The Muscovites came in the fourth week after the lunar new year, when the bare, winter branches were about to give way to spring blossoms.

Wang Yao was reading in his private chambers when he was summoned. The fading light of early evening set outside his window.

"Wáng lǎoshī," the servant said as he kowtowed. "Shèngjià requests your presence in the throne room."

Yao closed his book and set it on the low table he knelt in front of. With his back straight and his hands folded in his lap, he calmly addressed the servant. "Thank you. I will be out in a moment."

The servant bowed once more and stepped away from the doorway to wait for him.

Yao took the ribbon he had placed on the table and tied his hair back. With grace befitting his position and importance, he stood and met the servant at the door. The servant led Yao away from the officials' private chambers and around the courtyard to the emperor's throne room.

The servant bowed once more to Yao at the door, his eyes on the ground as Yao walked past him and into the throne room. His level chin held up, his shoulders straight and set back, his hands clasped together under the sleeves of his robe.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne, Yao knelt and kowtowed in front of the emperor.

"Bìxià," he greeted the emperor. "You summoned me."

"Yao qīng," the emperor replied. "Stand at my side. The Muscovite convoy has arrived in the palace."

Yao, as the emperor's teacher, advisor, and primary official among many titles, ascended the steps and stood next to the seated emperor.

"Let them enter," he then told the guards.

Having lived as long as he had, Yao was practiced in many things, composure being among the foremost. When the foreigners entered, they couldn't have been more different than they. Yao could speculate that no less than three-quarters of the emperor's subjects currently in this room had seen a foreigner.

These Muscovites were tall, thick, and lumbering. They had long protruding noses and pale eyes, hair as grey as sun-bleached stones on some and light like summer wheat stalks on others. Their clothing was from an unknown culture – short coats over trousers and tall boots, almost everything lined in furs.

The convoy that entered the throne room consisted of ten men. The man leading the procession, whom Yao supposed was the Muscovite grand-duke's diplomat, was flanked by two men. The remaining seven walked behind them, and by custom they would be generals or other officials.

One of the men flanking the representative stood at the man's side, his face impassive and his posture rigid. He bowed his head and spoke their Mandarin.

"On behalf of the grand-duke Dmitri Donskoi of Muscovy, I present to Your Majesty, Andrey Mikhailovich Vasilyev, foreign representative of the grand-duke."

Yao only thought it slightly odd that the convoy hadn't been assigned a Chinese translator. To have a Muscovite official display such command over Mandarin was unusual, but efficient. Yao was not proficient in their language; he never had much interaction with them to feel motivated to learn it.

"Welcome to China," the emperor said. "I hope your stay will be most comfortable. I invite your men to join us in a more private room to discuss business."

The man translated to his party and an agreement was made. Yao was expected to follow the emperor and walked behind him as modestly as possible. It wasn't only custom he was adhering to; Yao's case was a peculiar one and he could have walked with the command of an emperor. But no, Yao never felt inclined to act like so. Perhaps it was because of his time spent on this earth that instilled in him his sense of place and purpose. Yao preferred to be unacknowledged unless necessary and unseen unless he desired it. Yao was allowed these privileges too, as one word to his emperors about certain facts would keep them from experiencing what he was capable of.

While they walked to another private room, Yao felt eyes on his back. His nerves sprung on alert in an instant. What Yao felt was a sensation he hadn't felt in centuries. This was different from the simple sensation of being watched. He felt the gaze pierce him completely, as if looking into his soul. Yao steeled his back and never faltered, but the disconcerting feeling persisted until they entered the meeting room.

When Yao stood back near the wall to observe, his eyes swept the foreign men. One by one – until his gaze was caught like a fish on a hook by the tallest man, the man who'd translated in the throne room.

He stood dutifully with his hands behind his back, at ease. However, he glared at Yao. His eyes were sharp and lethal, his brow lowered and furrowed in concentration of some sort. His lips were set in a straight line, his jaw clenched. He appeared as if he would sprint across the room at any moment and kill Yao.

And that was the suspiciously curious thing – he only glared at Yao like this, he was only watching him. Pulled out of brief shock, Yao set his gaze and matched the man's glare, refusing to fall to this man's intimidation.

Yao was called up by the emperor and together they spoke with the diplomats. Yao had forgotten that the odd man was their translator. He approached the table, glare less intense but by no means disinterested in Yao.

The diplomat spoke his language, and the translator said, "The Tatar strikes have calmed, and with the establishment of the grand-duchy my grand-duke would like to extend a hand of peace."

Yao's eyes never left the man as he spoke. His voice was surprisingly milder than his rough countenance, he almost sounded faintly pleased. The contrasts were boggling his mind.

"Yao qīng," the emperor said. Yao tore his eyes from the man, whose eyebrow quirked infinitesimally. Everyone in the room was watching him with expectant patience.

