The little white-haired nation shivered. His loose nightgown was proving to be of no help in keeping him warm within the cold climate. He sat down in a mound of snow, his bare legs prickling in response, and drew his arms through his sleeves into the nightgown. In an attempt to warm himself he rubbed his little hands several times over his limbs.

He was lost, but worse than that to him was his puffin was lost as well. His favorite feathered companion, who was always there at his side – gone. When the boy has awoken that morning, a chunk of warmth was no longer there. It was his first hint that the bird was missing.

He had waited for the puffin to return, assuming it has left to find food. With the obscene amount of time it had been gone (two hours, perhaps), the boy expected it to return with its whole beak full of fish. When it failed to come back, his mood dropped severely.

Without the bird there, Iceland went without food, used to his companion providing him with it. In addition to his melancholy mood, he was now lacking energy as well. Today was not going to be a pleasant day.

He arms popped out of his sleeves and he rocked to his feet. There was a pitter-patter as he scampered through the snow. His nightgown flowed behind him with the aid of a chilling wind; he struggled to ignore it as it nipped at his face.

The boy's purple eyes were glazed over, tears from both the anguish of losing the bird and the cold air threatening to spill over at any moment. It was fairly difficult to see, yet he didn't care – he'd do anything to find his friend. If it came to sitting next to its lifeless body, he would, if that's what it took to find it (and at least then he'd be able to give it a proper burial).

His pace slowed as he reached a wooded area. Frantically, his eyes darted around, seeking out a black cluster of feathers in the contrasting white snow. His little feet led him on deeper into the woods, and the deeper he went without sighting it, the more hope he lost. Claps and whistles echoed back at him as he tried to call the puffin.

Clumsily, his bare foot got caught beneath a root jutting out of the ground, and he toppled over face-first. Snow was flung from his landing and his nightgown tore a bit, as it was snagged on the root. A splatter of red tainted the snow around the little nation.

Contorting in pain, Iceland flipped to his back, tears falling freely now down his frost-bitten face. He let out a whimper and a few sobs, hands pressed down on a fresh wound on his knee; the crying dimmed to a stop, however, as the snow numbed him. With a few sniffles he regained balance on his feet and, limping a bit, continued his search – he wasn't going to let this stop him.

The woods began to thin and eventually dispersed into a rocky beach. The little Icelander's hair was tousled with an even colder seabreeze. Goosebumps rose across his skin.

With a hop he climbed up upon a pile of large rocks, cautious in case it was icy. He hoped to get a better view of the beach from upon them. A hand reached up to shield the bright evening sun. There was something black sitting in the sand a good distance away.

In excitement, the boy hiked up the white gown and he darted back down the pile, taking a leap into the wet sand. Particles of it were thrown into the wound on his knee, stinging the flesh, but he didn't care. He cared for nothing but the bird.

As he neared the puffin, the tide tickling his feet, he halted – something was not right. He could clearly see that it was laying upon the ground and hadn't raised its head once in recognition to his calling of it.

Tears welled up and immediately feel into the sand, as did he. He picked up handfuls of it, throwing it about, stomping his heels and banging his fists. The seabreeze carried his wailing across the beach and over the rippling ocean near him.

Through quick bouts of convulsions, he crawled over to the unmoving animal. He glanced into its open eyes in a sort of morbid curiosity, only to be started at barely being able to see his reflection in its full eyes. His chest bobbed as he choked out a few more sobs. All of this for nothing? What now?

A bright red hand rubbed furiously at his eyes, clearing away the tears. As his vision refocused he looked over his friend for what would be one of the last times he could (he was going to bury it, after all). Then it hit him that something was missing – there was no scarlet bow tied around its neck.

This was not his companion.

The small white-haired boy fidgeted uncomfortably, backing away. The tears were back.

As he slid a hand behind himself, something soft touched him. A nudge to his side and a gentle "moo" followed.

Iceland turned toward the familiar noise. A puffin looked him in the eyes, a scarlet ribbon sticking out from among its feathers. In glee and relief, the boy's arms outstretched, taking the bird into a tight hug. His fingers entwined themselves through the soft plumage. Several dozen kisses were pressed to the animal. Tears drifted down the little nation's cheeks, but this time they were of joy.

The warmth had returned.

Both were fatigued; hungry; lost. But, more importantly, both were together.