Fishlegs was never one to cause a fight, or say a bad word against anyone. He was always the logical thinker, and the statistics hoarder. However, once in battle his comrades found out that the Fishlegs they knew had disappeared.

He let terrible shouts tear from his throat as he rushed at the enemy, did not feel the cuts or scrapes of those blades or arrows that pierced him—for not long after the perpetrator was extinguished permanently. Fishlegs was a force to be reckoned with. Especially, especially when he learned they had lost Ruffnut. He didn't know what hit him, but it must have been a triple dose of bloodlust than usual because he charged off down the hill before Tuffnut could stop him. He didn't know how many he destroyed but knew it was never enough. They had taken his friend.

He was struck with a heavy loss for she was the only other person who routinely would join him in his favorite role-playing game that he invented and named Dens & Dwarves.

He always had trouble finding willing players and then he turned it into a manner of drinking game and it picked up in popularity, especially during the ale-games. However, Ruffut would stop by on those lingering, slow winter afternoons and ask to play and he was always delighted to oblige her. They'd spend those hours in his parents' basement and they often didn't even play the ale-version. She just seemed pleased with narrating her kills of the imaginary foes, and the anticipation of what dice rolls would render. She told him that playing the game killed time in wait for the spring raid. No one more than she had looked forward to it.

But now she was gone, dead. Ever since Snotlout had found and brought her helmet back to them—it had been on the ground, bloodied and dented, and there was no sign of the tall girl.

Fishlegs might have broken a Celt's neck, but he kept on charging through—not knowing anything but his anger. He wouldn't be able to tell them that their swords were a -3 against his numb frame or that his hands would crush their windpipes at a +12 strength, all he knew was that he was at 100% destruction.

He easily pushed an assaulting Celt backwards with his shield in front of him, and while the man staggered, Fishlegs cracked the shield against the soldier's head and the man fell, unmoving.

The wall of the fortress had only been down for an hour or so, still the Celts were defending the loss fairly well. He looked up to see another boulder from a catapult fly overhead and crash into a tower. It toppled as though it were made of sand. He shielded himself from the smaller debris of that collapse. He fought off a barrage of attacks as he stepped through the crumbled foundation of what had been the north wall. Pretty soon, the rest of Hoark's command joined him in formation and they successfully caused the Celts to fall back just a bit more. Now they were inside. Now they could finally do what they came there to do—raid.

"Fish!"

The call of his name broke him out of his berserking-daze. His eyes cleared of their fury and he turned to see who had said it. The voice was faintly familiar.

There was a lot of dust, debris, and smoke in the air. Also the darkness didn't help for him to see any better—but a tall female figure emerged from it all. She must have been a ghost for she was pale, and most of all because she was dead. There was just no way she could be alive, not if she was absent of her weapons. Not in the middle of this. She was dead, he had accepted the fact that she was dead, but upon seeing that form he dared to hope otherwise.

"Fish!" She called out again, and stumbled forward. She was dirty, her hair was tangled, and she was holding her shoulder. Though she tried to keep a brave face, he could see the tiny twist of pain in her features.

His saliva dried in his mouth, "Ruffnut?"

"Yes! Who else would I be, idiot?" She glared and stood before him.

He threw down his shield and wrapped his huge arms around her, lifting her off her toes slightly, "I thought you we dead!"

"OW!" she screamed. Obviously he had hugged her too tightly. He let her go and she punched him as if it could hurt him. "No, I'm fine and you'll be the one to be dead soon if you do that again!"

He should have known better than to hug her, for she was still a wildcat of a girl—untamed, crazy, dangerous. Still, something had compelled him to forget such faults and embrace her, for after all he had thought she died.

She once again held her shoulder. He could see was not fine and why was she heading in the opposite direction? He thought she'd start right up where she had been the last he had seen her—weaving through the enemy, stabbing her spear repeatedly at them until it broke their leather armor—as if wanting to collect their organs for a kebab cookout. She had been enjoying it so much that it was almost disturbing.

"Where are you going? The battle is this way!" He called and plucked his shield from where he had dropped it.

"I've got to find Hoark!"

Fishlegs's heart took a dive, reminded of what she didn't know, "Hoark is dead!"

He knew Hoark had died for sure as he had seen Hoark in his last moments. Hoark the Haggard had been set upon by the Celts during battle, before the wall was breached. He had been shouting battle cries in Thor and Odin's names but a Celt's sword had found its way to the commander's throat and silenced him. The scene would haunt Fishlegs, no doubt for the rest of his days but Hoark certainly was already in Valhalla with the valkyries and drinking mead, watching eagerly to what the outcome of this battle would be.