Yao cleared his throat and pointedly kept his gaze from the strange man's. "How long have the Tatar forces been suppressed?"

The man answered suddenly, with no prompting from his diplomat. "Six years."

Yao faced him again. "There is no sign of resurgence?"

"Not as of late."

"Six years is a fraction compared to the centuries of Tatar activity."

And then the man smiled. It was only a quirk of his lips at one corner but it was a triumphant smile, like he'd just confirmed a pressing thought. "But they have not stopped, have they? You know the history well." At this, Yao strained to keep a cool façade. Inside, his mind was warring. "I can tell. Six years may not be long, but it is the longest so far."

Yao grit his teeth. "If you act on such unreliable statistics you set yourself up for failure."

He actually giggled. "I set myself up for nothing," he said. "The consequences will affect my leaders." He seemed to remember that he was still in the presence of the emperor as well, and added, "As a dutiful guide, I can only relay information."

Yao didn't know why he was angry, it was irrational. What did he care for this stranger? He'd lived longer than anybody on this earth, survived plagues and disease and war, and his place on this earth seemed permanent without threat. What did he care if this foreigner's stupid actions got his country in trouble?

The Muscovite diplomat was muttering to the translator, finally fed up with being left out of the loop. Did they know how nonchalant their liaison was about the issue? How would they feel if they knew?

When Yao's eyes met the translator's once more, his concerns were no longer at the forefront of his mind. Those eyes that glowed in the warmth of the candlelight sparked the same unexpected pressure in his chest as he'd experienced earlier.

It was at the center of his chest, just behind his ribs; an inflating pressure that wanted to push through his front toward the other man.

When the other met his gaze and smiled knowingly, Yao clenched his fists, telling himself it was not worth it to get in a fight with an important group of ambassadors.

"Yao qīng, are you all right?" the emperor asked low from his side.

Yao slowly unclenched his fists. "I am fine."

"If you are not able to continue this discussion–"

"No," Yao said quickly. The last thing he needed was to give that man more fodder to torment him with. "I am fine."

"Very well, try to control your temper. We are here to work through this."

"Of course, bìxià."

The translator simply smiled at them, being the only one who could understand them. Yao wanted to knock that smile right off his face.

They transitioned to other topics but as much as he tried for his emperor, Yao only found his frustration with the translator growing and growing. It was in the looks he'd shoot Yao from time to time, the way he had a knack of smiling when the tumbling pressure in his chest stirred. More than once Yao had to ask someone to repeat themselves, and the man would smirk.

Tea was brought to conclude business for that night, though they still had much more to discuss.

The man cornered Yao when the other members of his party began to retire to their quarters.

He was closer than Yao wanted him, but before he could say so, the man spoke. "You are a faithful advisor, I can tell. But I wonder if you have seen enough of this world to accurately predict its outcomes."

Anger flared. "Excuse me?" Yao replied in disbelief.

"If I took a guess, I would say you have not travelled outside your country."

Yao's jaw dropped open, but he couldn't find the words. Regrettably, it was true. Yao had only ever remained in China. But he had centuries, perhaps even millennia, on this man. How dare he accuse Yao of inadequacy?

"My position is not for you to criticize," he hissed. The man remained unaffected. "And I will not be spoken to like this. If you want your visit here to go smoothly, I suggest you act accordingly."

The man tilted his head to the side, seeming to gaze deeper into Yao's eyes as if they held an answer he were looking for. Finally, he licked his lips and said, "My apologies. Excuse me."

He left, and Yao's heart was racing.

.

Yao returned to his private chambers on edge. His attendants scurried after him when he stormed down the corridor but he dismissed them with a single slashing hand motion. Entering his chambers, he shut the sliding door harder than might have been necessary but once he was alone he released the breath he'd been holding.

His breath came out in harsh puffs and Yao ripped his hair out of its ribbon. He ignored the way his fingers shook. He told himself it was anger coursing through him, but it was useless. Apprehension was what had him pacing the floor, worrying his lip, and wringing his hands.

Yao clenched a fist and struggled to untie his robes. He dropped them in a crumpled heap, but he was still too hot. Off came his silk shirt, leaving him only in loose trousers. With his bare chest heaving, he slid open the window as an added measure.

Outside Yao's window were the gardens, and behind them the stone wall separating the main palace from the outskirts. The breeze was a gentle whisper over the leaves in the garden and the moonlight was a wash of pale light. The more he watched the steady breeze the more his nerves were calmed. His harsh breaths evened and Yao took one last deep breath.

It seemed ridiculous to get this worked up. This feeling was not unknown, just unexpected.

Yao walked into his sleeping quarters, crossing his legs as he sat on the luxurious silk bedcovers. He lay flat on his back, still too warm to sleep under the covers. He closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep quickly, but nearly an hour had passed and Yao was no closer to dreamless sleep.

