Snotlout was inarguably made for battle. He fought with precision, his energy and enthusiasm in battle was not wavering, and he knew what he had to do, and how to get it. So it came as a rather harsh sting to him that his best friend, a good Viking but not as good as himself, was chosen to take command after their initial commander expired in battle. After all, Snotlout was of the elite, he should have been chosen.

He was angry, he was confused but still—as a Viking of great example he swallowed it and continued to fight, for that was the most important thing. All his anger he focused onto his enemy. It seemed that all Snotlout had in him was anger, especially since the season before.

He could be angry at other things later, when it was over and they had taken the Celtic fortress they had been trying to breach the past three days—no wait, four because it was dawn again. Snotlout had never been good at counting.

Though, he had to give Tuff credit—Tuffnut did make a good call concerning the catapults for now they were all inside. Too bad they couldn't have been released sooner, the Vikings would have saved a few warriors but that cloak of night did their side good for the crashes and crumbling of the Celtic stronghold came as a total surprise and demoralizer to its people.

The last phase of all of this was to take their leaders, the Celtic Lords who had trickled down their orders from behind the safety of their fortress all the while. Though, even though the Celtic nobles were yet to be found with in the walls, he saw Viking comrades as they grabbed goods, looted the inner housing structures, dispatched resisting enemies, and hassled the newly widowed lasses. The approaching daylight caused their visions to become clearer—on both sides so now the last battle would be even bloodier because they saw clearly where they were striking.

He held his broadsword out in front of him in one hand, ready take on a charging Celt. He lifted his shield to block the soldier's strike. The Celt was as massive as Snotlout and piled into him. 'Lout growled with a steadfast footing and then flipped the soldier over his shoulder where the man tumbled to the stone. The soldier's helmet fell off to reveal the bloodied face of the enemy. Snotlout raised his sword over his head and let it fall with a vicious shout of victory. He drew his lips back in a triumphant sneer at the body and adjusted his shoulder armoring. With now dwindling numbers of an enemy to dispatch, his mind could steadily begin to slow its lust for blood and calm it's panicked state of always searching for a new target.

He was still on his guard but for the first time since the start of battle he saw an actual face behind those whole-headed helmets—a face of lad no older than he. He took notice of the dullness within the corpse's eyes, the clear haunting look of fear before death. He squirmed uncomfortably, inwardly chiding himself for feeling whatever he was feeling about it—whatever it was, he knew it was something a Viking shouldn't feel.

He shuddered involuntarily but kept moving forward, finding the last leg of the battle being fought in the open yard the inner halls surrounded. He was bombarded with blades, they cut into his chest armor—one even shattered his gauntlet, leaving his forearm exposed and rendering his broadsword clattering to the ground. He sucked in a breath at the sudden pain in his lower arm. He bent down in a dodge to the second strike and grappled at trying to regain his weapon, but he heard a fierce shout and looked up into the blazing morning sun as a silhouetted shadow of a blade came downward at his face. He winced, waiting for the sure deathblow, as there was no time to have his sword ready to defend himself. It was his turn to be a casualty of war—another dull-eyed body, but at least there was a small consolation knowing he would end up with the Valkyries.

The blow never came. Before it could touch him, a mace swung into view, in a half-circled swing, right into the chest of 'Lout's assaulter. Tuff swung again, meeting the block of the Celt's sword, which gave Snotlout time to gather his wits and pick up his own. He thrust it upward with all his might—piercing through the man's leather armor. He withdrew it and his enemy fell, but their helmet stayed on, saving 'Lout from acquiring that weird feeling again.

"Thanks buddy," Snotlout heaved a breath of air out.

"Don't mention it," Tuff croaked, obviously not well. Snotlout saw his best friend was limping. There was no way Tuff could make it through the inner-fortress battle like that. He would surely die. Snotlout grabbed Tuff by his shoulder, "Man, go back to the boats—get that taken care of."

He pointed at Tuff's thigh. Tuff twisted his face in suspicion, "So what, you can take over the command?"

