Chapter Text
The Temple of War is hidden in the mountainside, its massive structure built from the natural rock and smoothed into an architectural wonder. The monolith gazes out into the endless horizon, its doors open to any brave soul who dares to traverse the mountain.
Its ancient walls, which have born witness to the rise and fall of empires, show no sign of wear. Its interior shines with bronze and gold in every corner. Tapestries detailing battles won decorate the massive entrance hall. Statues of its god pay remembrance to history. Shields, either delicately engraved with imagery or dented in the heat of war, line the free spaces as personal mementos. Pelts of carnivores from the far reaches of the world coat the stone floor as rugs or decorate doorways as trophies. The splendor, the wealth that is inherent to a successful conqueror, seeps from every inch in its breathtaking display.
There is no peace in this temple, however. The war god's domain has never known the word.
“What do you mean you can't find him!?”
The frantic steps of the temple's inhabitants increase. Agitated young men in training leathers and dutiful maids running with their sheer dresses pulled up to their knees hurry quickly, searching for the one thing that will alleviate the anger currently setting fire to the throne room. This is a common occurrence within the temple walls but common does not dull the tension wired into every soul who hears the fury of their god.
A bowl of fruit hits the wall with enough force to dent its shape and the poor messenger that had to tell Enji his favored Son still hasn't been found scuttles away, heart in his throat.
Among the chaos, one body moves without hurry. The small shape of one of the errand boys weaves between legs, avoiding impact with practiced ease. His simple red tunic blends in with the walls. No one pays him any mind. They never have.
Katsuki walks through the throne room, picking up a fallen apple as he goes, and Enji's eyes never once fall upon him. The god continues to shout that he demands his Son be brought to him. Katsuki is but a child, one who has not yet earned the right to hold a weapon, and so he means nothing. Just as desired.
Maids shuffle past calling for the missing child, warriors running every which way, and Katsuki knows exactly where to find their treasure but knows none of them will think to ask.
The temple is large and every inch of it glitters with the spoils of war. Katsuki knows it like the back of his hand. He turns at the courtyard, passing the training fields where he and the other young children are taught to wrestle and fight, and takes the path to the pillars that mark the entrance to the most sacred place within the mountain. The warriors are forbidden here but he has free reign.
The Brides pay him little mind as he enters their space. Their hoods are pulled back to expose their tired faces, glittering jewelry reflecting from the afternoon sun pouring in. Some have curled up on the lavish cushions of their quarters and Katsuki sees them tense when the echoes of shouts reach their ears. The golden earrings that mark their status seem all too bright in moments like this.
One Bride, belly swollen with a new Child that's due any day now, leans against another and visibly tries to keep her eyes shut as her hair is stroked. A Daughter that can't be older than five clings to her dress and tries not to cry. Katsuki doesn't stare, doesn't give them a reason to take notice of one of the dozens of errand boys that do their bidding daily, but he does swipe a bowl of sweet berries from one of the low tables. It won't be missed from the dozens of other plates of savory foodstuffs that are brought to them every mealtime.
He goes deeper, passing the sleeping areas and the rooms for the Sons and Daughters, passing the private baths, passing the quarters set aside for the favored and going down the steps that lead to the private garden—he keeps going until he reaches a certain bust that mostly goes ignored. Enji's grim face doesn't move on the marble as Katsuki roughly shoves its podium aside, revealing the gap within the stone big enough for his small body to fit through.
It's a small crawl that takes him to the hiding place, and one he's done many times. The light of the sun above is covered by the hanging vines from the garden, giving shade to the little negative space meant to funnel rainwater.
A boy as big as he is sits with his knees pulled to his chest, head buried in his crossed arms. Even in the shadows of the crawlspace his dark skin glitters with golden accessories and jewels. At the noise of Katsuki's entrance, he raises his head, turning until his mismatched eyes meet Katsuki's rubies.
In lieu of a greeting, Katsuki throws the apple at Shouto's head.
“You skipped lunch. You're gonna collapse later unless you eat, stupid.”
Shouto catches it easily. If he couldn't catch an apple thrown from so close, then he wouldn't be such a favored Son in the first place, a fact that is not lost on either of them.
“You shouldn't call a Son names. They'd whip your back raw,” Shouto says, before biting into the apple in a manner that can only politely be called ravenous.
Katsuki's lip curls and he sits down close enough to put the bowl between them. “Since when the fuck have I cared?”
The answer is never. It's why Shouto bothers to speak to him at all.