He flung an arm across his eyes, hoping the extra blackness would block out all distraction. Then, he heard a creaking sound. In the quiet of the night and his state of restlessness, he was especially attuned to the muffled sounds of feet stepping carefully out in the great room of his quarters. Yao lay still, listening. That unnerving sensation pricked at his skin again and his breathing turned shallow.

The trespasser was in his room now. Sock-clad feet neared his bedroll at his knees. For a minute, the figure stilled and Yao strained to hear anything – he couldn't even hear breathing.

The man took another step forward and Yao acted. He twisted his legs and weaved them between the other's, tripping him and the man fell to the ground with a dense thud. But this man was no common intruder. Once he hit the ground he was rolling – onto Yao.

Yao used his momentum to keep them rolling until he was on top of the other. He lodged a forearm into the man's throat and with his other hand he pinned the man's right arm away from his side.

Then he was staring into the eyes of the Muscovite translator. His eyes were the lightest of lavenders in the moonlight, pale like plum blossoms, and they looked strangely pleased. His hair was the palest gold.

Yao took deep breaths, looking down at this man who gave no effort to break free.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed none too politely.

The man tapped Yao's forearm with his free hand and Yao reluctantly lifted his arm away from the man's larynx.

"Yao," the man breathed.

Yao snarled and bitingly said, "You will address me as Wáng lăoshí, foreigner." The man simply smiled wider. "Answer me. What are you doing here?"

"Tell me, Yao." He ignored Yao's vice grip on his wrist. "How many emperors have you served? Have you always been the imperial pet?"

"I am no pet," Yao shot back, belatedly realizing he'd snapped at the man's bait, never denying his implied statement.

"You look young to be an emperor's advisor. Exactly how old are you, Yaochka?"

Yao didn't even register the unfamiliar manipulation of his name. His stomach began knotting itself because this man was confirming everything he knew deep down.

Yao swallowed and said carefully, "You are like me."

He blinked slowly, but smiled. "It has been so long since I met another." He placed his large palm against Yao's chest, right over his solar plexus. It was warm. "You feel it here, do you not?"

Yao couldn't believe it. He didn't think he'd meet another person like himself, not since he found the little boy he called his brother all those centuries ago.

The man moved his hand and his curled fingers gingerly brushed Yao's long curtain of black hair. "Yaochka, moi kotyonok," he whispered in his language.

Yao pushed away from the man, no longer able to have those suspiciously gentle eyes drinking him in. He stood and stepped off the bed, turning his back on him.

The man shifted, and out of the corner of his eye Yao watched the man get to his feet. He finally turned back and looked him in the eye.

This close – just over an arm's length away – to the disarmingly tall man Yao had to tip his head back slightly to meet his gaze.

"What is your name?" Yao asked.

"Ivan Braginski."

His brow furrowed. "Everyone in your convoy has three names. Why don't you?"

"Their fathers give them patronymics. I have no father."

Yao swallowed once more. This man, Ivan, was unreadable. His expression never shifted, and his tone was surprisingly light and patient, as if he could stand to gently explain everything to Yao all night.

"Why have you come here? To China?" he clarified.

"As advisor to the grand-duke of the newly established Muscovy, I was requested to accompany the ambassador."

Yao gawked unblinkingly at him.

Ivan grinned. "You see, we are alike."

"This is impossible."

"You say that, yet I would venture to guess that you have lived on this earth a very long time, even longer than me, perhaps."

He wasn't wrong. Yao had just broken through his third millennium.

"Mr. Braginski," Yao began, having trouble with his name, "It seems I cannot ignore the situation any longer." Ivan smiled. "However, it is late. I ask that you leave and allow me some time."

"Of course, Yaochka," Ivan replied, giving a small bow. "I understand."

Ivan turned and casually exited his bedroom. At the door, he whispered one last, "Good night," before slipping out as quietly as he came in.

Once he was out of his chambers, Yao pressed his own palm to his chest where Ivan's had been. Yao felt dizzy. Now that Ivan was gone, the buzz that he'd felt whenever they were near each other was distinctly missing. He hadn't even noticed it when Ivan intruded into his room. He realized that the sensation was the same sensation he felt when they were in the same room at the diplomatic meeting. He'd only felt it once before, on a smaller scale, but this was overwhelming.

Yao lowered himself onto his bed, curling into a ball on his side. He kept an arm wrapped around the space between his ribs, still warm from Ivan's touch, as if it were the only way to keep in the remaining fragments of that feeling.

He exhaled a shuddered breath and closed his eyes. Yao fell into a sleep plagued by vague memories of the little boy he took in so many years ago, a little boy who had caused a similar reaction – of one unique soul coming into contact with another.

*sweats* This might be a bit ambitious for me, but I liked the idea. This deserves more research than I have time to give, so certain things may be intentionally vague but I have tried to keep what I do have as accurate or realistic as possible. And certain things (like Russian endearments) I've just decided to run with. Apologies for any discrepancies!

Thanks for reading and supporting, loves!