"Tuff, at this point no one is commanding! We're all just raiding until we capture those lords—and I'm not telling you to go because I want to take over," Snotlout shouted earnestly and held up his arm, the one his gauntlet no longer protected so Tuff could see what was inked on his inner wrist. Tuff stared at it, knowing he too had it—that mark of brotherhood, of friendship they had tattooed to their skins when they were fifteen.

Tuffnut nodded and gave a slap to Snotlout's back in appreciation as he began to retreat, "Don't die!"

"I don't count on it!" 'Lout replied over the Viking crowd, he really didn't. He didn't like to count. His determination was renewed at winning this thing. A day ago he would have questioned the possibility. He might have been lying to Tuffnut just a little—he did want to command, to feel that position of power but equally he did not want his best friend to be slain either.

He left the courtyard and ran into one of the inner structures that led to a hall of sorts where he found more Vikings—grabbing the barrels of grain or fruit that had lined the walls, if there had been Celts they had been dispatched or scattered elsewhere. He climbed the stairs that led to the upper floor corridor, on a lookout for anything that could lead him to the Celtic Lords. If he were the first to find them and hold them he would certainly be revered.

As he passed a room, within it he saw two Viking clansmen from the isles west in the Barbaric Archipelago, allies of Berk but socially crude and only good for fighting—they were hassling a young Celtic woman. One had shoved her into his buddy where he grabbed her and leered, spoke rudely and then repeated the gesture toward the first man. Her clothes were ripped, and parts of her undergarment could be seen, and he could see her tears though she tried keeping a brave face. He knew he wasn't supposed to feel anything but loathing for the enemy, but when he looked at the poor girl he became angry at the western clansmen.

"Hey!" he stopped in his path and shouted which distracted them. The first man tightened his hold paying no mind to the girl struggling to be free of his grasp.

"What do you want?"

"Let her go."

The men laughed, "Yeah, say who?"

Snotlout strode forward and surprised them by pulling his sword on them, so much for being allies, "Stoick the Vast's orders were to take the fortress and capture the lords—it looks like you two have been distracted, so let me point you in the right direction."

He then withdrew his sword and pointed it toward the open doorway that led into the corridor signaling that they were done there.

They grumbled and left but not without some purely nasty looks toward the young brunette Viking. It would seem they could take Snotlout if need be but they could also see he was of the Viking elite by his weapons. The really good warriors got to wield broadswords and were adorned with whole shoulder armor just as Snotlout was. He watched them go, making sure they would not come back after Snotlout left to continue his search. When he was satisfied, he then turned to the girl, "Are you all—?" but she was already gone as there was a hidden passage through the wall that was left open that she had probably fled through.

"Crap!" he shouted and sheathed his sword, going after her. He probably shouldn't have bothered but he didn't like the small concern growing in his head she would raise an alarm and bring more enemy warriors into the vicinity. He ran through the space, cursing its narrowness as his brawny figure was having trouble quickly navigating it. His shoulders crashed into rocks, their armor striking along the stone and causing an ear-piecing scraping noise. He flipped off his shoulder armor and the strap of his shield halfway through because there was no possible way he could carry it through such a passageway.

He emerged in a room that was dim, something had collapsed the doorways that led through to the outside—probably rubble from one of the fallen fortress towers and he saw the Celtic lass wildly trying to dig through the rocks to be free.

As he approached, his boots made scuffling noises and she whirled around, wide eyed. She immediately grabbed up a rock and hurled it at his head.

"Woah!" he yelled and dodged it. She had an impressive aim, and threw it with surprising force. He watched it land past him but then felt a sharp pain as she had picked up another and that time hit him right in the side of his skull. He glared at Rock Girl and pulled out his sword threateningly as he stomped forward.

She bent down into a crouching position holding her arms over her head as though it would protect her from his wrath. Though his footsteps slowed and his anger dissipated at seeing her pathetic form. After a moment of realizing that she hadn't been slain or taken, she peered up at him.