He saw Ruff take a shaky, deep breath—in a quick mourning of the loss of their superior before asking, "So who is in charge?"

"Your brother!"

That got her eyes to widen in surprise; she nodded and then twisted around beginning to run back towards the command. Fishlegs knew there was a battle to be fought but on the other hand he couldn't let his best player be taken from him again, for real. He ran after her, watching her back in case any Celt decided to attack her when she was injured and unarmed.

Even hurt, Ruffnut ran as though he wind carried her, loose strands of hair threaded around her shoulders as she ran up the hill. Fishlegs lost sight of her as he was burly and his mass slowed him down.

When he reached the command, the twins were arguing. It was a common occurrence but he thought they could make an exception for this particular circumstance of battle

"Stop it, call your command off!" Ruff shouted and shoved her brother with her good arm.

"You can't just come back from the dead and boss me around! Hoark left me in charge and I'm not calling anything off!"

"He only left you in charge because I wasn't here!"

The new commander saw Fishlegs approach and looked a bit relieved. He seemed to have enough to worry about other than fighting with his sister. "Right now I command that you go back to the boats."

Ruff stumbled back in startled outrage, "I'm not going anywhere!"

"Yes you are. You're going back to the boats. Don't think you can hide the fact that you're injured from me."

She punched him in response.

"OW! I am hurt! I am very much hurt!" Tuff held his jaw and winced, then his eyes snapped open, "Fish, take her back to the boats and make sure she stays there will ya?"

"I hate you! If you're so hurt, you should go back to the boats and let me command!" Ruff attempted to assault her brother again but Fishlegs lunged forward and caught her, then threw her over his shoulder, held her there, and began to make his way back to the shore where the boats were.

"Put me down!" she demanded but Tuffnut was in charge of their command now and Fishlegs wasn't going to disobey orders.

She tried hitting his back with her fists, even with her injured side but she ended up screaming in pain and then wilted into him as one of his mother's candles in the heat of the sun.

She must have tricked herself into thinking that she could actually cause Fishlegs pain, though she had caused him a pain deeper than she would ever know when he thought she was gone for good.

Anyone who had been injured enough not to fight could go back to the boats to tend to their wounds. If someone were injured too greatly to make it back by themselves, well then may the valkyries take them as they had served bravely in battle.

Ruff would have never gone back to the boats on her own, though she was able. Fishlegs thought her a proud and foolish girl at times, but of course would never outright tell her.

"Put me down," she tried again but her voice had lost all of its obnoxious commanding and was muffled into his shirt. She was too weak to fight anyhow, so he did release her. They were nearly at the shore anyway.

As soon as her feet touched the ground she kicked Fishlegs in his shin and started to run back toward the battle.

"Ruffnut!" Fishlegs shouted, scrambling to catch her. He didn't want Tuffnut to yell at him for losing her.

She didn't answer but kept on running. He would never catch her; she was just too fast for him. Luckily, one of the gods felt as though the situation should be in his favor for Ruffnut tripped, stumbled, and fell to the grass. He never noticed the landscape, how lush and beautiful it was though at the moment he could barely see it. He could smell the grass though, heavy with the night dew and smell of the southern spring season.

He caught up to her and stood over her, "What's wrong with you? Has Loki scrambled your brain?" He bent over and easily scooped her up into his arms.

"You don't understand! No one understands!" She wriggled desperately, trying to be free once more, to which he only held on tighter. He grabbed her chin to make her stop and look at him.

"What in Asgard are you talking about?"

"We're killing people!"

He would have thought she was attempting to make him laugh, and he would have laughed if she didn't look so forlorn suddenly. She really was crazy—he remembered the dent in her helmet and figured something had knocked the sense out of her.

"You like killing though Ruff," he reminded her. For as long as he remembered it was among her favorite subjects to talk about or issue threats for. Those gritty narrations of how she defeated the striped cavern serpent in one of their longer Dens & Dwarves campaigns stuck in his mind.

She stared at him for a moment but then pushed back in attempts to get away, which caused her to yell with a painful howl. He kept his hold on her and was determined to get her to the boats. She was biting her lip to keep from screaming out more when he looked down to her. He finally made it to one of their clan's longboats. A few Vikings were already nursing their injuries. Some had painful arrowheads lodged in their arms, others had long gashes that would turn to impressive scars if they lived through the battle and the wound didn't re-open and become infected. They noticed that sun was starting to rise, causing slivers of light to show through the cracks in the wood.

