There is a rare sort of comfort in his arms...cold and deep. It was compariable to being lost in a blizzard, exhausted and bitten with frost until you can not take one more step and you fall into the snow and feel its chill...slowly melt into warm. Everything goes darker and drowsieness welcomes you into the soft embrace of the cold that saught to kill you moments before.

But you fall asleep, if you accept that lie of comfort...then you die.

Hungary compared this feeling to the way they all felt towards Russia. Some of them were dead in the snow of his arms, and some...were still fighting. The Baltics were dead in the snow, Lithuania the only one who stirred it seemed as if troubled by some night terror, until his whimpering seized and he once again lay still. As Hungary gazed out into this pretend image of winter she could see Poland trying to rise up from the piles of heavy cold ice that were pouring over him, and Prussia with his ankles shackled still trying to crawl in desperation past that wall that only he could see in his fever ridden eyes.

Hungary imagined she was still standing no matter how much snow and ice packed upon her shoulders. She stood, like a statue or resolution...but she did not look to the warmth and freedom beyond the snow but instead glared defiantly back from where they came. Where they were so desperatly trying to escape. She glared into the violet of his eyes and he stared right back...with a smile.