Breaths had never been so ragged, hearts had never beaten so fast, and muscles had never ached so painstakingly much—not for the warriors who were new to battle. No matter how prepared they had thought they were, or tough, or brave, or how well they had done in training—they never expected to feel so little or insignificant when they saw their comrades fall, or so exhilarated and triumphant when they, in turn caused the enemy to fall.

The enemy had retreated back into their fortress after hours of colliding with the Vikings. They had lost some but the Celts had lost more—not that it was a victory. The Celts had their fortress, while the Vikings could only hide behind their shields.

"How many have we lost?" Hoark the Haggard asked.

"Eighteen for sure. Three have hauled their selves back to the boats. The rest are unaccounted for either wounded or still out there fighting," Tuffnut answered. He looked around the group of his fellow warriors; the number of them was less than it had started out. He couldn't see his sister but instead of panic, he felt relieved for she would be one of the ones out there fighting. She had to be. There was no other fathomable option. Not all of them were gathered. Hoark had tried to recollect them for reports for the time being as they had driven the faction of Celts they had been fighting back into the walls. It wouldn't be for long, a new section would replace them. There had been near fifty total in Hoark's command, at least that was the way it was divided out. Snotlout, Fishlegs, and his sister were assigned to Hoark's command, which in turn was acting under Stoick the Vast's orders to take the fortress. He did not know where Astrid was stationed, and Hiccup was confined to stay at home, in Berk, for not completing the final training needed to partake in Viking raids. Tuffnut, initially felt bad for Hiccup for not being able to be a part of the raid, but now nearly into the third day of blood and battle, Tuffnut inwardly thought Hiccup had it easy.

Sweat dripped off his brow as he cupped water from a nearby stream into his palm and swished it back into his mouth. His throat had grown dry and he was famished but there was no time to eat. He had anticipated a quick victory from the older warrior's stories but the enemy had attacked with an elastic defense, which was still unexplainable and rather remarkable on their end. When Vikings raided, they did it quickly, and never formally declared it—striking unexpected—and near impossible to anticipate. With the Celt's move, the Vikings had to jump to defend themselves when they were supposed to be the initial attackers.

Tuffnut made a disgusted face at the taste of the water, mixed with silt, much preferring ale to which he had drank the entire voyage south.

"Arrows!" one of theirs shouted and Tuff looked up, but of course could see nothing as the evening set in—still he brought his shield over his head at an angle just in time to hear men shouting and arrowheads thump into the wood of his cover. One struck his thigh and he cursed loudly, crouching down even further. When the thudding stopped he quickly tugged the arrow out by its shaft, then ripped off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic that hung from underneath his armor, and wrapped it tightly to stop the trickle of blood. He stood, ignoring the pain for the time being. Those arrows were a sign that the new wave of Celts would emerge. He wiped a piece of his blonde hair off of his sweaty cheek; he had tied up the rest at the nape of his neck so it couldn't be grabbed or caught on any brush during his fighting. The night was temperate, a pleasant air but underneath his rampaging heart pace and flushed skin it felt too heated. He wished for the cold of winter, something he never would have wished for otherwise.

Hoark grabbed his arm as he went past to reposition himself at the front of the phalanx. He had always wanted glory, and would be honored to go down in a fighting, tangled mess with a savage Celt.

"Thorston," Hoark growled.

"Yes sir?" Tuff hunched his shoulders, wondering if he were in trouble. He hadn't exactly followed orders in the last fray, he was supposed to stay back but he ran with his sister and fought through the front line with shouts of vengeful bloodlust. They were fighting not only for victory, to gain the riches that the raid would render—but also in memory for their father who ultimately died due to a battle wound inflicted by this same enemy. He had lost track of his sister in that fray but figured she was fine on her own—wildly maneuvering through the enemy leaving their bodies in her wake.

"You have been an a true asset during the past day, and so I want to promote you to my second command. If anything happens to me, it'll be up to you to continue the fight."

Tuff was awestruck, for he never expected to be chosen for such an honor. He always figured Snotlout would be the one to take the position, as he was a superior fighter. Though, Tuff had taken an interest of tactics and terms so knew how to defend himself and which way to move when the enemy attacked. All his training he applied to the battle, and it was a miracle he had retained so much between constantly bickering with Ruffnut throughout Gobber's teachings.

"You all hear that? Thorston is to lead if something should go awry with me!" Hoark shouted to those in the command jogging by to their places—the Celts would soon come upon them again and they couldn't be for sure how long this time.

"Thank you sir," he found himself saying. He had always admired Hoark, an aging veteran of many raids. He had a scraggly brown beard, streaked with grey showing he was no spring chicken. He often sat at the tavern with Gobber as they laughed about raiding stories or dragon attacks from long ago.

"Attack!" they heard from ahead. Tuff readied his shield and his mace. He ran forward with a shout, all the breath in his chest let out as in a few meters he crashed into a Celt. Their sword swung over his shoulder and he barely dodged it. It was difficult to see in the twilight, no moon had risen or rather there was a thick layer of clouds obscuring it.