“Your old man is throwing a shitfit. You should probably go out there before he kills somebody.” Katsuki casually crosses his legs, cracking his ankles with a roll as he relaxes against the wall. All the way out here the noises of the temple don't seem to exist. One can almost forget the tension and rage seeping into the stones outside.
“I know,” Shouto says, mouth full of apple. “I don't want to.”
“I know,” Katsuki parrots back, lacking any venom. “What's he been doing this week anyway? The stick up his ass is deeper than ever.” He avoids saying names. They always do when they talk because this is his temple and he'll know when he's mentioned. Anyone with a brain knows better than to call his attention.
Shouto eats more of his apple, his chewing less manic than it was just a moment ago, and swallows before speaking.
“The war in the north ended. I think he's angry he only got to fight for little while. So he's spending more time training me to work it off.”
Of course. The northern border war was a stupid war, but it was a war that invoked the name of Endeavor. Spoiled kings fighting over land are smart enough to know if they present enough trophies, they'll get divine intervention. Katsuki remembers how happy the god was when he felt his name being called, how pleased he was as he donned his armor and led his warriors to their new battlefield. But since it was a stupid war, that meant it didn't take long to finish the whole thing. A few months to a god must be five minutes when one puts it into perspective.
“Pissant,” Katsuki grumbles. “What use is a stupid war god who throws tantrums when he does his job right?”
Shouto watches him, chewing intently, before wiping his mouth and reaching for the berries. “You know, for an acolyte of the war god, you really like insulting him.”
Katsuki doesn't need to look to know Shouto's stuffing his face. He never understands why everyone acts like Shouto is some kind of divine prince. He's as disgusting as any other kid their age, shoving berries into his mouth by the handful and chewing with loud smacks. He hasn't even washed his hands. Revolting.
“You're his own kid and you hate his guts.”
Shouto chews his berry mush and swallows, settling the bowl in his lap as he crosses his legs. “I didn't choose for him to be my dad. But you chose to come here.”
Katsuki narrows his eyes. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, really. I just don't get why you're still here. You hate it, right?”
It's a stupid question. This temple, for all its reputation about training the deadliest warriors in the world and winning the wars that shaped history, is absolute horseshit in Katsuki's opinion. He climbed the mountain thinking he was going to become part of something good. Something bigger than himself. He was so elated when the war god himself complimented his tenacity and it's with genuine regret that Katsuki accepted it and felt proud, that day.
Asking him if he hates it would be like asking if the sky is blue. It's a waste of breath. Katsuki doesn't say this, doesn't let loose the tirade he keeps under his tongue, and instead buries it all for another day.
“Yeah. Who wouldn't?” is what he says instead. Flippant. Casual.
“Then why stay? You're young. If they shave you and send you down the mountain, it wouldn't ruin your reputation.”
Katsuki knows it's true, objectively. He could return home with the disgrace of being ejected, but since he's a child, the evidence would wear off in less than a year. He has no tattoos. He has no battle scars. Hair grows back quickly. He could live unburdened.
Katsuki wrinkles his nose at how easy it would be to leave, to pretend he saw nothing.
“I'm no quitter.”
Shouto, being Shouto and one of the only people who he regularly talks to, knows it's a deflection and doesn't take it. “Katsuki.”
Katsuki isn't a quitter but he's also got standards. Shouto knows this. Katsuki knows this. Some of the other errand children know it, from how tenacious he is. Shouto knows better than anyone else on the mountain just how high his standards are, and that there has to be something keeping him from calling it quits aside from stubbornness.
Katsuki flicks a pebble, watching it hit the vine wall and bounce back.
“I can do something here, I guess,” he admits. “I hate it, but…I can do more here than I can anywhere else.”
“Have you even tried anywhere else?”
Katsuki sends him a look, one he's used very often and that plainly calls Shouto an idiot for even asking. “Of course I did!”
“Why did you leave, then? Anywhere would be better than here,” Shouto presses. “You have the option to go and not put up with this anymore. Is it really worth it just to shave time off of becoming a warrior?”
You have what I don't, is what he means. You can leave but I can't.
Shouto wears clothes made of fine cotton and silks, his wrists and ears bear golden jewelry tailor-made for his size, and he will never have to worry a day in his life about money. He sleeps on materials Katsuki's parents covet and Katsuki can only dream of owning. Shouto has a palace for a home and servants to do his bidding. He is a prince in this domain that holds the favor of a god.
But he doesn't have the ability to choose, and Katsuki knows that's the one thing he wants.
“Do you know whose temple I was at, before I came here?” Katsuki asks.
