The Death of Balder

In all the Nine Realms, there was no god more beloved than Balder the Beautiful. Son of Odin the All-Father and Frigg the Queen of Heaven, Balder shone with an inner light that made all who looked upon him feel joy and peace. His golden hair caught sunlight like spun thread, his blue eyes sparkled with kindness, and his very presence could calm the fiercest storm or heal the deepest sorrow.

Balder was the light of Asgard, cherished by gods and mortals alike. Even the plants and animals seemed to flourish in his presence, and his laughter was said to make the very stars dance in the sky.

But in the depths of winter, as the days grew dark and cold, Balder began to have dreams—terrible dreams that filled him with dread and foreboding. Night after night, he would wake crying out, his golden face pale with terror, speaking of shadows and death, of endings and eternal darkness.

“What troubles you so, my beloved son?” Frigg asked one morning, finding Balder sitting by his window, staring out at the gray winter sky with haunted eyes.

“Mother,” Balder said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I have seen my own death in dreams. Over and over, I see myself falling, surrounded by darkness, while all the light goes out of the world.”

Frigg’s heart clenched with fear, for the dreams of gods often held the power of prophecy. She summoned Odin immediately, and together they listened as Balder described his visions of doom.

“I must consult the runes,” Odin declared, his single eye dark with worry. “These dreams cannot be ignored.”

The All-Father cast his sacred runes and read the patterns they made with growing dismay. The prophecy was clear: Balder would die, and his death would herald the beginning of Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods.

“No,” Frigg said fiercely, her eyes blazing with maternal fury. “I will not allow this to come to pass. If fate itself threatens my son, then I will bind fate itself.”

And so began Frigg’s desperate quest to protect her beloved child. She traveled throughout all the Nine Realms, speaking to every living thing, every plant and animal, every stone and stream, every force of nature. From each, she extracted a sacred oath that they would never harm Balder.

The mighty oak trees swore they would never strike him with their branches. The fierce wolves promised their teeth would never pierce his skin. Even iron and steel gave their word that they would turn aside from Balder’s flesh. Fire vowed it would not burn him, water promised it would not drown him, and the very stones of the earth swore they would not bruise him.

One by one, every creature and element in all creation took the oath to protect Balder the Beautiful.

When Frigg returned to Asgard, she was confident in her success. To test the protection, the gods devised a new game. They would have Balder stand in the center of their great hall while they hurled weapons and stones at him, laughing with delight as every projectile bounced harmlessly away or turned aside at the last moment.

Spears would bend around him, arrows would curve away, and the mightiest hammers would barely whisper against his skin. The sight of Balder standing unharmed in a rain of weapons brought joy to all the gods, who saw it as proof that their beloved friend was truly protected.

All the gods joined in this game—all except Loki, who watched from the shadows with growing jealousy and resentment. The trickster god had always been tolerated rather than loved, and Balder’s immunity to harm only highlighted the difference between the light god and himself.

“They play like children,” Loki muttered to himself, his green eyes narrowing with malice. “So certain in their protection, so confident in their love.”

Loki’s jealousy festered like a poison in his heart. He could not bear to see the joy on the gods’ faces as they celebrated Balder’s invulnerability, could not endure the laughter and camaraderie that excluded him.

Disguising himself as an old woman, Loki approached Frigg as she sat spinning in her hall, her face bright with contentment.

“Good lady,” Loki said in a creaky voice, “I have heard tales of your son’s miraculous protection. Is it true that nothing in all creation can harm him?”

Frigg smiled proudly. “It is true, old mother. I have secured oaths from every living thing, every element, every force in the Nine Realms. Nothing will harm my beautiful boy.”

“Every living thing?” Loki pressed, his disguised voice filled with wonder. “Surely such a task was impossible. Did you truly speak to everything?”

“Well,” Frigg said, still beaming, “there was one small plant I passed by. Just a tiny thing growing on the western side of Valhalla—mistletoe, they call it. It seemed so young and harmless that I thought it hardly worth the asking.”

Loki’s heart leaped with wicked joy, though his disguised face showed only polite interest. “How wise you were, great lady. Such a small thing could never threaten one so mighty as Balder.”

As soon as he was out of Frigg’s sight, Loki shed his disguise and raced to the western wall of Valhalla. There, growing like a parasite on the mighty oak trees, he found the mistletoe—small, white-berried, and seemingly innocent.