She had the most amazing green eyes, as lush as the growth of spring. She probably couldn't understand him so he made the gesture of setting his sword to the ground, slowly—meaning her no harm. She watched him very, very carefully—very suspicious.

Finally she brought herself up and more moments of silence passed that seemed to last forever and Snotlout for the life of him, did not know what to say. He probably should have killed her and gotten on with it. It would be the Viking thing to do but he just couldn't—not when she was staring at him like that.

After looking him over, she released a shaky breath and then in a biting tone asked, "Why aren't you hassling me like your comrades?"

He balked, not expecting her to know his language. She spoke it with an odd accent—her vowels sounding short but it still took him for surprise. He wondered how she knew it, but instead of asking, he opened his mouth and could only form an eloquent, "Wha-at?"

Her expression turned to an accusing frown, "You chased them off because you wanted a turn at me."

"No! No, no! They were idiots, and they weren't following orders."

She pressed her lips together, "And standing here with me, is that part of your orders?"

He didn't like her attitude, and thought it foolish of her to serve up so much sass for being unarmed, a lady of the enemy, and alone. Stupid Rock Girl, it was almost like she was entitled—something he could understand but still she should have known her place, to act meekly in the face of a dangerous foe.

Then, he noticed the manner of her torn clothes—they had once been on the more elegant side. Now it made sense. Her attitude was so because she was a part of the nobility and perhaps she was being bold because he had set down his sword. He grabbed it up and pointed it at her.

"No, my orders are to capture the Celtic Lords. You will be my prisoner and you will lead me to them because you are of the nobility."

"I'm not—" she objected which caused him to stop his approach. Still he held his sword out even though she couldn't possibly be able to harm him. Was she trying to trick him? He felt she was.

"Then why are your garments so fine?"

She looked down at herself and then raised her chin high—proving his suspicions no matter her lies, "You call torn and tattered garments 'fine'?"

He lowered his brows with impatience and stepped forward to have his answer. Fear flickered through her expression but she caught it with a wry grin, "Well, I see not all Viking warriors are half-wits."

He didn't know if that was a compliment to him or an insult at all the other Vikings but returned her sarcastic grin, "If we were half-wits—we would never win any battles."

Her confidant expression broke to that of a hateful glower, "You think you've won this thing?"

"Baby, I know we've won this thing—" he began to gloat but then her eyes widened and she pointed behind him, "Look out!"

He swiveled around in alarm but saw nothing but the emptiness of the room. When he realized he had been tricked he grew angry and when he turned back—to end this nonsense, take her back as a prisoner, even under threat of sword—he was met with a hard blow to the side of his head.

Pain welled through his skull and his eyes blurred, time seemed to slow as he saw that memorable figure of a girl flee past him and a big rock drop from her hold. He fell hard to the ground; his helmet fell off and made a clashing noise as it tumbled away. That assaulting piece of earth landed as well, where small pieces chipped away as rolled across the ground until it was next to him. His last thoughts before darkness took hold was oddly enough, that he was a half-wit for falling for such an old trick.

When he came to, it was dim but still daylight. He sat up with disorientation and felt the side of his head where a lump was forming. He cursed under his breath, vowing to find that Celtic tart and make her atone for her assault. He pushed that stupid rock away, the one that had hit him. As he sat up he felt the cold smoothness of metal under his jaw and his eyes slowly crept to the side to see her with his sword. Rock girl. Apparently he did not have to look very far. He felt his anger return in ten fold.

She gave another one of her wry smiles, subtly enjoying the power she held over him. He swallowed and felt his throat bump touch the flat of the blade.

"Why are you still here? You could have escaped," he pointed out, glaring.

"Escape to what exactly? More haggard Vikings looking for a lady to ravage? More vicious creatures that would as soon slay me as see me? I think not. 'Tis much safer in this empty room with one unarmed Viking."

He made a move to stand but she pressed the blade closer to his skin in warning. Not all Vikings were how she described, he wasn't—but he saw saying so wouldn't make her believe it any more. She loathed him, he could see it in her eyes but if it were so true it was puzzling to why he was still there. He tensed and stopped moving—"Then why didn't you just kill me?"

