Where Hell First Spoke

Prequel to Hell Spoke

Raindrops kept relentlessly falling on his head. The wounded boy sat in silence, hidden behind a garbage bin, weeping and muttering to himself, his face bruised and swollen.

“Why… just why?” he kept asking himself as tears dropped from his face.

The downpour made him bear so many emotions�"humiliation, anger, grief, and sadness.

His clothes clung to his body. The smell of garbage was even worse. He knew he had nowhere else to dwell, for he understood that anywhere else would subject him to the same torment from his hall-mates.

After wailing for an hour, drowning in self-pity, he mustered what little strength and dignity he had left and pushed himself up, taking a long, deep breath before convincing himself, I’m fine.

He wiped his tears with his wet sleeves, then cautiously scanned the area for any of his peers. He had no intention of being spotted by them once more.

The rain fell hard, thunder cracking across the sky and making him flinch. Though he had another lesson beginning in a few minutes, he had no intent of seeing it through. He decided it was time to head home�"to sink and recover.

“What is your name, young man?”
A deep, imperious voice came from the wounded boy’s right.

Startled, he turned toward the man. “Huh?”

A hooded black trench coat concealed most of the stranger’s face, barely revealing his forehead while exposing a long, greying beard.

“I said, what is your name, young one?”

The boy hesitated, then responded in a quiet, innocent tone. “Agnar.”

“You look lost, Master Agnar. Are you having a terrible morning?” the hooded man asked.

“A little bit.”

“I go by the name Griphook.” He extended his hand. Agnar nodded and met it.
“That’s an odd name for an old man,” Agnar snickered.

“Where are you headed?” Griphook asked.

“Home, I guess.”

Griphook reached into his pocket. “Here�"take this with you.”
It was a sandwich wrapped in leaves. “It may not be warm anymore, but it’s grounded ox with vegetables.”

Agnar accepted the leaf-wrapped meal without a word, smiling instead.

“You should eat more,” Griphook said quietly, almost to himself. “You look scrawny.”

An awkward silence settled between them as the rain continued pouring. Agnar tucked the food beneath his clothes to keep it dry.

“Well, I should be going now. Watch yourself, Master Agnar. Times are horrid.”
Griphook walked away. The boy remained frozen for a moment�"flustered, yet lightened by the unexpected kindness.

As Griphook departed, he glanced back once more and winked before disappearing into the rain.

Agnar raised a brow at the strange encounter. He looked back toward the hall, contemplated returning, then concluded he shouldn’t. He turned onto the road leading to his homestead, his heart weighed down with devastation.

Though slightly brightened, shame still drenched him.

His boots now muddy. The walk felt more tiresome than usual. Mental fatigue and bruises made every step vexing.

He observed the neighborhood and surrounding nature to distract himself.

Nothing had changed. The kingdom still suffered under famine and imperial occupation. Villagers worked tirelessly to feed their families. Dead cattle littered the streets, and a chariot struggled in the mud while farmers attempted to free it.

Observing the environment only worsened his mood.

After several miles, the rain had finally tapered off. The sight of his home was devastating. Rotting wood made the structure appear ancient. Two generations had lived there, yet little effort had been made to maintain it�"unsurprising under years of imperial rule.

Agnar stepped inside. Crooked, scratched walls and the scent of stew filled the room.

“Is that you, Deneun?” his mother’s voice echoed.

“It’s me, Mother,” Agnar replied shakily. He knew returning home early was a death sentence.

“What in incarnation, Agnar?!” she stormed toward him. “Why are you home early?!”

“I… had to,” he slouched.

“Deneun! Come here�"now!” she commanded.

The ground trembled. It always felt this way. His father’s wrath was uncontrollable.

His father approached, belly seemingly twice its former size, eyes blazing like his mother’s.

“what in the hell are you doing here?!” Each step made the floor creak beneath his weight.

“They… beat me up,” Agnar said, fear evident in his voice. “I wanted to come home.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Deneun slapped him with ferocity.

Agnar stumbled to the ground, tears spilling anew. “I had to�"I was scared!” he pleaded hysterically.

“I didn’t raise a boy-w***e for a son!” Deneun raged, climbing atop him and clamping both hands around his throat. “You will go back and continue your training! You’re the only hope we have of escaping this s**t-stained neighborhood!”

Agnar tries desperately to free himself from his father’s grasp.
“I’m sorr�"” Agnar strives to beg for his father’s forgiveness, but the large arms pressed against his throat make it difficult to do so. Looking for a way out, he takes a quick glance at his mother. He sees satisfaction in her eyes, her arms crossed and a grin on her face, which slightly enrages him.
“Sto�"” Agnar attempts to grovel to his father yet again.