He set Ruff down on a bench, ready to aid her in anyway.

"What are your injuries?"

She crunched over, "Tell Tuff he has to call it off. We have to tell Stoick—" she mumbled but couldn't finish because she made yet another yell of anguish and held her arm close to her, which tightened her shoulder.

She wasn't making any sense, and she wasn't helping with her nonsensical mumblings, so he gathered her up and removed her armor, wanting to get to the bottom of her ailment. He knew that her pain came from somewhere in her left arm, that probably extended to her shoulder.

"I'm going to help you," he said in precaution to what he was about to do, just in case she thought he was trying to be sly. However, no one took Fishlegs for that kind of a male in the first place.

When she didn't say anything, he gently took her arm and tried sliding it out of her sleeve. She sucked in a breath but couldn't hold it—she screamed once more. She was a banshee. He let it drop, startled, and that didn't help her shouts quiet at all. He sighed and brought out his dagger, unsheathed it and cut her tunic at the sleeve, slicing through the stitches her mother had so carefully sewn. Ruff held her face in her other hand, her mind was occupied—somewhere else, probably to focus on anything but the pain.

He rolled the back of her tunic up until he could see her shoulder, the lanterns only provided dull light but the bruising around her shoulder was clearly distinguished against her fair skin. Also something was pointing outward under her skin, something that made it look unnatural.

"Your shoulder is dislocated."

"What are you going to do about it?" She mumbled ungratefully—bored-like.

He was tired of her strange behavior. He was supposed to help her; he wanted to help her and would rather have the old Ruff start to threaten him than hear the complacent mumbles of what was sitting in front of him. He abruptly grabbed her shoulder in one hand and then pushed with all his might into the bone, the blade—which after a few moments of her renewed screaming, snapped back into place.

"What did you do that for?" she whirled around and he could see a sparkle in her eyes. Or were those actual tears? He never remembered her to cry, ever. Not for pain, embarrassment, defeat, or even fear.

"I fixed it."

She bent her arm, gave a tender wince and then finally glared, "Yeah, well it still hurts."

He saw her gaze travel to the metal gauntlet on his wrist, "You're bleeding."

He wiped at it with his finger, "Nah, that's not my blood."

She actually glared at him, which stung. Would she rather have him bleed than their enemies?

She fiddled with her arm, scraping off dirt that was practically embedded in her skin until she could bathe again. Next, her fingers found a bug-bite and she picked at it until it bled. She must have known she couldn't run from him again so didn't say anything, and in return he couldn't say anything—only watch her, noting her mannerisms.

If he had to sit down and draw up the statistics on Ruffnut he presumed she would be at seven strength and a ten speed, plus a ten in vocal volume.

He stood up and made his way to the extra barrels of ale. They had been drinking ale along their sea voyage. Fishlegs had lost his weight in water and was perpetually thirsty for the first week, and so developed a small taste for the stout ale for sake of his thirst. He took a small mug and filled it, taking a swig. He peered over at the tall girl—she was still sitting in the position he had left her, still with a thoughtful frown. Just what was she thinking? She had said to 'call it off' and she surely couldn't mean the raid, she really was crazy if that was her intent. Tuffnut didn't even have that power.

He refilled the mug and brought it to her, "You know, Tuffnut was devastated when we thought you had been lost."

That comment got her attention back to him, she looked at the mug and grabbed it—drank the contents. After guzzling the last of it she hiccup-ed, not a phrase used to describe a Hiccup-esque action, but the actual noise. She had drunk it too fast. She didn't reply to his words, something was wrong with her, something was really wrong with her. She had once, surprisingly, opened up to him on a winter's night as he walked her home, why couldn't she now? He scrutinized her "What happened to you?"

"Everything."

"That's not an answer."

"Why are you even asking? What do you want? Go! Go fight, go kill. Don't waste your time with me." He heard the waver in her sarcastic tone as she adjusted her position to half-turn her back on him. At least the bite in her tone was back in her. "And you can tell Tuff I'm never speaking to him again."

He probably should have gone back, he was one of their best berserkers but he couldn't think of berserking now—not as he stared at her, and inwardly wondered why he was. He didn't stare at girls that often, mostly because they were always moving around. Yet something struck familiar when he was gazing at her like that. Yes, she was calm, far from serene but when Ruff sat still she really was quite striking, even now with her hair in disarray and dirt on her skin and with half her tunic rolled up her back.

