.

Gleaming coats of horses flashed across the great field, trampling flowers and grass in their paths. On their backs, bouncing with each gallop, were soldiers geared for battle. Swords in sheaths sat at their sides and they, swaddled in fine fur coats, prepared for grim battle. Snow flitted down like falling ash from a great fire, swirling and blinding those who were unaccustomed to it.

On one flank was a young man named Ivan Braginsky, brawny and grinning in the face of battle. His fair, mousy colored hair whipped against his face, which was square shaped and sturdy. Behind him was a happy home and crowds of people awaiting his healthy return!

Among which was a rare treasure from the East. The beauty, fine toned with fair skin and coal-black hair, waited for Ivan in his leisurely home, lounging in fine silks. He hated every inch of it, despite the comfort it brought him. He hoped Ivan would perish in battle from some wound inflicted to the heart or brain, but Ivan was a strong fighter—like the Greek and Roman heroes of years yonder—and that possibility dwindled with every second.

This beauty, Yao Wang, had been a prince and through some conflicts and schemes been exchanged over to the other country. Yao went along resentfully, fearing what would be become of him if he refused. He slipped off the ottoman and examined the house. Bustling in kitchen and making hot soup, was one of the many maids. She heard his feline footsteps with a trained maternal ear and rounded on him. In Russian, she asked something which Yao who could not understand.

She realized this and muttered to herself, waving at him to go do his own business. He went over to the grand windows and pulled away the frail curtains, peering down into the gray streets of Moscow. Horse-drawn carriages trampled through, carrying rich people and ignoring the impoverished ones scrawling the streets for a bit of bread. Several bare-footed women marched through, talking loudly with traveling gypsies and giving bits of black bread to the poor children. Monks of the monastery teemed at mass. Despite dreading his imprisonment, Yao still enjoyed the view below. He leaned against the window and watched, wishing for warmth or mist, or something other than the frigid cold.

Today was the second day since Yao's arrival. And yet he had still to meet the man who had bought him. Intentions were still murky, though Yao could fathom at what they were. He still had yet to learn whether Ivan was a morose, cynical man or a jolly giant with good nature deeply rooted in his heart. And Ivan had yet to know of Yao's personality.

"Who's to say that this was his choice?" Yao thought to himself, "I don't see any other women or men here."

This was completely true. Besides the two maids, no one else lived with Ivan. At least, not in this particular home of his. Much like other wealthy Russians, Ivan owned several homes and had requested that Yao stay in that Moscow apartment until he returned, and then they would live in his bigger house outside of the metropolis.

This both excited and unnerved Yao: for one, he would see something besides the groggy city, and for a second he would for sure never see his home again.

"He wants to go home," one of the maids, Lena, said to the other.

The other, who stirred the soup impatiently, nodded. "I don't blame him. But it is strange that Ivan, of all people, would buy himself a person, let alone a male!"

"Oh, Sveta, you know how clever he is! He must have some other motives."

"Do you think it is to judge how well we do our job?"

Lena paused, overcome with the possibility. Her bright eyes gleaming, she rushed to Yao at the window and took both his hands, kissing them. "Whatever you wish I will oblige!" She said.

Yao looked at her in surprise, unable to communicate. She had her black hair tightly pulled back. Her thin face, though not completely unsightly, faced him with a very scarce amount of beauty. Her eyes bulged much like a fish.

"I don't understand!" Yao blurted out in Mandarin, unable to think of anything else to say.

"I don't understand!" Lena said the same thing unknowingly.

"Oh you blubbering, screeching girl!" Sveta came up behind her and pulled her away. In one hand was a wooden spoon holding some red liquid and a sliced beet. "Try," she urged, holding it up to Yao.

Yao leaned forwards and tasted the soup. He smiled, surprised by the quality of the cooking. To him Russian food seemed to be bland and plain, potatoes and bread, but this introduction had him hungry for more.

Sveta beamed knowingly at him and said "good?"

Yao, who by now started to pick up some Russian, repeated the Russian word for "good", just as she did.

Sveta walked up towards the tick-tocking grandfather clock, made of fine brown wood, and pointed to the six. "In a half hour," she said slowly.

Yao nodded, feeling famished. He hadn't eaten since that morning.

"We must teach him Russian!" Sveta told Lena, going back to her soup and started to set the table while it simmered.

"He must be intelligent. I can see it in his eyes. Oh how proud Ivan will be when he returns to a Russian-speaking… Say, what is he? A guest?" Lena debated her word usage, helping Lena by setting out the bread and butter.

"By the way we treat him, he'll be seen as a king," Sveta muttered. She was the opposite of Lena: short and round, her face strong and determine and her black eyes plain. She kept her red hair tied back in a bun all the same.

Yao, meanwhile, returned to staring out the window, trying to absorb the Russian spoken by the two, even if it sounded like popping gibberish compared to his familiar Mandarin back at home. He untied the string that bound his long, inky hair and let the silk-like feature rest on his shoulder, clashing with his skin tone. Many possibilities and chances of escape surrounded him. Now, even, when the maids were distracted he could have escaped. But where would he go? He couldn't turn to anybody. Even with this rationale, still something else held him back. Perhaps it was out of pure curiosity of the man who had purchased him, or won him, or whatever wording one wanted to use.

On the other end of the window sill was a flower face, filled with glimmering water and that reflected the green-tinted vase. Inside the vase was a sunflower gazing happily out into the world. Yao felt its smooth petals between his fingers and smiled.


I do not own Hetalia.

Yes those are actual Russian names.