They CLAIM he could be hurt by naught as it was wished by the ALLMOTHER. Swords can come, but nay: their blades can pierce through ARMOR but not through their beloved Baldr. Daggers can strike out from the shadow that guised, but no; it can sink into FLESH but not into their beloved Baldr. Perhaps a needle? Perhaps a chisel? But nay; Baldr is no cloth nor is he marble to be touched by such. Spears can thrust, but nay; spears can sing through a steed mighty and fine as if a hot spoke into hardened butter, but it cannot sing into their beloved Baldr. Nothing. Not wood. Not steel. Not stone. Not even his own light can dare strike him. It was wished by the Allmother. Baldr could be hurt by NAUGHT. And so to hence, Vidarr sat. He tucked himself into the corner of the great hall as he had retired from the revel of such feat. The Aesirs clamored. The Aesirs cheered. For whatever had they laid their hands and flourished with their might, could not touch their beloved Baldr. And for that, Vidarr smiled, he hummed—he might have been away from the revel but he was just as glad, so much that he kept his LYRE close and his finger swayed for a gentle strum.
A challenge to CLAIM, said one of them. His claws had made furrows into the earth to which the rivers ran—but nay; rivers might have flowed and emptied into the sea, but he cannot make the light god’s BLOOD come drawn. And to that they laughed, they drank, and Vidarr was sure to strum a hymn.
For it is MINE; said another. His fists and leveled the earth and his grasp had pulled mountains of it—but nay; mountains might have grown strong and the plains remained flat, but he cannot pummel the light god into BRUISING. And to that they laughed, they ate, and Vidarr was sure to strum yet another note.
You are nothing but WEAK; said another. By his hands the fiery chains of the sun had coursed through the Nine. He pulled it out of the ocean and then across the sky—but nay; the sun might bring morning and summers so warm, but try as he might, the light god’s skin could not turn BLIGHT. And to that they laughed, they drank, and Vidarr was sure to strum another as if links to a chain where melody lies. Nothing. Not claws. Not fists. Not even fire. Not even Baldr’s own light can strike him down. It was wished by the ALLMOTHER.
But what of HIM, one Aesir more, surely he would like to try. Aye, aye. All gods have dared to try. Even Vidarr was first to lay his blade on skin that would not PRY. And now the task has come to ANOTHER; another Aesir. Another BROTHER. Hodr, Baldr’s twin he was—the night god to the light god. He wouldn’t dare to come forth as the darkness that he wielded was the same that VEILED his eyes. He is blind. Vidarr hummed on and strummed. He is blind. What time spent to watch what would surely fail TWICE as much, Vidarr chose to continue to see his play instead. Eyes closed and ears keened to the plucking of his harp, he continued to revel in the revel that fed his song—far too keened to even hear the words: aye, here I am to guide your hand. Choose. Perhaps a sword? Perhaps a dagger? Perhaps a spear? Maybe a needle or a chisel? Perhaps an ARROW? Arrows can fly, straight and true—Hodr might not see it, but his hand shall see the task. His and another’s: a hand to hold Hodr’s, an arm to draw the string, and a breath that would make it FLY.
Then it plucked UNDONE. A strum from Vidarr’s fingers and he was held aback by how it lashed: a spark of a note, though broken just as the string of his lyre. Then all at once it came; like the drop that made the RIPPLE, like the drop that brought the rain. There was a chill that crept and slithered enough that he could feel it in his BONES—enough that he had paused. An omen in a revel? Nay. For they are all here with weapons UNSHEATHED and spread—and Baldr remained untouched. OMENS are for troubles and troubles they can rein. But before the Aesir could set aside and resign his lyre, the music that remained in his head vanished into the wind from a SHRIEK that shattered what chaos they feast had courted. Piercing. HARROWING. Vidarr was quick to turn to them and found those who were standing around had now splayed heaped onto another. Baldr. Baldr. Baldr. His name resounded in wails and CRIES.
BALDR. Vidarr scrambled from his seat, in steps twice tread, he clasped a tunic of another and pulled him aside. Baldr. Baldr. They are all here with weapons UNSHEATHED and spread. Baldr. Baldr. OMENS are for troubles and troubles they can all REIN. But as Vidarr dug through them all but one, the omen had claimed their brother who was to be UNTOUCHED. There he lay bloodied and cradled. Baldr. Baldr. Baldr. The air was filled with the song of his name. No. LAMENT. Songs are for revelry; laments are for grief undone. BALDR. BALDR. BALDR. Hodr was wailing, his smoked eyes were like pearl drops as tears trickled without cease or pause, his voice hoarse in pleas for a brother that is far to HEED. Hodr is frigid as he is lord of winter—but Baldr is just as cold as he was kissed by Hel. And with lips once warm with hums of lyresong and LAUGHTER, as if a string plucked out into snapping, it only took a breath more until Vidarr finally found his sorrowed MOAN.
They claim BALDR could be hurt by naught as it was wished by the Allmother, and yet he had fallen from the hand of his own BROTHER.