In a split second, thousands of emotions run through his head, but there is one thing he knows for certain: his sorrow and agony slowly, draggingly morph into undying fury.

With tears still dripping from his eyes, his frowning face begins to transform. His eyebrows clench, his teeth grit, his instinct for strength unleashed.

With newfound rage, he uses his fingernails to scratch and gouge Deneun’s eyes�"hurting him, but finally freeing himself from the chokehold.

“You f**k! You little f**k!”
Deneun quickly stands, separating himself from Agnar. He stumbles on his way up and accidentally hits a corner table, dropping a vase next to Agnar, who is still lying flat on the floor.

Deneun begins checking his eyes for scratches with his hands.
“You’re in big f*****g trouble right now, dog!”
He stares at Agnar, small scratches visible around his eyes.

The act bewilders Agnar’s mother, her eyes gaping in horror.

Now on his feet, Agnar coughs from the damage his father inflicted, but looks back at him not with cowardice�"only anger, the same anger Deneun had shown him.

The wounded boy spits the trapped saliva from his mouth before picking up the fallen vase beside him.

Full of rage, he pitches the vase at his father’s face, damaging him for the second time that day.
“Ow, f**k!” Deneun roars.

He falls to the ground along with the vase that shatters into shards with force, hunched over as the whole house shakes and plates tumble from the cabinets.

Agnar storms out of the house, leaving the front door wide open.
“F****r broke my mother’s vase!” he hears his father yell as he disappears from his broken home.

He runs as fast as he can, glancing back once to ensure his parents are not chasing him. Instead, he sees his mother comforting Deneun while he lies on the floor.

Without hesitation, Agnar rushes into the woods�"the only place where nothing can harm him.

Hours pass.

Agnar decides to spend the day in the woods, alone with himself�"lying flat on the grass, gazing at the stars. He spends hours fidgeting by the river, wandering aimlessly, examining oddly shaped rocks, and attempting to climb trees despite lacking the strength to do so.

Lying on the grass, he thinks, Why did this happen to me? Why am I like this? Why was I born here?
So many questions�"none answered, no matter how deeply he thinks.

At only fourteen years old, he feels as though nothing truly matters. Though his parents claim he is the key to escaping the kingdom, he never meets their expectations. He feels trapped in a cycle of torment�"harassed by hall-mates, punished by parents.

“I am hopeless,” he mutters.

He smiles falsely, believing this is his fate for the rest of his life.

He takes a bite of the ox sandwich he had forgotten he was carrying.

“Young Agnar!” a voice calls from below, startling him.

Agnar looks down. The night makes it difficult to see, but the dim light of the stars and moon soon reveal the figure.

“Griphook?” Agnar asks, shocked that the old man somehow tracked him down.

“Yes, young Agnar, it is I,” Griphook greets with a soft smile, waving.

Too exhausted to move, Agnar remains in the grass as Griphook approaches.

Griphook pats his shoulder and scoots beside him.
“From afar, I can tell your day hasn’t gotten any better, has it?” he says sympathetically.

“You could say that,” Agnar replies monotonously, taking another bite of the sandwich.

“I understand, young one. My father treated me harshly as well. He held high expectations while others treated me maliciously. In the end, I could only rely on myself. It was arduous, but I became iron-willed�"and I did.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Agnar says, relating instantly.

“What do they tell you about the heavens, young one?” Griphook asks curiously.

“The heavens? My parents never shut up about it. They say it’s where good people go�"them included.”

“And how is that working out for them? Not too well, I suppose,” Griphook says mockingly.

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t even believe in it,” Agnar replies with conviction, glancing at Griphook and noticing his slight satisfaction.

“You should,” Griphook whispers. “You should believe in it.”

Strange silence between the two occurred, leaving them dead silent. They could both feel the distinct humidity crawling on their skins. The sound of leaves and crickets surrounded the forest.

The boy feels the strange tension and awkwardness of the situation and thinks of a way to defuse the dead air.

“How did you do it? How find your own strength and will?”
Agnar asked, looking at Griphook with puppy eyes.

Griphook grinned to himself before appearing to reach into his pocket yet again.

“Oh no, I don’t want another sandwich; I’m quite full already,”
Agnar tapped on his stomach to reveal that he was already stuffed.

Griphook chuckled. “This is no sandwich, young one.” He reveals what he took from his pocket.

It appears to be a diamond formed out of witchcraft.
“So you found purpose in being a jewelry merchant?” Agnar questioned.

Griphook slowly turns his head directly at Agnar.

“No, son.” His voice shifts to a demonic tone, deeper and now more intimidating, which causes Agnar to catch a wind beneath his sore throat.

