There is no great glory or beauty in battle.
Ancient cultures thrived on it, found their livelihood in it, dreamed even of a Heaven where they fought endlessly. A red splash of gore against dark mud was art; an enemy's dying scream was music.
There is no thrill in being at war, in a country or in a household. William Shakespeare made it beauty in his histories; it is no such thing. Audiences hear harsh words and thrill, marvel at the clever, quick minds of the characters, pine for the dramatic situations, wished they lived in such a time.
Real people battle, hear harsh words. They marvel that someone they love could speak that way, and cry when they realize that they knew that all along.
Relationships are fragile as a butterfly's wing, and one prod from a clumsy human finger can break them apart.
Families are the basic units of culture, the foundation of society. They are also the most painful, the most cruel wargrounds any army ever created.
I wonder why, then, the Vikings looked to other countries for their glory, when they could simply have found it under their own roofs.