The Death of Baldur
Baldur, the shining god, was loved by all who beheld him. His radiance lit up the halls of Asgard, his laughter warmed the hearts of gods and men alike. He was beauty, kindness, and light incarnate, and yet, even he could not escape the shadow of fate. For Baldur’s death was prophesied, and in the Nine Realms, what is foretold cannot be undone.
It began with dreams—dark, restless dreams that came to Baldur in the stillness of night. He saw his own death, felt it creeping toward him like a slow-moving storm. Shaken, he went to Odin, who in turn sought the wisdom of the dead. Journeying to Helheim, Odin questioned a long-buried seeress, her grave cold and silent until the All-Father’s voice stirred her awake. Her prophecy was grim: Baldur would die, and his death would mark the beginning of Asgard’s end.
Frigg, Baldur’s mother, refused to let this fate stand. She traveled the Nine Realms, extracting promises from every living thing, from every stone and tree and beast, that they would never harm her son. Iron and fire, earth and water, even disease and poison—all swore an oath to spare Baldur.
When she returned, triumphant, Baldur became invincible. The gods, in their mirth, made a game of it. They hurled stones and spears at him, watching as they bounced harmlessly off his radiant form. Even Thor’s hammer, mighty Mjölnir, could not so much as scratch him. Baldur laughed, and the gods laughed with him, never noticing the figure standing quietly at the edge of the crowd.
Loki, sharp-tongued and sharper of mind, saw opportunity in Frigg’s triumph. Disguised as an old woman, he approached her and asked, “Did every being swear an oath, great queen?”
Frigg, proud but tired from her journey, admitted that she had overlooked one thing: mistletoe, a plant so small and insignificant that she deemed it harmless. That was all Loki needed.
He fashioned a dart from the mistletoe, light and sharp, and placed it in the hands of Hod, Baldur’s blind brother. “Throw this,” Loki said, his voice smooth and persuasive. “Join the game.”
Hod, unaware of Loki’s intent, hurled the dart. It flew true, piercing Baldur’s chest. The laughter stopped, replaced by silence so heavy it felt like the world itself was holding its breath. Baldur fell, his light extinguished, and the gods could do nothing but watch.
Grief consumed Asgard. The gods prepared a great ship, Hringhorni, to bear Baldur’s body to the afterlife. They placed him upon it, surrounded by treasures and offerings, and set it alight. The flames climbed high, and as the ship drifted out to sea, the light of Baldur’s pyre rivaled the sun itself.
But Baldur’s death was not the end. His spirit descended to Helheim, where he would remain until Ragnarök, when all things would be remade. The gods sent Hermod, Odin’s swift son, to plead with Hel to release Baldur. She refused, her voice cold and unyielding, unless every being in the Nine Realms wept for him.
The gods wept, and so did the men, beasts, and stones of the world—save for one. A giantess named Thokk, widely believed to be Loki in disguise, refused to shed a tear. And so Baldur remained in Helheim, his presence a quiet, radiant light in the darkness of the underworld.
Even now, the story of Baldur’s death hangs over Asgard like a shadow. His absence is felt in every quiet moment, in the spaces where laughter once rang. And in Helheim, where his light persists, it is said that the queen of the dead herself watches him with an unreadable gaze, as if even she cannot decide whether his presence is a gift or a curse.