The tale begins in the golden halls of Asgard, where a shadow of dread had fallen upon the most beloved of all the Æsir. Baldr the Good, son of Odin and Frigg, began to suffer from dark, prophetic dreams that foretold his own demise. His mother, the queen of the gods, could not bear the thought of losing her radiant son, whose presence brought light and peace to all the realms. To thwart destiny, Frigg traversed the nine worlds, extracting a sacred oath from every entity—fire and water, iron and all metals, stones, earth, trees, sicknesses, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things—that they would never harm her son. Secure in these promises, the gods began a new pastime: they would throw spears, stones, and heavy axes at Baldr, laughing as every weapon veered away or bounced harmlessly off his skin. Baldr stood amidst the hail of steel and rock, smiling and unscathed, a living testament to his mother’s devotion.
However, one heart did not rejoice in this display of divine invulnerability. Loki, the son of Laufey and the master of discord, felt a bitter jealousy gnawing at his spirit. He could not stand the perfection of Baldr or the adoration the other gods heaped upon him. Disguising himself as an old woman, Loki visited Frigg in her hall, Fensalir. With a silver tongue, he coaxed the queen into revealing the one weakness in her plan. Frigg admitted that she had found a tiny sprout of mistletoe growing west of Valhalla, which she had deemed too young and insignificant to demand an oath from. Loki’s eyes gleamed with malice as he departed. He located the mistletoe, fashioned it into a slender dart, and returned to the assembly of the gods. There he found Höðr, Baldr’s blind brother, standing apart from the games. Loki placed the mistletoe in Höðr’s hand and guided his aim, claiming that he too should honor his brother by joining the sport. The dart flew true, piercing Baldr’s chest, and the god of light fell dead upon the grass. The silence that followed was heavier than any mountain; the joy of the gods died with him.
The grief of the Æsir was so profound that they could hardly speak. Frigg, refusing to accept the permanence of death, asked for a volunteer to ride to the realm of Hel and offer the queen of the dead a ransom for Baldr’s soul. Hermóðr the Nimble, another son of Odin, stepped forward. He mounted Sleipnir, the eight-legged stallion, and rode for nine nights through valleys so deep and dark that he saw nothing until he reached the river Gjöll. He crossed the gold-plated bridge, Gjallarbrú, guarded by the maiden Móðguðr, and finally reached the gates of Hel. Inside the hall of the dead, Hermóðr found Baldr sitting in a seat of honor, but his face was pale and his spirit heavy. Hermóðr pleaded with the goddess Hel, the ruler of the underworld, describing the universal sorrow of the living. Hel, whose face was half-living and half-dead, struck a hard bargain. She would allow Baldr to return to Asgard if, and only if, every single thing in the cosmos—living or dead—would weep for him. If even one thing refused or spoke against him, he would remain in her cold embrace until the end of time.
Hermóðr returned to Asgard with the news, and the gods immediately sent messengers throughout the world. It was a weeping like no other. The Aesir and Vanir wept; the humans of Midgard wept; the giants of Jotunheim and the dwarves of Nidavellir wept. But it was not just sentient beings who mourned. The very stones of the earth grew damp with moisture as if they were crying. The trees shed sap like tears, and the metals of the mountains rusted with sorrow. Even the coldest glaciers of the north began to melt in a collective display of grief. The messengers traveled to the furthest corners of existence, and everywhere they went, they found only love for Baldr and a willingness to bring him back from the grave. It seemed as though the light of the world was about to be restored, as every rock, leaf, and animal joined the chorus of lamentation.
At the very end of their quest, the messengers came upon a dark, damp cave in the rugged mountains of Jotunheimen. Inside, they found an old giantess sitting in the gloom. Her name was Thökk, and she looked upon the messengers with cold, narrow eyes. When they explained their mission and asked her to join the rest of creation in weeping for Baldr, she gave a harsh, rasping laugh. She refused to shed a single tear, reciting a verse that chilled the hearts of the messengers: 'Thökk will weep dry tears at Baldr’s burial; neither alive nor dead did I enjoy the son of the king; let Hel hold what she has!' With those words, the condition was broken. The messengers pleaded with her, explaining that the entire universe was in mourning, but the giantess remained unmoved and dry-eyed. Because of this one refusal, the gates of Hel remained shut, and the decree was finalized: Baldr would stay in the underworld.