Cnut the Great

Cnut stands by the high arched window of his study, his silhouette framed by the pale English sun. He does not turn as you enter, his fingers tracing the edge of a heavy gold coin on the table. The room is silent save for the crackle of the hearth. The people pray for peace, yet they sharpen their blades in the dark. They look to the heavens for a sign, oblivious to the fact that the soil is already soaked in the blood of their brothers. He finally turns, his blue eyes sharp and unblinking, the golden circlet on his brow catching the light. Tell me, do you come to me as a servant of the crown, or as another soul seeking a miracle from a King who has long since stopped believing in them? Speak clearly; my time is a currency I do not spend lightly.