He hauled the mace over his head and brought it down, tearing through protective gauntlet of the enemy, which in turn caused the man to drop his weapon. Tuff then shoved his shield into the man, and knocked him hard against the head with the mace. The enemy had worn a whole headed helmet and Tuff saw the metal of the helmet was now dented and the man moved no more. The next one was tougher; they were locked together in clashing their weapons. The Celt belted Tuff in the side with the flat of his sword blade, not turning to the searing edge in time to cut him. The enemy was just as handicapped by the darkness or else Tuff would have surely been struck by the blade. His own helmet fell off and he ducked the next swing, in turn, swinging his mace upward into the Celt, causing him to fall back.

Two large arms grabbed the Celt and twisted his head. They heard a loud snap over the nearby cries of battle. Tuff owed the save to Fishlegs who had berserked his way through the front line and had apparently started back toward the hill. Things would have gone smoother if the phalanx wasn't broken. They were all guilty of breaking it though, that protective V shaped formation they started out with their shields pointed forward—whether from panic or over-excitement. It was often broken and then they had much more ground to cover to make up for losses they could have avoided. Fishlegs's big body was heaving big breaths of air to feed his frenzied movement and there were spots of blood dotting his face, either his or the men he had dispatched.

"Thanks," Tuffnut said and retrieved his helmet from the ground by grabbing the upper goat's horn, not knowing if his friend even comprehended it for Fishlegs was off in another instant to dispatch more. That lad was one Hel of a berserker.

He looked back toward the hill to see a hoard of lingering Celts fighting with Hoark and others under the command and so rushed back up there to help. This would never end. They would fight, retreat, and then return in new—while his comrades were not relieved nor protected. They hadn't even made it inside! Had anyone?

Then Tuff looked at the wall of the fortress, high made of stones and realized it could be taken over if they could find a window of opportunity to break through it. They had no time to set up catapults—ones that were theorized to actually break the wall quicker and from a further distance. They had no time because the Celts were always at their throats and so they had to keep on a defense.

He heard loud cries from above and quickened his legs to run but it was still troublesome with that sharp pain from the arrowhead and he was not in the mindset to take himself back to the boats to tend to the wound properly. He had it wrapped anyway; the best was to hope the pain would ebb.

He added his own body to the entanglement of bodies, swinging at those who swung at him and who's shape he could make out to be less-broad and whole-helmeted among his comrades who wore horns.

He was so rushed with adrenaline, so focused on staying alive that he didn't care that his body was screaming for rest, his calves were cramping, his muscles seemed to ready to crumble at the intense tension held throughout all of them—his entire mind narrowed to that of deflecting all deathblows from those enemies around him.

Hoark's scream broke his focus.

He saw a blade swipe across his commander's throat and then the scream was silenced and then Hoark fell—a sure welcome guest of Valhalla.

Tuff felt moisture tear at his eyes and then he opened his mouth to an outraged bellow and launched his weapon at the savage who had owned the offending blade. It knocked the soldier back, and the sharp spikes that protruded from the cast iron ball pierced into the armor—for it was thrown with such force. The man sputtered and lay there. Tuff grabbed the handle and yanked his weapon out of the man, and then angrily lifted the mace high and slammed it down yet again with a second blow.

Tuff wiped his eye of the mixture of sweat, blood, and tears that had gathered there. Hoark was fallen, and Tuffnut's heart sank for the loss of such a good Viking. This battle proved that nothing was to be expected in a raid. Hoark had survived multiple raids, battles, and attacks but this one was his last.

He grabbed Hoark under his arms and drug the body to the very top of the hill. The hill was a strategic asset, for they could see all who tried to attack from below. There were no more Celts there, well ones that were alive to cause trouble but a new wave would come soon for he saw the last surviving ones, silhouetted against the dark mauve sky, scamper back to their defense.

"How many were lost?" Tuff asked as Snotlout approached.

"Where's Hoark?"

Tuffnut nodded to the ground and Snotlout stepped back in shock at seeing the fallen commander, "And he left you in command?"

"Yes. Now report, how many were lost on this last surge?" Tuff answered coldly, stung that Snotlout, his own best friend, thought him incapable.

Snotlout looked struck, as if he couldn't believe Hoark had chosen Tuff to lead a command over another commander's son. Spitelout was a first commander, who gave direction to a faction of nearly sixty Vikings on this raid—so why hadn't Hoark the Haggard chosen Snotlout for the promotion?

"Eight," Snotlout sighed.

"Where's Ruff?"

She still wasn't there, and this time it sent his stomach into a knot because now that Hoark was dead, what was keeping his sister alive? He shooed those thoughts away, telling himself she was still distracted in fighting. She loved fighting and he above all knew it. He had fought with her for most of his life and she, most of all wanted to take her sorrow of the loss of Ivan the Invincible out on these dirty Celts.

He cleared his throat, "Good, that was less than before."

"Good? Eight of our men have died, how can you say that?" Snotlout chided.

"Better eight than eighteen," Tuff narrowed his eyes. He stared at the wall of the fortress again and then an idea struck him. He was never one for clever ideas—that was usually Hiccup's role.

"Fishlegs, take five men and go back to the boats. Begin to unload the catapults—we have to get them up if we have any hope of breaking the fortress."

