From the ancient reaches of Asia tread the whale-road in the dragon-prowed ships north to the snowy lands beneath the Aurora Borealis. Take a seat in the warm banquet halls of the children of Odin, and quaff a bowl of golden mead as you hearken to a chill winter’s tale sung by a gifted skald:

Beneath the third root of Yggdrasil the Cosmic Ash Tree, where the great serpent Nidhogg nibbles both the ash’s roots and dead men’s flesh, lies deep, dark, cold Niflheim, realm of mist and shadows, the abode of those unlucky enough not to have died in battle or at sea.

Nine pitch-black nights as the crow flies across its trackless wastes, upon Nastrond, the ghastly Shore of Corpses, flows the Gjoll or Wailing River where sharp, glinting knives tumble dangerously in the freezing cold currents. Only the Gjoll Bridge, gleamingly thatched in pure gold, offers a safe way across past its sturdy maiden guard Modgudr – but under the slightest step of living foot, the entire span rings with the tramp of a thousand soldiers.

On the other side of the Gjoll the Hel-Way, road to the home of the inglorious dead, winds toward Drop to Destruction, a sheer cliff looming out of the mists over the darkling plain. A great castle squats behind a high wall atop the frowning rock, and in the wall is set a single, terrible gate. Chained by an inky cave nearby sits the monstrous dog Garmr, his neck and massive chest dripping with blood, to make sure only the dead pass through Nagrind the Corpse Gate and over the Pit of Stumbling into dread Eliudnir, Sleet-Cold Hall.

Inside, the snake-spine rafters drip acrid, acid poison onto the heads of the castle’s shadowy, spectral captives, who slog endlessly through the streams of smoking venom and reeking blood running over the gray floors. Those unlucky enough to succumb to disease, accident, murder, or plain old age reluctantly rub elbows with liars, perjurers, oath-breakers, adulterers, and murderers on an endless round of torment. No mead here but only goat’s urine for the thirsty; the dragon Nidhogg, however, finds plenty of blood to drink from the veins of the condemned.

What nightmarish being stirs from her bed Disease draped with Gleaming Anguish? In the eternal gloom her grim, fierce face can appear as fair as her father’s, that of trickster god Loki; others whisper ‘tis the visage of a hag, like her giantess mother Angrboda. At any rate, a pink-skinned, living woman from the waist up – but below, the mottled, greenish-blue-black, rotting thighs and legs of a cadaver appear.

Her male and female slaves Ganglati (“Idler”) and Ganglot (“Sloven”) respectively move so slowly they appear not to move at all, but they serve her with her plate Hunger and knife Famine. The mistress of Niflheim endures a routine no less numbing than her wretched subjects, as much a prisoner in this awful place as they. For she did not choose this lot, this terrible burden of ruling the inglorious dead.

When the Allfather Odin found out that giant-blooded Loki had begat such powerful beings as she and her two older brothers, he had them kidnapped from their mother’s home and cast far far away from his band of bright gods. They chained the Fenris Wolf deep below the earth; sank the snake Jormungandr in the blackness at the bottom of the sea; and exiled her, Hel the Hider, to live here amongst the chill, shadowy mists forever. She does not even have the luxury of turning away any who reach the Corpse Gate – but once she did have revenge, of sorts, on the shining souls in Asgard.

Beautiful boy-god Baldr had recurring dreams of an unutterable doom and to stave it off, his mother Frigg got every object on earth to promise not to hurt him. She grew so sure of his safety, however, that she invited every god to try to harm him to show off his invulnerability, not knowing that she had revealed to the disguised Loki that only the humble young mistletoe had not taken the oath – because Frigg never bothered to ask it.

Jealous Loki plucked a sprig of mistletoe, whittled it into a dart, and convincing blind god Hodr to let him put it in his hand and guide his toss, killed the handsome young deity of innocence where he stood laughing at the hitherto-unsuccessful attempts on his life. Pure and beloved as he was, Baldr had not died on the battlefield or on the storm-tossed seas but most treacherously assassinated; he now belonged to the pale half-corpse Queen of Niflheim.

Desperate, Frigg sent Baldr’s brother Hermodr to the world of darkness to beg for her favorite son’s release. On his father Odin’s eight-legged horse Sleipnir, the would-be rescuer rode through the icy fogs to the blade-bristling Gjoll, over Modgudr’s bridge, and down the Hel-Way to foreboding Eliudnir. Its mistress greeted him graciously and let him visit with Baldr, whom she treated as an honored guest rather than a disgraced captive, but she had no intention of letting him slip through her chill fingers that easily.

If the world of sunlight truly missed the beautiful youth that much, then everyone and everything both animate and inanimate would shed tears for their loss – and she would return him to the golden halls of Asgard.

Despite the fact that a similar condition had failed so spectacularly before, Baldr’s mother and the other aesir or gods reduced all of creation to weeping on his behalf – except for a mean, cave-dwelling giantess named Thokk, who adamantly refused to squeeze so much as a single drop from her glower. Convinced she was actually Loki masquerading once more, the aesir persecuted and finally punished him with extreme cruelty – but nothing could ever bring the god of joy and peace back again. Hel keeps her precious prisoner – for now.

Even her sinister siblings’ imprisonment will not last eternally, for the Wolf will one day burst his bonds and swallow the sun, and the Serpent will rise flinging the ocean over the land. On the tempestuous seas, the Queen of the Damned’s phantom ship Naglfar, built from the parings of dead men’s nails, will slip its moorings and sail on Asgard. The Corpse Gate will fly open, disgorging Sleet-Cold’s denizens for a final great battle against the heroes who died in combat and went to Valhalla in Asgard instead. Loki will escape his torture chamber and march against his tormentors as the fire giant Surtr.

Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods, will end this world in darkness, and blood, and devouring fire – only to give way to the fresh, new world that will arise from the destruction. For Eliudnir will finally release Baldr the Beautiful, but to rule over this green earth of peace and plenty.

In the meantime, Niflheim waits, and continues to welcome as many, if not more, dead than Valhalla and the ocean.

Cold in your bones? Then warm them with more honeyed mead - and drink to a glorious death in battle or at sea!

Sources: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hel_(being)
http://www.pantheon.org/articles/h/hel.html
http://www.deliriumsrealm.com/delirium/articleview.asp?Post=147
http://www.britannica.com/eb/article-9039864/Hel
http://goddessofthe8thhouse.com/dar_hel5.htm
http://www.northvegr.org/lore/pdf/prose_brodeur.pdf, specifically the “Gylfaginning”