Nothing could match the crunch of freshly iced snow under boots. Russia left deep, size-13 tracks that snaked their way from the edge of his lawn and ended at the pond. The frozen body of water made him half frown. It lacked its normal glossy luster. With a sigh he admitted to his innermost self that it was symbolic of many facets of his life now; the economy was bad, he had lost his former strength, and although many countries speculated that the globe was warming and melting, he had no such luck; winter was still cold to the lonely Siberian. He spent more days at home with a bottle and a short-wave radio than he cared to admit. One could only read Leo Tolstoy's tomes so many times without going mad, or rather as his western acquaintances would say, "catching cabin fever".

The wind blew harder, and he pulled his scarf closer, with a futile hope that some of Ukraine's essence still lingered in its threads. No such luck. Muffling a sigh, he viewed the panorama one last time before trudging home with his eyes downward cast. To find amusement in his solitude, he made a game of the homeward trek by trying to place his feet exactly where they had fallen on the way there, leaving only one set of tracks. It was physical work, the kind that kept your legs and subconscious busy but left the moment open to his memory like a levy to a rising tide. Russia's eyes watered from the cold. That's what he told himself.

It had been summer in Moscow. He had been happily united with Uki and Bela back then. His lips twitched-to those who knew him well enough, (few did) he appeared to be smirking-before fading back into the blank canvas of his face, which matched the whiteness around him. One foot here, another there, don't step too far, lightly, lightly… Bela had been happier then. Uki had been also, and she would sit next to the empty fireplace with him. She would always be his favorite, and he missed her dearly. Why did she have to run?

It had been that day he had stumbled across her diary. "Russia is my favorite big brother. I've never seen eyes like his, not in the entire world… I don't get why everyone seems to be afraid of him. His gaze is…. not entirely pleasant, but certainly nothing to run from." She had come to fear him anyways, Russia thought with an odd twist in his stomach, just like everyone else. Now all he had was this scarf and a stolen page from her diary. Sometimes at night it haunted him more thoroughly than any specter he's heard tell of.

Finally, his home was in sight. He was here alone, for a little while; his territories had were out visiting, and he had let them go. Russia stomped the snow off his ancient, cracked boots. Protests shot up his legs as he did this, which probably meant his legs were going to kill later. If only he's remembered his snowshoes. On the cold wooden floor, now shoeless, his feet were deafeningly silent when compared to the crunch-crunch rhythm that had followed him home. He laid a hand on the banister, looking up at a photograph of the Allies. Not a bad-looking group, they all looked calm and victorious. Except for America. That child was different from the rest of the world. America was even different than England, despite their many obvious similarities (no matter how much they deny it). Russia snorted at the self-proclaimed hero's expression. It's true, ignorance is bliss. Then again, ignorance was innocence, a trait not often seen in his part of the world.

Russia, although he would deny it, had a fetish for innocent things. It only made sense, since most countries were more innocent than he, with the exception of France and maybe Turkey. He had a crush on the youngest Italy once upon a time; he did not dare to make a move, though, for it was obvious that the little Pastafarian had a crush on a certain blonde disciplinarian. And then there was…

No. He wouldn't say it out loud. It was his guilty pleasure, but even that he kept bottled up and off his face, that infamous creepy smile serving as a substitute. Instead, he walked to the freezer, leaving his long brown coat in a neat pile over the back of his ottoman. Opening it carefully, he reached behind stacks of frozen fish, beets, and ice cube trays to find what he was searching for. Careful not to let it slip, he brought a frozen panel of ice to the light. Nobody knew about it, save his cat, and he wanted to keep it that way. Aged by the harsh prison it was kept in, the sunflower of glory had a withered stem and the tips of its leaves had turned a light golden brown. In this way, it reminded him even more of his favorite country-his wish against all reason. It winked at him from behind its icy window, daring him to make a move. Smiling with genuine feeling for the first time in days, he put it back in its place. All alone, Russia needed no more than memories. Sunshine had somehow filled the room once again.