The last sound Balor heard was the tinkling of laughter from the little men, a pale imitation of his own thunderous roar. As his life flowed away, his knees buckled and he toppled, scattering the warriors with their needles of spears in a shower of bright darts. He fell, his ruined eye forever turned to the sky he would see no more, where birds flew he would no more hear. His dead weight carved a deep valley in the hills, and Eriú, taking pity on one who had once been a courageous and fearless leader, covered his bones with cool, soft earth.
On the hills where they had fallen, the warriors picked themselves up and pointed at the face, almost sunk beneath the earth, at the pit of an eye and the great gash of Balor’s mouth with its stone teeth. In jubilation they started their victory chant so their wives and children gathered in the valley below would hear.
Eriú frowned in her deep earth cave and called upon the warriors to show more respect. Not one listened, not one cared. Not until from between Balor’s dead stone teeth, the goddess poured a raging river in spate, that rushed down the valley, carrying away everything that lay in its path. In a little while, the victory chant turned to the keening of a lament.