With careful hands, Loki cut a branch of the mistletoe and began to shape it. His magic worked upon the plant, hardening it, sharpening it, turning the innocent growth into something deadly. When he was finished, he held not a soft sprig of mistletoe, but a dart as sharp and hard as any spear.

That evening, the gods gathered once again for their favorite game. Balder stood in the center of the hall, his golden face bright with laughter as weapons flew harmlessly around him.

Loki noticed Höðr, Balder’s blind brother, standing apart from the others, his face sad with longing.

“Why do you not join the game, Höðr?” Loki asked, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

“I cannot see to aim,” Höðr replied mournfully. “And I have no weapon worthy of my brother. I would give anything to honor Balder as the others do, but I can only stand here uselessly.”

“What loving devotion!” Loki exclaimed. “Here, let me help you. I have a dart that would be perfect, and I will guide your arm so you can participate in honoring your brother.”

Höðr’s face lit up with gratitude. “Would you truly help me? Oh, Balder will be so pleased to know that I too can join in the celebration!”

Loki placed the mistletoe dart in Höðr’s hand and guided his arm, aiming carefully at Balder’s heart. “Now throw,” he whispered.

Höðr hurled the dart with all his strength, and Loki’s magic guided it true. The mistletoe pierced Balder’s chest, and the Beautiful God cried out once before falling to the ground, his golden light fading like a dying star.

The hall fell silent. For a moment, none of the gods could believe what they had seen. Then Frigg’s scream of anguish shattered the air, and the gods rushed to Balder’s side.

But it was too late. The light was gone from Balder’s eyes, the warmth fled from his body, and with his death, shadows seemed to creep into every corner of Asgard.

Höðr stood in confusion, not understanding what had happened until Frigg’s sobs told him the terrible truth. “What have I done?” he whispered, dropping to his knees beside his brother’s body. “What have I done?”

Loki had already slipped away in the chaos, but his triumph felt hollow. He had achieved his revenge, but the sight of Balder’s lifeless form and the grief of the gods filled him with an emotion he did not expect—regret.

Frigg, wild with grief, demanded that someone journey to Hel, the realm of the dead, to bargain for Balder’s return. Hermóðr, another of Odin’s sons, volunteered for this perilous mission. He rode Odin’s eight-legged horse Sleipnir for nine days and nights through dark valleys and across the bridge that spans the river of the dead.

In Helheim, Hermóðr found Balder sitting in the place of honor in Hel’s hall, but the goddess of the dead had placed him there only out of respect for his nature.

“Great Hel,” Hermóðr pleaded, “all the worlds mourn for Balder. Please allow him to return to the living. His death has brought such sorrow that even the stones weep.”

Hel, half-living and half-corpse, considered his request with eyes like chips of ice. “I will release Balder,” she said finally, “but only if every living thing in all the Nine Realms weeps for him. If even one creature refuses to shed tears for the Beautiful God, he must remain here forever.”

Hermóðr raced back to Asgard with this news, and immediately messengers were sent throughout all the realms. And indeed, everything wept for Balder—the gods and giants, men and animals, trees and stones, metals and earth itself. Even the very air seemed to shed tears like rain.

But in a dark cave, the messengers found an old giantess named Þökk, who refused to weep.

“Let Hel keep what is hers,” the giantess snarled. “Balder never brought me joy in life; why should I weep for him in death?”

The messengers pleaded and bargained, but Þökk would not be moved. And so Balder was forced to remain in Helheim, lost to the living world.

Later, the gods discovered the truth—that Þökk had been Loki in disguise, ensuring that his crime could never be undone. Their rage was terrible to behold, and they bound the trickster god beneath the earth, where the venom of serpents would torment him until Ragnarök.

But the damage was done. Balder’s death marked the beginning of the end for the gods. The light had gone out of Asgard, and though the sun still rose and set, there was less warmth in its rays, less joy in its light.

The gods would never again gather for games and laughter as they once had. The shadow of Balder’s death hung over them all, a constant reminder that even the most beloved could be lost, that even the most protected could fall.

And in the realm of the dead, Balder waited with patient sadness, knowing that he would not return to the living world until after Ragnarök, when the old world had ended and a new one had begun. His death had been the first step toward that ending, a tragedy that would echo through all the remaining days of the gods.