He wasn't inviting her to, just curious why she hadn't. She was the one with the sword and he had been unconscious—it would have the perfect kill. The downed Viking.

Something wavered in her expression but still her eyes held firm on his, "You may have saved my life back there and it is only fair I return the gesture. Though I should rightfully slaughter any Viking who dare invade my home."

"Your people could have been spared if you wouldn't have retaliated," he snorted.

She gave a doubtful huff.

"Everyone could have been spared if you would have stayed in Uffern, for that is where you crawled out of and you should all return to!" She bit back with venom and leaned forward threateningly with those blazing green eyes, which was a mistake because her anger had made her unbalanced and unfocused so he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it tightly—she cried out and dropped his sword. He caught it and turned it on her, the point of the blade directly aimed at her neck.

"I don't know what Uffern is, but I come from Berk." He stood up while grabbing her upper arm roughly, "Now, you're gonna lead me to your Lords and if you don't, I'll kill you." He really didn't want to have to because she was the most useful way to getting where he wanted to go. So hopefully she would refrain from throwing any more rocks at him.

Something in her eyes recognized something he had spoken but he didn't let her voice it, he prodded her with the blade end and urged her forward. She probably had the notion to deceive him, only masked her steady movement as cooperation. They made their way up the passage to the room that let out to the corridor. It was quieter. The metal sounds of clashing were far off if not entirely gone. They emerged through to the outside courtyard and it was down pouring rain. He cursed and looked up at the dank clouds. It wasn't a thunderstorm—just cascades of rain that would make anyone think that the Gods were weeping.

Instead of a fight scene as he had left it, there were lingering Celts that were tending to their wounded under roughly made canopies. No Vikings. What had happened? After all this, were the Vikings defeated? While he furiously pondered their fates, his feisty captive darted forward into a sprint.

"Hey!" He bellowed and went after her. He followed her into another entryway. She ran up a series of twisted stairs but failed to lose him. They were in a wide corridor now and he was getting closer. She tugged open a door as he lunged forward and grabbed her ankle, causing her to crash forward. They rolled into grander room, dressed with timber and stone.

He put his weight on her, effectively pinning her, "What do you think you are doing, Rock girl?"

"Rock girl?" She scoffed at her title and brought her leg up from behind, kicking him in his head. He was further impressed by her flexibility. "Obviously your Raid is over. You failed. Go back to Uffern with your scurvy comrades. The Celtic peoples have prevailed."

Her taunting caused another great anger to rise within him, he raised his hand to strike her but again he couldn't bring himself to do it. One thing was for sure, he was failing at being a Viking, the only sure part of himself he knew he had left. He growled and instead crunched his hand into a fist and punched the floor. It was painful. She outwardly shrieked, as the blow was so close to her head. He shook his fist out with a wince as she stared, her eyes wide and her breaths quick with fright.

He turned a glare on her and let his weight up. "Why can't I hurt you?" He shouted and grabbed her arms, giving her a good shake, "WHY CAN'T I HURT YOU?"

Her eyes were closed tight as she was jerked back and forth by his shaking and when he halted they opened—filled with sympathy not for an enemy, but for a fellow-human.

"You can."

He stared at her.

"You just won't because you know it is wrong."

Really? Was that really the reason? Or was she just trying to make him feel guilty? He couldn't think on it too much for she had quickly picked herself up and stood in front of the next set of doors. She appeared to be ruffled as her hand landed on the handle.

"Go. Be gone! Behind these doors lay the mightiest of Celtic warriors, the protectors of the lords and they will tear you to pieces."

She threw open the doors and both youths were met with a shocking sight. He realized that he and Rock Girl were wrong, they had missed out on events while in that blocked room. Neither side had won the battle.

There was a dragon. He saw a wiry—russet haired youth that had no business even being in the Southern Isles. He saw his own father as well as Astrid's brother, he saw the Celtic Lords and their so-called 'mighty protectors'—and it sure didn't look like they had been captured. It was weird, really weird and perplexing to Snotlout.

