The Story of the God Hermod

The hall of Gladsheim had never known such sorrow. Where once laughter echoed from the golden rafters and the sound of joyful feasting filled the air, now silence hung heavy as morning mist over a battlefield. Baldr the Bright, most beloved of all the gods, lay dead by blind Hodr’s unknowing hand, guided by Loki’s cruel trick.

Frigg wept tears that seemed to hold all the grief of mothers since the world began. Odin sat silent on his high throne, his ravens Huginn and Muninn perched motionless on his shoulders, their usual whispered news forgotten in the face of this greatest loss.

“Who among us would dare such a journey?” Odin’s voice was like winter wind through empty halls. “Who would ride the road to Hel’s realm and plead for our beloved Baldr’s return?”

The assembled gods shifted uneasily. The path to Helheim was perilous beyond measure—nine days through valleys so dark that even shadows seemed bright, across bridges that spanned chasms filled with the moans of the unquiet dead.

Then Hermod stepped forward, young and fair, his eyes bright with determination. He was called Hermod the Bold, and well he earned that name, for he feared neither frost-giant nor fire-demon when duty called.

“Father,” he said, for Hermod too was Odin’s son, “give me Sleipnir, your eight-legged steed. I will ride to the realm of the dead. I will speak with Hel herself and beg for Baldr’s life.”

Odin’s one eye studied his son’s face, seeing there the same courage that had driven him to hang on Yggdrasil for wisdom, the same love that had made him trade his eye for a drink from Mimir’s well.

“The way is dark, my son, and Hel does not easily give back what death has claimed.”

“Then I must speak more persuasively than death itself,” Hermod replied.

Sleipnir was brought forth, his coat gray as storm clouds, his eight legs stamping impatiently as if he understood the urgency of the mission. No other horse in all the Nine Realms could make such a journey—only Sleipnir could gallop through air and over water, could leap chasms that would swallow mountains.

“Ride swift and true,” said Frigg, pressing a small golden ring into Hermod’s hand. “Give this to our son, that he might know how deeply we love him still.”

Hermod mounted Sleipnir and felt the great horse’s power coiled beneath him like contained lightning. “I will bring him home,” he promised, and spurred Sleipnir forward.

Through the realm of mists they rode, past the roots of Yggdrasil where no sun shines and no bird sings. The way grew darker with each league, and strange sounds echoed from unseen depths—wails and whispers, the scratch of bone on stone, the drip of water that might have been tears.

For nine days and nine nights they rode without stopping, Sleipnir’s hooves striking sparks from stones worn smooth by the passage of countless dead. They crossed the bridge called Gjallarbru, where the maiden Modgud keeps watch.

“Who rides so boldly toward death’s domain?” she called, her voice like wind through dry leaves. “Your horse’s hoofbeats thunder louder than five hundred dead men could make. Your face shines with life-light, not the gray pallor of those who come to stay.”

“I am Hermod, son of Odin, brother to Baldr the Bright. I seek audience with Hel to plead for my brother’s return.”

Modgud stepped aside, shaking her head sadly. “Many have made such journeys, young god. Few return with their hearts’ desire. But pass, and may your words prove more powerful than fate itself.”

At last they reached the gates of Helheim, vast and black, topped with spikes that gleamed like icicles in the pale light of that realm. The walls were so high they seemed to scrape the belly of the sky, and so thick they might have been built from the bones of giants.

Sleipnir gathered himself and leaped—such a leap as had never been seen! Over the towering gates he soared, landing light as a feather in the courtyard beyond.

There stood Hel’s hall, Éljúdnir, half in shadow and half in sickly light. Its threshold was called Stumbling Block, its doorway was Precipice, its bed was called Sick-bed, and its hangings were Glimmering Misfortune.

Within, upon a throne that seemed carved from a single enormous bone, sat Hel herself. Half her face was fair as a young maiden’s, but the other half was corpse-blue and grinning with death. Her eyes—one bright, one dark—fixed upon Hermod as he entered.

“So,” she said, her voice echoing strangely, as if spoken from the bottom of a deep well, “Odin’s son comes calling. What brings the living to the realm of the dead?”

“Great Hel,” Hermod said, bowing low but keeping his eyes on hers, “I come to plead for my brother Baldr. All the world mourns his passing. Even the stones weep, and the very flowers hang their heads in sorrow. Surely one so young and good was taken before his time.”

Hel’s laugh was like the sound of ice cracking on a frozen lake. “Before his time? Time is a river, young god, and I am its mouth. All streams flow to me eventually.”

“But Baldr—” Hermod began.

“Sits at my table,” Hel interrupted, gesturing to a place of honor where Baldr sat, pale but still beautiful, crowned with a circlet of silver flowers. “He is well-treated here, fear not.”

Hermod’s heart lifted to see his brother whole and unhurt, though the joy was tempered by the sadness in Baldr’s eyes.

“Yet he does not belong here,” Hermod pressed. “His light should shine in Asgard, not be hidden in these shadows.”

Hel leaned forward on her throne, considering. “You speak of justice, of what should be. Very well. I will make you an offer, brave messenger. If everything in the world—living and dead, animal and plant, stone and metal—will weep for Baldr’s return, then I will release him. But if even one thing refuses to shed tears, then he remains with me.”

It seemed an easy task. Who would not weep for beloved Baldr?

“I accept your terms,” Hermod said quickly.

“Then go,” said Hel with a wave of her hand. “Send your messengers to every corner of creation. But remember—everything must weep. Even one dry eye will keep your brother here.”

Hermod approached Baldr and embraced him, feeling how cold his brother had become in that realm of shadows.

“Take this back to Father,” Baldr said, removing the ring Draupnir from his finger—the golden ring that Odin had placed with him on his funeral pyre. “And tell our mother that I am not in pain here. But oh, how I long to see the sun again.”

With heavy heart but new hope, Hermod mounted Sleipnir once more and rode hard for Asgard. There he told of Hel’s bargain, and immediately messengers were sent to every corner of the Nine Realms.

And indeed, all things wept for Baldr’s return. Men and women shed tears, children cried, even hardened warriors found their eyes wet. Animals mourned—horses whinnied sadly, dogs howled, cats mewed piteously. Plants drooped and let fall their dew like tears. Even stones and metals grew damp with weeping.

But in a cave sat a giantess called Thökk, and when the messengers came to her, she said with cruel mockery: “Let Hel keep what she has. Baldr brought me no joy in life, and I will shed no tears for him in death.”

Some say this giantess was Loki in disguise, working one final piece of mischief. Regardless, one had refused to weep, and Hel’s bargain was broken.

Baldr remained in Helheim, and though Hermod had failed in his quest, none could say he had not tried with all his courage and love. His journey became legend—proof that even gods would risk everything for those they love, and that sometimes the greatest heroism lies not in victory, but in the willingness to dare impossible odds for hope alone.

And so Hermod the Bold is remembered: the brother who would not let death be the end of the story, who rode further than any messenger before or since, carrying love into the very heart of darkness.