Shouto blinks in confusion, then shakes his head slowly.
Katsuki scratches at his hair, trying to find the right words as they tumble through his head. “I tried to take the vows of The Disciple. And I left, because I wasn't at my best there. Not because I didn't think that god was for me, because he still is—”
“But you're in the war temple. You serve the war god,” Shouto interrupts.
“Maybe as a warrior, but he's not who I pray to,” Katsuki corrects. “And keep eating. Don't waste your food, idiot.”
Shouto pointedly shoves berries in his mouth while glaring, demanding Katsuki continue speaking with his eyes alone. Katsuki grumbles but complies.
“The Disciple's temple was good. Great, actually. It was perfect. It was everything I thought it'd be for a god like that. But that was the problem,” Katsuki goes on, crossing his arms and frowning. “It was perfectly fine whether I was there or not.”
“So you left because what? You want to be needed?” Shouto snorts.
“No, you turd!” Katsuki kicks him roughly, and Shouto barely manages to keep the berries left in the bowl from tumbling. “I left because I want to fight for something that actually means shit. And I can do that here. I can be a warrior and do shit with my own two hands instead of waiting ‘til it's all over and playing cleanup.”
Shouto steadies himself and then looks contemplative at Katsuki's words. “The Disciple's another war god, right? Shouldn't his temple be like this one?”
Katsuki groans because Shouto really is as stupid as any other kid.
“He's not just a war god! Didn't you pay attention to his story?”
Shouto opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks away. Katsuki can't see his blush, his skin is too dark to notice, but he's gotten very good at figuring out when Shouto is embarrassed.
“Wait. Did your old man never tell you the story?”
Shouto keeps his eyes on the bowl in his lap, hunching his shoulders. “He doesn't like The Disciple. I know what he's done in other stories, whenever he appears in war, but…”
That…makes a depressing amount of sense, given what Katsuki's seen of Endeavor. He shouldn't count on someone like that to give a fair account of the pantheon to his kids.
“Do you wanna hear it?” Katsuki asks. Shouto hesitates, probably thinking about how much his dad wouldn't want him to, then nods intently.
The legend falls easily from the tongue, repeating words told hundreds of times over in hundreds of ways. It is his favorite story. The myth closest to his heart. The resonance felt for its contents, for its message, rings clear in his voice that tells it with the same awe and respect as he once heard it told to him. The act of telling this story continues a chain that will never end, and there is pride in being another link with all that came before him.
Plus, Katsuki just enjoys the fact he has Shouto's undivided attention. At his age, his priorities are very simple.
“The Disciple was an acolyte for the god of justice. He was good at it, too. He wanted to be a warrior—all kids wanted to be warriors, but they said he couldn't. He was too small and too weak. So he went to the temple instead. He studied, and worked hard, and he could have spent his whole life looking after the temple in his hometown and he would have done a good job. But he wasn't happy about it.”
His audience, captive, shuffles closer.
“It was a dark time. The Elder Titan, who had killed the old gods, wanted to rise again. So he sent darkness to the Earth to hurt humanity. The Disciple watched the world get darker as the gods fought against an old enemy, but humanity had no one to really help them while the heavens were at war. So he decided he'd do it.”
“You said he was unfit,” Shouto interrupts, squinting.
“I said other people said he was unfit. They thought he was too puny and stupid and powerless and he decided screw those guys and picked up a sword anyway,” Katsuki explains impatiently.
“He shouldn't have, if they treated him like that,” Shouto mutters.
Katsuki kicks him again, agitated. “Do you want me to finish the story or not?”
“Sorry. Keep going.”
“So, he started off alone. He was really young and he barely had any training, and it was awful. He traveled all over helping everyone he came across and for a while no one really cared. Or thanked him. He got his butt kicked a lot. But he didn't give up. He kept fighting harder and harder and he started winning, and soon he started actually beating the darkness back. He started calling out the mortals who sided with The Titan and he'd go to armies to tell them that their leaders were using them. And people listened. They sided with him. Armies started following him. Warriors started looking at him like he was their leader.”
When Katsuki first heard this story, he was five years old and listening to it from the mouth of a soldier who had commissioned a dress from his parents. The man had mimicked along with his words, feigning swordplay and godly intervention with wild hand gestures, and Katsuki had been enchanted. Katsuki finds himself doing the same, even as he stumbles over the parts he didn't care much for in an effort to get to the good stuff. He wants to share what made the story good. He wants to share the parts that filled him with inspiration.
When he glances at Shouto, he sees a similar awe and knows he's doing it right.
