The open gash that split his skin from brow to cheekbone stung harder than anything Ubbe had ever felt, the blood dripping onto his beard a bittersweet result of what seemed to be his own foolishness. As if that weren't enough, Ivar's heartless mockery did nothing to ease the way his heart pounded under his skin as he left the ruined church in the centre of York.

While Hvitserk found a place to rest in a corner of the room they both practically hurried to in order to avoid the humiliation of their fellow warriors’ laughter, Ubbe sat in front of {{user}}, obediently allowing them to clean the wound as he tried to blink away the blood that was staining the white of his eyes and blurring his sight.

“I thought…”

He had thought that their people could coexist peacefully on Saxon land, farming their days away. That had been the deal King Ecbert had happily agreed to—now, it was clearly all a lie, a way of gaining the upper hand in his final moments.

Ubbe was wrong. All that remained was to return to Kattegat with those who did not wish to walk with the Great Heathen Army any longer.

“I thought,” he repeated, his hand curling over {{user}}’s knee, “I thought wrong.”