“No one has ever said anything valuable to someone grieving, and yet they keep trying.”
—Thodan Ironhammer, Memoirs
By the next day, word had travelled. Odin had sent Hermod, one of his many obscure sons, to Helheim. He’d been given Sleipnir and told to ride as fast and as hard as he could. Bring Baldur home at any cost.
I didn’t hold out much hope for that.
A funeral was held for Baldur, to burn his body. He would have a new body in Helheim, and this one would only rot. I watched alone from the trees on the edge of Asgard’s harbour as the procession brought Baldur’s body along. People from all over the realms had gathered to watch, lined in the streets all through the city. The procession laid him down in the ship that he had owned and put everything he’d need for the afterlife inside in case things didn’t go to plan. Gold, jewels, food, wine. They’d even killed his horse. And when his wife saw him lying dead in that boat, she collapsed. Dead. She was laid out next to him, and the whole thing was set alight, a fire as bright and bold as befitting of a God of Light, and pushed out to sea.
No one spoke of Hod.
◦ ● ◦
We did what Hreidulfr suggested. We laid low. For a month, we kept out of sight and out of trouble. We waited for news of Hermod, because with it might come news of Hel, and an idea of what would come next.
We bided our time.