Light shone through the windows, casting their gaze upon the procession below, a solemn ceremony for an emperor brought to the afterlife by the hand of Azrael, far too soon for this mortal world to fully bear the consequences of his departure.
At the age of sixty-seven, death by some subtle illness was a deeply ironic end for the man whose name would echo through history as the "Bulgar Slayer" but that was exactly what had come to pass.
In accordance with his wishes, Basil's funeral was held in a far more modest setting. While most Byzantine emperors had been buried in the lavish halls of the imperial mausoleum within the hallowed Church of the Holy Apostles, Basil had chosen to rest eternally beside his soldiers in a far humbler abode.
Thus, the Church of St. John the Theologian in Promodos located in the Hebdomon district just beyond the Theodosian Walls became his final resting place. A fitting end for a man of war who wished to sleep among the dead who bled for his empire.
However, for a military man choosing to sleep with his fallen comrades, his funeral itself was far from spartan in aesthetic. Rather than the men who had fought and bled by his side over the course of the last few decades of campaign, Basil's corpse was now surrounded by sycophants and socialites, their crocodile tears cascading down their false expressions and onto their silk-ridden bodies.
No, there was but one man out of place in this lavish and farcical ceremony. Surrounded by a sea of Tyrian purple and gilded silk, jewels on every limb, skin olive and hair black, stood a man who looked almost alien.
But he was silent, unemotional as he stood at the rear of the hall, next to the brothers of his elite guard. Only three of such members were tasked with protecting the ceremony, of which he was by far the most striking in appearance.
Standing taller than the legend of Charlemagne, and with an appearance so ethereal he might have been the spirit of the north's winter itself, was a man whose skin was whiter than snow, and whose beard was somehow even further lacking in hue.
His eyes were the personification of northern ice, only his piercing gaze visible beneath the ocular rim of his iron spangenhelm, and the black war paint concealing the whitened flesh of his eyelids.
A cross hung over the leather lamellar vest which itself was the third and final layer of armor, adorned over proper riveted mail and a gambeson beneath. But this was not a Christian cross, no. It was a far more rare symbol: a wolf's cross, typically found in the frozen tundra of Iceland among the pagans who lived there, a variation of the hammer which the god Thor wielded.
This wasn't just a Norseman; he was a Varangian, and by the looks of it, a venerated captain at that. Hence why his open display of heathenry was barely tolerated within this sacred cathedral of Christ's army on earth.
Still, he could not bear to witness such falsehood, especially in the professions of love and loyalty by men and women who deserved neither, and had received none from Basil in life. Because of this, the Norseman was about to turn and leave when one of his subordinates stopped him, placing himself directly in the captain's path before reminding him why they were here in the first place.
"I understand how you feel, brother… But our duty is to stand here and guard the Emperor until he is fully laid to rest. Do not let your disdain for these whelps cloud your judgment, or your honor, Vetrulfr… We stand with you."
Despite wanting to snarl like the skin of the arctic wolf which sat atop his helm and draped across his shoulders and back as both cloak and spiritual relic, the captain named Vetrulfr simply turned around silently and waited until the lies, the deceit, and the empty platitudes were finished.
Then, and only then, after every Byzantine aristocrat and bureaucrat worth his weight in gold had said their farewell to their "beloved" Emperor, did Vetrulfr finally step forward, placing a hand on the gilded casket, its cover carved in the shape of the man he had known in life, and whose corpse was now interred within.
A solemn gaze, like that of a man who had not just lost a commander but a close personal friend and mentor, overcame the otherwise ferocious warrior as he said his final words in a language only the other Norsemen would know, one that he had personally taught to Basil during their time together at war.
"I have spent the entirety of my adult life thus far fighting your wars on your behalf… Not just out of the fortune you have paid me, and the one I have yet to collect, but because you were a man worth following into battle.
Since the day I first met you, you had spent our time together attempting to convert me to your faith, and educate me in a way that I would become more than just another barbarian from the North...
I can say with certainty that at least half of your intentions have stuck with me throughout the years. However, I fear not the part which you desired most of all. Now that you have left this world too early to finish what you have started, my time of service and the loyalty I owed you is completed.
Now I must go north, back to my people, and to the calling I was always meant to fulfill in this life. There is a reckoning to be paid in the lands of those who would usurp your rightful title…
A debt of blood owed for what happened 200 years ago, and when the gods call for blood, it must be paid in full... Ironic, that all that you have taught me will now be used to wage war against the very god you tried so hard to make me kneel before… Rest well, brother. We will meet again when the Valkyries come to take me. Even if your death was unworthy of their calling."
Basil had, unfortunately for the Byzantine Empire, married no wives, taken no concubines, and fathered no sons. All that remained to rule in his stead was his brother, Constantine VIII. A man far from worthy of sharing the same blood as the legendary Bulgar Slayer.
