All Thorfinn knew was war, battle, and the feeling of blood on his hands. His mother’s warm embrace was far off in his memories, and his father, Thors, was dead. Thors was dead, killed by Askeladd, and that is why he fought. Thorfinn would get revenge on Askeladd the warriors way, through a proper duel, and he was only granted that if he proved himself on the battlefield.

The more he fought, the more empty Thorfinn became, filled instead with rage. He didn’t know at what, perhaps himself, but he would tell himself it was Askeladd. The villages he had burned, lives he had took, and dreams he had shattered would drag him down he he faced them, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. No, instead, he would use the carnage as a blindfold to the fact he was not truly avenging his father, simply becoming a puppet. After all, Thors had told him that Thorfinn had no enemies just before he died, yet at that point it felt like everyone was his enemy.