought before about her own youthful victory; she'd just been relieved to get through it without killing anyone or herself. Mostly, she'd been pleased at the look of genuine respect in her father's eyes when she stood over him at the end of their fight.

"Now get back to work, you lazy child. I want to know what's blocking you."

The glow had faded during Chekhov's speech. Yuffie made to close her eyes and concentrate again, but Chekhov squeezed sharply at one of her hands. "No, no. This will require talking."

"About…?"

"Your feelings."

Even as Chekhov said the word with palpable disgust, Yuffie was struggling to get out of her grip. "Oh, no. No way. We're not doing this."

"We are doing this, so sit. Tell me, how are things in the bedroom with the Emperor?"

Yuffie almost fell flat on her face, caught as she was in a half-sitting, half-standing escape position. As it was, she choked on her own spit and almost had a heart attack then and there. Chekhov released her long enough to pound her soundly on the back and usher her back into a sitting position.

"As I suspected," she said crisply.

"What's as you suspected? Oh, god, this is the worst thing ever. This is worse than Sephiroth. This is worse than Heidegger's underwear. This is worse than Palmer's lard collection."

"Are you quite finished?"

"No! We're not discussing my sex-life! Nope, no, and no."

"If you try to leave again, I will make sure you can't."

Once, when Yuffie was ten years old and climbing trees instead of going to lessons, Chekhov had caught her and temporarily paralyzed her from the waist down with a couple of precise jabs to pressure points on her young charge's body. Yuffie had been terrified and had never skived off again. Though she was older, stronger, and more seasoned now, Yuffie wasn't quite sure of her chances against a master of healing and un-healing the body like Chekhov.

"Fine. Go ahead. I'll just go commit seppuku afterward."

"You've never consummated the marriage."

Head now in her hands, Yuffie muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that? Speak clearly to your elders!"

"I said no! No I haven't! That is to say, we. We haven't. Why does it matter? You're the only one besides me and Tseng to know that. What does any of this have to do with Leviathan?"

"You will not master the link until you connect with your husband."

"Don't tell me Leviathan's a sexist bastard too," Yuffie spat. "What, do I have to pork Tseng to gain my true powers or something?"

Eyebrows higher than probably healthy, Chekhov said, "No, you do not have to pork the Emperor. I simply meant for you to have a connection with him. This power is yours to control and wield, but I know that you need companionship. In your need, you've created a spiritual block for yourself."

"I can do just fine by myself, Chekhov. I don't need—"

She held up a threatening hand. "I never said you couldn't. I meant that you thrive on it. You need to be of sound mind and body to harness Leviathan's gift to you. Being in a loveless marriage with your friends continents away is killing you."

Yuffie lay back on her mat and stared at the ceiling, surprisingly plain for all the Pagoda's decorative splendor. There was some comfort in counting the mundane slats of the ceiling above her. One, two, three, god, somebody please kill me, four, five, six, why am I doing this…

"Suppose you're right. I'm never going to access Leviathan. A romantic relationship is out of the question. Not that I want one," she said quickly, to Chekhov's skeptical look, "and a friendship sounds just as unlikely. He's like a statue, I swear."

Even as she described him as a statue, she felt guilty, remembering the offering of his cloak on the roof, remembering his help in dismantling her elaborate robes and hair. He protected her, even helped her when necessary, sure, but they didn't know enough about each other to be friends. She wondered if Tseng even knew how to be someone's friend.

Chekhov shrugged, brushed her legs off, and stood. "Not my problem."

"Bu—wha—I thought—"

"Figure it out, your highness. If you really want the control, if you really deserve the Kisaragi legacy, you will figure it out for yourself."

And then she was gone, the door banging shut behind her, leaving Yuffie alone, as usual, with her mounting frustration.