This was an age of blood and battle-axes, a stage that belonged to the warriors of Asgard.
When Hela's Space Magic and the pair swapped Baldr's position, he smiled as he faced The Serpent's gaping maw.
There was still so much he wanted to say. He wanted his eldest sister to tell his brothers that he loved them.
He wanted to pray to Odin and tell his father that he had never lost his honor.
If there had been time, he might even have found a poet to record his tale—the tale of a terrifying mortal named Deathstroke. Such a cunning man deserved a place among the stars.
Baldr did not blame that human. He only blamed himself for not being clever enough, for never seeing through the plan behind it all.
But now, there was no more chance.
He had faced death many times and survived beneath shadows that seemed like the end of the world. The instant he learned that Odin had fallen, he had known that Ragnarök had arrived, that everything should come to an end.
Yet he still did not know what his eldest sister and Deathstroke had been planning.
None of that mattered anymore. The God of Light tightened his grip on the Divine Spear. The stench of wind hit him head-on, and he smiled as he leveled his spear and leaped into The Serpent's mouth, letting out a thunderous roar:
"For Asgard! I shall die on the battlefield with honor!"
The small figure fell into that black-hole-like maw, like a glowing bean dropping into a tsunami. But when those jaws snapped shut, Golden Light suddenly burst from between the teeth.
Daytime beneath the sun was brilliant, for a golden sun had risen into the sky. A song echoed in the chests of the arch-nemeses,