And he was here in this very church. Naturally, seeing a northern barbarian, one who dared to profane this cathedral with his open display of heathenry, speak in a vile and savage language of which no man could understand would upset such a foolish and haughty man.
Though a rarity in history, it was indeed a curse when an idiot came to sit upon the throne of an empire. However, the only thing worse than such a ruler was the dangerous mixture of an idiot who believed himself to be a genius.
And that was the kind of man Constantine VIII was, boldly provoking the very elite soldiers whose loyalty and ferocity had struck fear into the enemies of Constantinople and the empire it had built.
The man, successfully perturbed by a mild inconvenience, saw this as a chance to be rid of these fur-clad warriors once and for all. And he used this as an opportunity to slander them at the funeral of their warrior king.
Constantine's voice echoed across the chamber, smooth and false as gold-plated brass.
"With the passing of my noble brother, the time for war ends. Let us move forward into an age guided by reason and unity, by faith. We shall no longer need foreign swords in these sacred halls. The empire is civilized now."
A long silence followed. Even the priests looked uncertain.
Vetrulfr stepped forward, the menacing stride of his leather boots connecting with the marble floor, echoing with each pace he took towards Constantine who stood before Basil's eternal resting place. He gazed over the emperor's resting place one last time, then turned to face the living.
"You speak of faith and reason, yet you lack both.
Your brother understood the cost of empire. He bled for it. Bled beside men like me, men you now call foreign, barbarian, unnecessary."
He unclipped the ornate imperial sword from his belt, the one given to him by Basil himself, and tossed it with a clang to the floor before the throne.
"You are unworthy of my spear, my sword."
He unstrapped the great axe from his back, turning it in his hands one last time.
"And most certainly, my axe."
"You think war ends because you say so? The Seljuks stir in the east, and in the west, the Pope plots behind golden idols. Rome's enemies are not cowed, they are patient. And when they strike, parchment and prayer will not save you."
He stepped back, a grim smile beneath his beard.
"My oath died with Basil. I leave now, and I am taking what is mine by right, no more. And when your house crumbles, do not call on the north. The gods already know your name, and they do not speak it with favor."
Without another word, Vetrulfr turned and walked out beneath the watching eyes of marble saints and spineless men.
The only words spoken in the stunned silence that followed came from the two fellow Varangians still standing guard over the ceremony. A simple nod, and a few quiet syllables passed between them.
"Skål, Captain."
Normally such words and warriors would not be welcomed in this holiest of places, but the priests did not dare rebuke them. Even they knew better than to question warriors in mourning.
Nobody made a move to stop the Norsemen from claiming what was rightfully theirs. They saw to it that their Emperor was buried, and then departed with a horde of treasury worthy of their years of loyalty and sacrifice.
Where Vetrulfr went, so too did enough of the Varangians beneath his command to fill his longship for war. The vessel sat in the docks of Constantinople and was noticeable by its unique design and size.
With a length of approximately 28 meters, the ship could carry 80 men into battle and had 35 pairs of oars. Shields with iron bosses and rims lined the edge, as Vikingr were already in the act of loading cargo and bounty when Vetrulfr, flanked by his most veteran warriors, walked onto the scene.
A simple salute followed by the phrase "Skål" erupted from the crew as they recognized their captain's arrival with the respect and solidarity he had earned by fighting by the sides of these men for nearly a decade.
Vetrulfr returned the greeting and gazed upon his longship, which had long since sat idly by waiting for the extended voyage home to the north. Its motifs were not of a standard dragon, rather, it displayed Fenrir, bound to its figurehead, chained and snarling in defiance as Týr's severed hand, cast in iron, was held within its bloodied maw.
As for the name of the ship itself, it bore the moniker Frostrtönn, or Frostfang in the later English tongue. A reminder of the island in the deep North Vetrulfr had been born in, and his association with the arctic wolf whose hide he wore proudly as Úlfheðinn.
With a sharp bark of his voice, Vetrulfr issued the commands to depart once it was clear that the men were ready.
"We sail home… It will be a perilous trek, so make peace with the gods before we depart. I won't remind you that our stops will be brief and few between our destination, so make sure that rations are properly accounted for one last time."
With everything confirmed, Vetrulfr stepped upon his ship and sat down next to one of his kinsmen, an older veteran by the name of Gunnar, whose greying beard was as scraggly as a yak's head.
The man's eyes were cast toward the horizon as he began to heave the oars in unison with his fellow Norsemen, speaking of his thoughts regarding their journey in a foreboding and almost prophetic tone.
"I fear that Njörðr will not be kind to us… We have been far away from home for much too long, and he will test to see if we are still faithful…"
Vetrulfr said nothing. He simply nodded his head in silent approval as he too rowed northward, knowing that a sacrifice was needed to properly appease the wrath and vengeance which the old gods of the north were so well known for.
And he had just the target in mind for this great blót.