Hiccup sat in a chair across from a noble-looking man of stature. The Lord was shouting and Hiccup looked nervous but tired as his hand habitually stroked the back of Toothless's neck for comfort. No one even bothered to turn towards the two that had just entered, the most engaging thing were the two beings seemingly in charge to decide the fate of everything.

"Snotlout!" his father pulled him aside in surprise and perhaps even relief for Snotlout was still alive, they hadn't seen each other since the day they got off the boats and into immediate battle. Spitelout ushered him to the side of the room where the Viking elite stood.

"What the Hel is going on?" Snotlout asked, lowering his voice as he heard the Celtic Lord 's shouts. Svenan Hofferson was apparently translating for anyone in the room. Seriously? Really? This was actually happening?

Spitelout saw his son's crumpled brow of bafflement and began to whisper, "Stoick the Vast has been injured—"

"Is he okay?" Snotlout was alarmed for his uncle.

"About an hour ago it happened. He's back on his boat, resting. I managed to stop the bleeding and left him with attendants. It was lucky nothing vital on his insides was pierced. Then Hiccup arrived—"

"Yeah what is Hiccup doing here?"

"He commanded the raid to end, he's negotiating with the primary Celtic Lord over there."

Since when did this raid turn into a negotiation? Snotlout seethed, doubting his little cousin could even attempt to be successful. He also was angry that Hiccup had ordered it all to be over when they were close to winning. Snotlout had been so close to what he had wanted.

He saw Rock Girl quietly stand against the wall on the opposite side of the room. She was subtly smiling at someone and Snotlout followed her gaze to Svenan and he didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps Sven really must have had a male seduction to rival an incubus because here they were in a different land, and he still was the first to catch a lady's favor despite being her enemy.

"Demands aid to rebuild…" he caught a snippet of what Sven was translating. Snotlout snorted under his breath—they would never come to an agreement. Even so, negations would take years after this kind of damage. They were all wasting time; it would have just been better to fight to the victory instead of this tedious sit-down, so near the end of it too! Why couldn't Hiccup have waited a few more hours to show up?

Hiccup listened carefully, looking diplomatic but his eyes were narrowed—upset at something.

"What has happened so far?" Snotlout leaned over and asked.

"The Lords ordered his death despite Hiccup calling off the raid, but you see that guard over there?" Spitelout nodded toward the other side of the chamber subtly and Snotlout saw a man with a mauled arm, darting nervous glances at the alert night fury at Hiccup's side.

"Yeah?"

"No one can touch that boy when he has his dragon."

'Lout understood that all the Lords and warriors had witnessed what a fire beast was capable of and that it was endeared to the primary Viking leader. They were afraid, he realized—of what Hiccup could do. Hiccup intimidated them—it was almost laughable to Snotlout that any one could feel threatened by the young Viking. Even through the frantic shouts of that Celtic Lord, fear could be heard.

The Lord finally calmed himself and sat in his own chair, wiping perspiration off his forehead. Sven trailed off with a number the Lord had suggested then added, "Hiccup, I will honorably volunteer to stay and rebuild the destruction we have caused."

Again, Rock Girl was caught smiling at the news and Snotlout just rolled his eyes.

Hiccup nodded thoughtfully and stood from where he was sitting, "Svenan I appoint you to lead any reconstruction. He gave a shallow nod of his head toward the lord, "Lord MacVaren, I accept your terms and I promise we will never come to these shores again in a hostile manner."

Toothless stood also and they left Sven to finish the translation. Snotlout wasn't surprised of the Lord's frown—looking to be that of disapproval and suspicion. He chattered with a biting tone to which Svenan translated, "The Lord says that the promise is empty, that there is nothing to stop us or our people or the dragons from attacking the Celtics so he demands yet another conciliation."

"Anything," Hiccup sighed earnestly, really just letting this guy roll over him with all his demands. This wasn't a negotiation; it was Hiccup giving away everything! Why did Hiccup always ruin everything? What did the Vikings get out of this, a measly half the goods from the raid?