He stood again and tried to clear his thoughts in preparation for the mindset of charging enemies, "Promise not to come back? Tuffnut will have my head if you wander into the field." Though it wasn't just that, he didn't want her to get injured again.

"Whatever," was all he heard. He sighed and did turn, willing to tear his eyes away but as he did he saw her finally make a movement. His body tensed, preparing to chase after her but she had only lifted something out of her belt—a flower. She held it up to her face and buried her nose into the petals. Then she ripped the petals off.

"I thought you were leaving?" she growled, and noticed he was still standing there, trying to make sense of her actions. She must have hated flowers.

"Uh…" he babbled, at a loss.

His answer, or lack thereof was saved by a Viking that suddenly rushed into the vicinity, shouting that the battle was at an end.

Fishlegs saw Ruff visibly pale, if it were even possible as she had pale skin to begin with.

"How? Did we capture the Celtic Lords?" a nearby Viking with a horrendous bludgeon wound asked.

"Yes! Well, sort of…"

Leaving that bit of tantalizing news hanging, the messenger was off to proclaim the news to the next longboat of injured.

So Fishlegs didn't need to go back if it was over. He wondered how it had happened so quickly though. It had taken them three days to get past the Celtic warriors, and within three hours of the wall breach, the Vikings had successfully captured the fortress and it's lords? At least now they would gain a world of riches. Fishlegs only assumed they had been victorious, though the messenger did not specify if it were so.

He sat next to Ruffnut; he figured she would be smiling, happy to be victorious. She would often throw her hands in the air with triumphant glee when she rolled the dice number high enough to defeat a valley troll or den serpent, even to cross the river without her dwarf character drowning.

She was still as a stone though, her back turned on him as well as the world.

"Ruff, tell me what's wrong," he nudged her slightly.

She hesitated but slowly turned around and the look in her eyes was something else—something he couldn't even begin to describe. "I don't want to kill anymore."

He had to raise a puzzled brow, not expecting such admittance from her, doubtful even, not confidant in if she knew what she spoke of. Still he answered cleverly, "Well you don't have to because the raid is over."

She shook her head back and forth so vigorously her braids whipped around her face, "No! I never want to kill again. Not on the next raid, not during the next battle, I can't. I—"

That was when she crumbled into tears and he could only hold her to keep her from collapsing fully—his thoughts bemused, saddened, and awkward all at once. She choked out a sob and began to mumble about how 'she was an awful person.' He knew she wasn't the type of girl to go fishing for compliments, and he thought he knew her to be one that wouldn't start sobbing into him. There was a lot he was learning about her though, and a lot he had thought wrong.

He pulled her up and held her away, making sure he was looking straight at her and that he had her attention. She sniffled, a blinked her tears back. Her freckles were quite distinguished above her blotchy cheeks.

"Listen to me. You are great. You are a good friend, a good fighter, and you are imaginative, skilled, and—" beautiful, his mind injected an adjective but he caught himself before actually saying it.

She was looking up meekly, though with a slight frown to why he had stopped his list. It was because he realized something—a reason to why he felt so devastated at the thought of her death, to why he felt as though he had to cheer her up, to ease her pain, and to why he had stopped talking to gawk at her and his heart did a little flip-flop as the morning sun caused the pale gold of her hair to shine—he felt for her. He felt for her with a far greater feeling than friendship.

A deep blush crept across his cheeks as he became conscious that she had her shirt half-off and he was in the midst of holding her. He quickly let her go and cleared his throat. How could this be? She was crazy, she was downright insulting and mean for the most part but again, he noted that the battle had changed her. He didn't know how, or for how long, but she was definitely changed from when they had first arrived in the Southern Islands.

He stood from where he sat, flustered—trying to get a handle on such an unknown emotion within himself because he was changed as well, but it had nothing to do with the battle and all with the lass who sat before him.

A/N: Is this dramatic fluff? I know the battle is off focus for awhile but I think it was necessary to set Fishlegs away from it to observe his inner battle, or a new self-discovery, or a Ruffscovery. Fishleg's has definitely grown since he was an awkward teen in dragon training, still a bit awkward and shy, mostly confused, but you can blame any of his boldness on being in the midst of a battle.

Extra note: These are meant to be character-focused chapters. There will probably be historical, military inaccuracies for those who read and have a specific knowledge of ye olde battles. However I may remind you that if HTTYD caused you to suspend your belief concerning dragons, people named 'Snotlout' or 'Hiccup' among other things, then you can suspend your beliefs just a little if you happen to notice that tactics or descriptions aren't historically sound. But thank you to those who point it out, it's always a pleasure to learn new things