The halls of Asgard, once vibrant with the laughter of the Aesir and the clashing of training blades, fell into a profound and suffocating silence following the death of Balder the Good. Balder, the most beloved of all gods, had been slain by a sprig of mistletoe, guided by the hand of the blind god Hodr through the wicked machinations of Loki. The sun seemed to lose its luster, and a shadow stretched across the World Tree, Yggdrasil. In their grief, the gods gathered to honor Balder with a funeral befitting the brightest of their kin. His great ship, Hringhorni, was prepared as a funeral pyre. As the flames took hold and the ship was pushed into the sea, Odin, the All-Father, stepped forward. In a gesture of immense sorrow and fatherly love, he took from his arm the golden ring Draupnir and placed it upon the breast of his dead son. Draupnir, the 'Dripper,' was no ordinary trinket; it was a masterwork of the dvergar, or dwarfs, forged by the brothers Brokkr and Sindri. It possessed the magical quality that every ninth night, eight other gold rings of equal weight would drop from it, symbolizing the overflowing fertility and wealth of the natural world and the divine right of Odin’s kingship.
Yet, even as the smoke of the pyre rose into the cold northern sky, hope was not entirely extinguished. Frigg, Balder’s mother and the queen of the Aesir, called out to the assembled gods, asking who among them was brave enough to ride the road to Hel—the realm of the dead—to offer Hel a ransom for Balder’s soul. It was Hermod the Bold, a son of Odin known for his swiftness and courage, who stepped forward. To aid him in this impossible task, Odin lent Hermod his own mount, Sleipnir, the peerless eight-legged stallion capable of galloping over land, sea, and through the very air. Hermod mounted the great beast and vanished into the thickening gloom of the north. For nine nights and nine days, Hermod rode through valleys so deep and dark that he could see nothing before him. He traveled the path that few living things had ever trod, descending toward the frozen, misty regions of Niflhel. The air grew thin and biting, and the silence was broken only by the rhythmic thud of Sleipnir’s eight hooves hitting the rocky earth. Finally, he reached the banks of the river Gjöll, the boundary between the living and the dead. The river roared with the fury of a thousand mountain cataracts, much like the thundering Dettifoss in the northern wilds of Midgard, where the spray creates a perpetual mist that hides the path forward.
Across the river stretched the Gjallarbrú, the golden-roofed bridge that echoed with the footsteps of the departed. Guarding the bridge was the maiden Móðguðr. As Hermod approached, the bridge rang out under Sleipnir’s weight as if a whole host of men were crossing. Móðguðr stopped him, noting that the color of life still bloomed in his cheeks, unlike the pale shades who usually crossed her path. She told him that five companies of dead men had crossed the day before, yet he alone made the bridge tremble more than all of them together. When Hermod explained his mission—to find Balder—the guardian pointed the way downward and northward, toward the heavy gates of Hel’s fortress. Hermod spurred Sleipnir onward until he stood before the towering gates of Hel. Seeing the gates closed and barred against the living, Hermod dismounted, tightened his girth, and remounted. With a touch of his heels, he commanded the horse to leap. Sleipnir, in a feat of divine strength, vaulted high over the fortification, landing safely on the other side. Hermod then rode into the great hall of Eljudnir, where the table was laid and the benches were filled with the spirits of those who had died of age or sickness.