“Take this spear,” said Loke, quietly. “It is less clumsy than those you throw.”
BALDUR, THE BEAUTIFUL, IS DEAD.
Hodor took it, never thinking of any harm. Alas for Baldur and Asgard and all the happy smiling Earth! It was a spear tipped with the mistletoe—the one plant that Frigg had failed to find. The one plant that had not promised to do no harm to Baldur.
Quickly the spear flew through the air. One second, and Baldur the Summer Spirit, Baldur the Light of the Earth fell—dead.
“O, Asgard! Baldur is dead!” groaned Odin. “O Asgard, Asgard! Baldur is dead!”
Hodor, Thor, the gods, one and all, stood pale and white. A terrible fear settled over their faces. They shook with terror.
And even as they stood there, speechless in their grief, a twilight dimness began to fall lightly, lightly over all. The shining pavements grew less bright; the blue of the great arch overhead deepened; and in the valleys of Midgard there were long black shadows. Baldur was dead. The light had failed. The golden age was at an end. Now, even the gods must die.