The Vikings around him looked at him wide-eyed.

"But, that only leaves three of us!" Snotlout pointed out.

"Just go with it, we don't have much time. They're keeping us at fighting so we don't set the catapults up—pretty soon we'll be too exhausted to do anything and it will be a pure bloodbath."

Snotlout frowned and nodded with acquiescence. Fishlegs began to make way with the rest of the men toward the shore. Tuff bit his lip and began to run across the top of the hill toward the west, "Follow me!"

"But we're supposed to hold the north side!"

Tuff grumbled under his breath and continued running, he needed to find Stoick to tell him of Hoark's fate, to tell him to send his men to the north side. The biggest battle would have to be there. They would have to hold off all the Celts while Fishlegs and his five got those catapults set up.

Tuff found Stoick the Vast right as he finished dispatching a Celt.

"Sir! Hoark has fallen, he has put me in command," Tuffnut spoke quickly.

Stoick's face showed a second of remorse for his commander, for that was all the time one had on the battlefield. Then his face turned to puzzlement, probably wondering why his commander had left an ill-tempered, over-proud youth in charge.

"YOU ONLY HAVE TWO MEN LEFT?" Stoick growled at seeing Snotlout and the other Viking in the command finally catch up behind him.

Tuffnut held up his hands, "No! I sent the remaining ones to set up those catapults. Sir, those are the only way we will overcome this battlefield—I need your division on the north side so we can create a blockade so the Celts do not find out the catapults are being set up. I need all divisions to retreat to the north side for once those catapults break the walls, every Viking will be able to take the fortress and all the Celts within."

Stoick listened and then nodded slowly, "You're right. We're not on a path to victory in this tedious standstill of battle. ALL TO THE NORTHSIDE!"

Stoick's bellow was above all the loudest, such a vast voice in such a vast man. Tuff felt a ringing in his ears but Stoick's words were just the ones he wanted to hear. He gave an 'I told you so' punch to Snotlout's shoulder as he and the rest of the Vikings rushed toward the north side of the fortress.

He already felt victorious for his decision. He knew those catapults would just destroy all the shielding the Celts possessed. Everything would fall into place, he would be honored, glorious and known as the world's deadliest weapon. He and the others began the next round of clashing with the Celts. The new Phalanx was not broken but it let the Celts begin to surround them, which was not what was intended. Tuffnut reached out and drug his mace across a Celt's torso, but it wasn't with enough force and the leather armor was not marred. The Viking behind him finished the job with he blade of his axe.

Tuff felt a renewed energy with knowing they would only have to fight a little bit longer. The fray was longer than the last, nearly two hours and into the black of night but finally he found himself atop the hill with Stoick, Phlegma, Spitelout, Gobber, and the other commanders of other Viking clans that were partaking in the raid. They were all dirty, sweaty, but smiling as Fishlegs returned and reported that the catapults were up and that he was awaiting orders of when to release them.

"After this next fray, I want the catapults to be released, they won't be expecting it—" Stoick told Fishlegs, and the berserker nodded.

"Tuff!" Tuffnut heard his name and they made out a breathless Snotlout approaching.

"What? I'm kind of busy here—" Tuff snapped, figuring Snotlout was still bitter or jealous or whatever about Hoark's decision. He needed to get over it, and get his mind back to focus. Tuff had to stop his reply though because his voice suddenly shrunk into his throat at seeing what Snotlout was holding. It was a dented metal Viking Helmet—longhorns and with protruding upper goat horns, bloodied.

"Ruff," Tuffnut finally choked out, unbelievingly.

"I'm—I'm so sorry buddy—I found it down the hill near the wall—"

"Now! I want those catapults released NOW!" Tuffnut shouted at once, an explosion of loss and rage tumbling out of him. Fishlegs was gone though, had taken off down the hill with a berserker's wrath to frighten any god or beast in the nine worlds.

Then Tuffnut simply turned away, stomping, marching toward the catapults himself. He was going to destroy them so bad. It wasn't even about feeling like a mighty warrior anymore, he wasn't doing this because he thought it would make him more respected, feared, or glorious. He no longer cared about any of that. He would rather still be a low-ranked, dirty Viking warrior if that meant his sister were still fighting at his side. It was true their only affection for each other was played out in violent gestures, but for each hard kick or punch, that was just the language of their endearment—almost their own twin-language. She wasn't supposed to be the one who died in battle so soon, she was supposed to be the one who survived and that was even according to their own mother.

As Tuffnut disappeared over the hill toward the shore where the catapults lay ready, his breath heaved—and he let out one, just one sob for Ruffnut—which was the most emotion he would ever betray on her behalf. The remainder of his sorrow seemed to implode in his chest—further searing his insides, and most of all, his heart. Fatherless, and now sisterless these damned Celts left him and he would see to it that they were all destroyed.

A/N: And that is Tuff's sting, it was as of yet the most bloody and battletastic, probably not accurate historically but I already made a note about that in a previous chapter. Also, please note that these chapters are out of order on the time line of plot, just like my last story, 'Winter Haul', and it is fairly easy to know in which order they happen by reading the facts carefully.