Snotlout suddenly feared for Stoick's life, for he couldn't imagine living under the guidance of a chieftain Hiccup. Hiccup could not plan battles, not real ones and his negotiating skills were nil. Everyone would go soft while Hiccup was in charge, he that wouldn't even kill a dragon when it was downed.

That thought catapulted his mind to remember that secret room. The downed Viking. He was unconscious but yet that lass did not strike him, his enemy did not strike him. He remembered the look of sympathy she briefly held at him because he failed to realize that they were all humans. He remembered that Celtic warrior he had slain earlier—and that odd feeling afterward. Now he could put his finger on it.

Regret.

The feeling of being a Viking was growing smaller and smaller as a horrid feeling rose in him and replaced it. She had been right, he couldn't hurt her because he knew, deep down, it was wrong.

The Lord was rambling on about what his last proposed term was and Snotlout was bored to death, and began to feel the ache of the past three days—in his body and his mind. Maybe he should have just gone back to the boats. There was now nothing in the Southern Isles for him.

Svenan had stopped translating and gawked at the lord, and immediately Rock Girl, whom Snotlout had forgotten was there because she had been so quiet, began to shout objectively in Celtic toward the lord. She was nearly hysterical.

"What? What did he say?" Hiccup pulled on Sven's sleeve. Toothless's head was whipping around at all the noise, confused and growling in warning in case they made to try and harm Hiccup again.

"He asks that his daughter be wed to a Viking of the elite blood, to secure your promise. He explains that you would not attack her people if you were joined, and the Celtics would not attack us in turn."

Snotlout saw his cousin's face turn ashen and pale, and suddenly all the contempt he held for the awkward leader dissipated because he saw the sure heartbreak in the lad at the decision he was about to make. Snotlout once had that feeling and it was the worst feeling a man in love could ever feel. Then he realized Rock Girl was the Lord's daughter as she was displeased at being bartered off hence her moment of hysterics at Sven's announcement. A small disappointment twisted in him at discovering that fact.

Hiccup closed his eyes for a couple of moments and then, "Okay." His voice was near whisper, his eyes opened again and he let out a breath and repeated, "Okay."

Perhaps there was something to be said for sacrifice and leadership. All great leaders had to sacrifice something to be called great, and Hiccup had no doubt sacrificed something of great importance to him to keep the peace.

Snotlout felt bad for the both of them. He knew she hated the Vikings for their raiding, and now she was supposed to marry one. Hiccup was in love with someone else but now no longer could pursue his interest. The whole situation sucked.

He watched as Sven held out his hand for Rock Girl to take as she stepped forward to Hiccup to be introduced. Her name was Brynna.

Snotlout preferred Rock Girl.

The tension in the room dropped if only a fraction but it could be considered the first notch in a million towards a slow-mending progress.

What was supposed to be a season of beauty and renewal was tainted with the cries of war and the stains of blood and the heartbreak of youth. There was still growth though, still a sense of renewal, just as strong as a fledgling plant slowly traveling upward toward the sun. A growth of thought, of will, and of morals that would become stronger and renewed within those Viking comrades who would have never known how simple life really was before they had been in battle. Before they had felt the sting of spring.

A/N: Oi that was a long one.

Oh, before I forget: HTTYD and it's characters are property of Cressida Cowell and if not hers then Dreamworks. I only get to claim Svenan and Rock Girl/Brynna, go me. Woo.

My spring season farewell, wrap up: Now before you panic your pants off remember that these are character studies, glimpses into what they are thinking during a series of events and meant to illustrate a growth in their beliefs, or personality. Therefore plot is second, reality is a mix of tidbit history and cannon fantasy, and all problems that may arise will not have a resolution. Please enjoy your intermission until the summer season pops up. I apologize for any evil-ness you feel I have committed by ending it like this [but now you are compelled to read my next compilation, no?]

Thanks again for the wonderful reviews to all who reviewed and hoped you enjoyed it despite its very dark and depressing overtones.