Author's Note: Two in one day! I'm on a roll XD

Ah yes, Mr. Puffin has finally arrived. Oh Emil, you didn't think you could slip away that easily, did you?

Argh, now I have to actually do my homework. Ah well, this'll have to be enough for now.

Also: I forgot to mention in the last AN, but I'd like to thank Dalasport for their help with how pharmacies work in Iceland. They write Iceland (the character) fabulously, and I'd highly recommend giving their work a look. Even their old stuff is good stuff!

Hope you Enjoy!

-Erin

This was it. It had finally happened.

Emil had gone completely insane.

That was the only thing he could think of that could explain why a talking puffin was in his flat.

He stared, eyes wide and mouth gaping, at the bird. All color had drained from his face, and it felt as if he was about to drop to the floor.

The bird was apparently unimpressed with the sight before him. It fluttered up onto the arm of the futon, and glared at him.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face," it ordered, gruffly. Emil snapped his jaw shut, but kept staring. The bird almost seemed to scowl as it looked him up and down. "Good God, man you look like shit," it huffed. Emil said nothing. It looked up to his face. "Well, don't just stand there, say something, jackass!"

Emil opened his mouth again, but nothing came out. By that point, he was fairly certain that he was hallucinating. The puffin rolled its eyes.

"Jesus Christ, you're hopeless; listen bub," it pointed at Emil with his wing. "I heard about your little stunt in Brussels, and lemme tell you: it was a shitty move. They're all freaking out, and it's your fault." Emil blinked, and, finally, seemed to regain control of his mental faculties.

He cracked up. He laughed at the the puffin, with it's foul mouth, and it's little red ribbon. He laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation -nay, the absurdity of the entire week. He laughed, because there wasn't anything he could do but laugh.

"What the hell are you?" he choked, wiping tears from his eyes.

"It's me, dipshit," it replied, like it was a stupid question. "You are Iceland, aren't you?"

Emil stopped laughing. He looked up at the puffin. Without thinking, he scowled at the thing.

"For the last time, I am not Iceland," he snarled. The puffin seemed to shrink back ever so slightly.

"Oh my God," it breathed, seeming to realize something, "you really don't remember, do you?"

"Apparently not!" Emil snapped. The puffin flinched. "Now, listen. I don't know if you're real or not, but I am sick and fucki-"

"Take your bandage off," the puffin said suddenly. Emil stopped mid rant, and stared at the bird.

"What?" he asked, incredulous.

"I said," the puffin saidk, "Take. Your. Bandage. Off."

Emil stared confused. He wondered if he should listen or not. He figured it couldn't hurt matters, so he moved over to a drawer and pulled out some scissors. He snipped away at some of the cotton. Once it was loose, he unraveled the bandages. The batting beneath was slightly red, and he pulled it away. The skin beneath was also stained, and he wiped it away with a wet washcloth.

Emil felt his blood turn to ice as he stared at his arm. This was not possible. This couldn't be happening.

If one had not known better, one would've said nothing had ever happened to Emil's arm at all. There was no wound, no scab, not even a scar to hint of the gash that had been there just the other day.

Emil worked his mouth, opening and closing it like a fish on dry land. The puffin flew over, and inspected the arm.

"Hmm. Nothing," it remarked. It looked up at Emil.

The young man felt faint. He slumped on the counter, trying not to fall on the floor. He made a strangled noise of confusion. This wasn't happening. It just wasn't possible.

"Well, at least you're still healing like a nation," it said. Emil turned his gaze to the bird.

"How?" he asked, weakly. It was the only thing he could manage. It looked at him, seeing his obvious distress.

"Nations heal really fast," it explained simply.

Emil stared at it for a long moment, trying to comprehend what was going on.

Suddenly, he stood up straight. The puffin flapped away, caught of guard by the action. Emil ignored it, and strode to the door. He swung it open, and the puffin followed at his heels as he marched down the hallway. He descended a couple stories, and marched to another door. He pounded on it, and stood back, waiting.

Eiríkur opened it, confused. He saw Emil, and he furrowed his brows. Emil just stood there, face blank and devoid of emotion.

"Emil, what's wrong?" Eiríkur asked. "I thought you were going to sleep."

Emil didn't respond. Instead, he held up his arm.

"Does this look injured?" Emil asked, flatly. Eiríkur just looked more confused.

"No, it looks just fine. Isn't that the arm that had the bandages?" Eiríkur replied, unsure.

Emil said nothing. He just stood there, staring vacantly ahead.

"Hey man, are you alright?" Eiríkur asked, concern filling his voice. Emil didn't respond. He felt wrong, strange. He felt like the world was crumbling beneath him.

Eiríkur yelled, as Emil crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

It hurt, everything hurt. Someone was shaking him, shouting at him. He felt a sickening heat overwhelm him. Warmth seeped into his clothes and the carpet beneath him. Hot fluid, like molten copper filled his chest, drowning him. It was blood, his blood. He was dying. He opened his eyes, dazzled by the searing light that he viewed as if through a tunnel. He could see him. His deep blue eyes, normally so dull and devoid of emotion, were filled with raw terror. He could hear him calling out as if he was far away. "Ice! Ice listen to me, please!" he pleaded, "Don't go; please don't go!". Something wet fell onto his face. He was crying; they were both crying. He wanted to call out, but he couldn't breath. Darkness closed in around him, and he fell into an abyss.

When he awoke, he was greeted by a dark sky. No stars showed through the smog. Cold, unforgiving concrete was beneath him, and he shivered. The warmth had left his body. Someone appeared above him. He tried to gasp. He knew this man, with warm eyes and a red beard. He reached out a hand towards his old friend. "Help me," was all he choke out before darkness engulfed him once more.

Emil awoke in a cold sweat. For the third time that week, he came to on a couch that he had never been on before. He really needed to stop doing that.

He groaned. His head ached and his mouth was dry. He felt like he had the worst hangover he had ever experienced. He curled onto his side, trying to make the world stop spinning.

He remembered the dream. More vividly than any dream he had ever had. He could still feel the blood in his lungs choking him, spilling onto the ground...

He shivered. He felt cold, like the heat had seeped from his body.

Eiríkur appeared, as if out of nowhere. He crouched down to look at Emil, and the young man looked up at his face. He was obviously concerned.

"Did you catch something in Belgium?" he asked, "You seem really sick." Emil closed his eyes.

"No, it's nothing," he sighed. Eiríkur looked unconvinced.

"What even happened to you?" he pressed, "You just disappeared off the face of the earth, and you just randomly come back with a bandage on his arm, and you hit the floor right outside my apartment."

Emil said nothing. He din't know if he could begin to explain.

Eiríkur sighed, and leaned back.

"Listen, I'll tell the boss what happened: that you got hurt and that you're sick. Coffee shop's still closed, and you already got the boot from that fast food joint, so you don't need to bother with that," Eiríkur explained. Emil nodded, absent mindedly. He just wanted to disappear.

Eiríkur eventually left him alone, and Emil tried to sleep. It was fitful and haunted, and he woke up more exhausted than when he went to sleep.

As he lay on Eiríkur's couch, an idea popped into his head. He tried to ignore it, but it kept resounding. He couldn't get it out of his head. It just grew and grew until he couldn't ignore it anymore.

As he thought it over, the more viable it seemed. Finally, he made up his mind.

He was certain that this was what he needed to do.

He needed to go back to Brussels, and figure out just what the hell was going on here.