“Power,” Griphook thunderously spoke, the single word rolling like molten stone across the clearing.

The wind suddenly blew with haste as the ground began to shake slightly. The tree he once climbed began to ignite. The area lit up, revealing Griphook’s pupils that had now turned white.

Desperate, Agnar pressed himself to the earth, crawling backward. His belly dragged across the dirt, his back low and vulnerable�"every inch a fight against the fear that gripped him.

Despite his attempt to flee, Griphook’s eyes were locked directly on the frightened boy with predatory intensity, whilst he still remained calmly seated on the grass.

“You’ve heard of the heavens,” roared the old man. “Now have you heard of hell, young one?”

Griphook levitates from the earth, revealing the hidden power and sorcery he had kept from Agnar.

Widened eyes and consumed by fear, Agnar picks up a jagged stone from the soil and raises it in defense.
“What do you want from me?!” he demanded, his body betraying him as it trembled in fear.

Griphook howled a mighty roar before slowly shifting and morphing into a different being.

His skin began to peel. His trench coat burst into flames, ashes scattering throughout. Corruption crept across his weary face.

Horns emerged as fire ignited across his skin. His eyes shone bright as the sun itself.

The forest Agnar once saw as his safe space was now orange and red, the color reflecting in his eyes.

Griphook increased to ten feet in height. A face so horrific, with sharpened teeth and horns, his skin turning dark brown. The old man was no more; he was now a monster from God knows where.

Griphook lands on the ground, causing the entire area to vibrate.

The monster stares at the quivering boy menacingly.
“You are a failure, Master Agnar. You are hopeless,” Griphook growled.

Only then does Agnar notice the diamond Griphook had shown earlier, now pierced in the middle of his chest.

Shaken, Agnar throws the rock at Griphook’s face the same way he did at his father.
“Stay away from me! Don’t kill me!” the boy begged.

Griphook scoffs at the boy’s remark and poor effort to defend himself.
“Not kill you? When you are the one who reeks of your own hopelessness?”

“Are you from hell?” Agnar breathed, riddled with panic and confusion.

“From? Boy, I am hell,” Griphook growled in a dragged, thunderous voice.

“I have a proposal for you, young one.” The monster crosses his arms, dimming down the flames igniting his skin, expressing a neutral state.

The fear in Agnar tones down, believing he had no choice but to hear the offer anyway.
“What do you want?”

“You are hopeless. I have seen your dreams, your fears, your deepest desires corrupted and shattered before your eyes.”
Griphook cackles.
“Pathetic, worthless peasants like you were meant to kneel.”

Enraged by his speech, “You fu�"” Agnar, filled with hatred of himself, attempts to retaliate but is quickly shut down by Griphook simply clenching his fist.

Drained of hope, broken and defeated, Agnar mutters to himself.
“Then just kill me then, would you? You’re right about everything about me.”
He kneels to the ground, shutting his eyes, preparing for the final seconds of his life.

Weeping for the third time that day, he reflects on how much of a failure he truly is, breathing hysterically while bracing to be ended.

He hears Griphook slowly marching toward him, each step making him breath faster and sob harder. He feels his presence loom in front of him. He knows this is it; he knows it is over.

But instead…

Warmth…

Agnar looks upward and realizes that Griphook had only placed his beastly hands on his shoulder.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way, young one,” Griphook says endearingly.

“I see so much potential in you. I see your hatred, I see the disgust, I see how you question these mortals’ existence when it should be you who rules over them,” Griphook says in a convincing manner, spoken in pure anger.
“Isn’t that right, Master Agnar?” Griphook empathizes.

Agnar wipes the tears from his face and nods.
“I… I do.” He sniffs the snot from his nose. “I deserve better.”

“My son, I will make you a warrior among men, and together we will scour this world of evil. Hell spoke to you, and now you are reborn.”

Hearing those words ignites something beneath Agnar, like something had been missing from him this entire time. He feels passion; he senses energy. His pity for himself is overtaken by hate�"hatred for his hall-mates, hatred for his parents, hatred for the empire, and hatred for himself.

he rose from the ground with gripped fists and gritted teeth, now given purpose and conviction through his obedience to the King of Hell.

Griphook raises his hand, and the world recoils. The air screams as it splits open, fire licking the edges of a widening tear. Beyond it lies a realm choked in ash and flame.

“Now, rise!”

Reviews

[RKB]

I'm reading Witchcraft for Wayward Girls by Grady Hendrix, and this story (brilliant btw) reminds me of a quote from there, "[they blame you when the devil is your only friend." This was fun to read. Thanks for sharing.