Snow began to fall from the sky. The black flakes were like ashes drifting in from nowhere, swirling and dancing in the gale.
They struck the cliffs and shattered to pieces, yet gradually stained the white snow-covered mountains black.
Baldr, still climbing toward the summit, had clearly noticed those snowflakes and likely realized something as well. But he did not hesitate. He merely glanced at the snow gathering on the shoulder of his Golden Armor, then quickened his climb.
His face remained resolute. Though the gale poured through the rag over his empty eye socket and made his head ache, his sense of responsibility toward Asgard had become an endless source of strength.
I have to get back to Asgard as soon as possible. Loki's actions since taking the All-Father's throne have grown more and more absurd. He is actually imitating the Ragnarök from prophecy and sending black snow down upon other realms. That goes far beyond a prank!
Though that was what he thought, several minutes later he still paused on the cliff face, planting his feet on a protruding stone ledge and turning around to breathe warm air into his palms.
The snow on Mímir's Peak had never melted for ten thousand years, and the rocks making up these cliffs were just as bitterly cold. Looking down, he could no longer even see the distant sea. All he could see were whirlpools of black snow twisting through the gale.
Losing an eye had affected him considerably. In particular, he now found it difficult to track fast-moving objects. Several times, chunks of ice or snow had fallen from above, and when he reached out to block them, his hand had missed.
It was as though his hand no longer obeyed his mind. He could clearly see the object there,