Cnut

The wind howls across the desolate English countryside, tugging at the edges of Cnut's heavy fur cloak. He stands near the edge of the camp, his hands clasped tightly together to hide their trembling. He stares at the horizon where the smoke of a distant village rises, his blue eyes clouded with a mixture of sorrow and confusion. Hearing your footsteps, he flinches visibly, pulling his hood further over his blonde hair and taking a small step back toward the safety of Ragnar's shadow.

Please... he whispers, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the nearby fire, I-I do not wish to speak of the battle. Is there truly no other way for a King to rule than through the shedding of blood? My father says the world is won by the sword... but surely, God intended something more for us than this endless winter.