“The Titan didn't like that. So the darkness he sent out started fighting back. They'd beat The Disciple bloody, cut him, break him, take his weapons—when he kept getting back up, they did the worst thing they could to a leader.” Katsuki draws it out, leaving the pause for just a tad too long. “They forced him down and cut out his tongue, so he couldn't speak.”
Shouto makes a face, and Katsuki can see him rolling his own tongue in his mouth. Good.
“But he didn't let that stop him. He got back up like always. He prayed to the gods, since his whole journey didn't really mean he stopped being an acolyte, and he didn't even pray for a new tongue or for the pain to stop. He just kept asking for the same thing. Every time.”
“What did he ask for?” Shouto asks. The bowl has been cast aside, his hands now gripping his knees as his attention focuses solely on the story.
“He asked that the gods make sure as many people as possible get saved. He didn't care what happened to himself. He just wanted to make sure everyone else was okay.”
Katsuki prides himself on the delivery, in the same grave tone as the soldiers from all that time ago. The reverence and respect needed oozes from his voice, and he knows Shouto is impressed.
“Is that when he—?” Shouto interrupts again, but Katsuki swats at him to shut him up.
“I'm getting there,” he hisses. “So he got back up. Tongue gone. No words. Broken body healed up. And he kept going. He made his armies bigger. He learned to talk with his hands. He fought monsters, and evil kings, and he kept fighting everything The Titan sent his way because he wouldn't give up. He became unstoppable. The number one warrior in the world. And then…it all came down to one big battle.”
Shouto's eyes are wide and Katsuki is elated, because they're at his favorite part of the story.
In his mind he can see it all the same way he did when he was little. The Disciple, in his armor with his spear raised to the sky, standing before a mighty army of those who pledged their loyalty to his mission. The battlefield blazing with fire and energy. Their opponents falling until the final evil remained, standing strong in opposition.
“He raised his spear to the biggest bad guy The Titan had. He had an army of darkness and he was gonna do whatever it took to finally kill The Disciple. And he did.” Katsuki mimes the swipe of a sword and cuts his thumb across his neck, dragging out the action for drama. He also adds in a rather gross sound effect that has Shouto making a face. “He killed The Disciple right there in front of everyone. Gods as his witness. The Disciple prayed as he fell. And the heavens answered.”
Shouto interrupts, but this time Katsuki doesn't mind. His voice is small but impressed. “He ascended.”
“He didn't even let death stop him,” Katsuki confirms. “The big hole in his chest just sealed right there. He got back up and he won. They all fell at his hand and his army won. The pantheon defeated The Titan right after, because his armies had gotten their butts kicked. The whole Earth was saved because one guy no one believed in wouldn't let anyone tell him what to do.
“The Disciple is my god. He's the god of the common soldier, of earned victory. He's the one I believe in, and he's the one I'm gonna succeed one day.” This is the first time Katsuki admits it out loud, admits the urge that set him to climb the mountain in the first place. The first time he's spoken the thoughts that circle in his head as he sleeps, the dreams he has when his eyes close. “He didn't let shit get in his way and neither will I. He got his body broken and his tongue cut out so I can sit through your old man being a basket case no problem.”
“Do you want to ascend?” Shouto asks. And if that isn't a stupid question.
“If that's what happens, then yeah. I'll ascend. I'll look The Disciple right in the face and be his equal—no, I'll be even better!”
The answer leaves his lips easily, the declaration swelling in his heart with his conviction. He'll do it. He'll ascend and become bigger and better than all of this. He'll become a mightier war god than Endeavor himself. Katsuki expects Shouto to agree. After all, Shouto admires his drive. Shouto doesn't call him a stupid cocky bastard like the older kids from training, because he believes every word out of Katsuki's mouth.
But when he looks down at his friend—his only friend, the only face he considers worth talking to on this mountain—he sees…hesitation. Doubt. Shouto's lips quirk downward, and his eyes have glazed over in a way that's hauntingly familiar.
For the briefest of moments, Katsuki can only see Shouto's mother, unfocused and staring into the fire with bruises around her wrists, and his heart skips a beat.
“Oi. What's up with that face?”
Shouto blinks. It takes him a moment to return, to remember Katsuki is there, and he resumes the position he was in when Katsuki arrived. Arms around his legs. Head down, but with his eyes still visible.
“What do you think ascension is like?” Shouto asks not with curiosity, but with a melancholic tint to his voice.
“Do I look like a god to you?” Katsuki winces internally. That isn't what he meant to say. “I just told you a great story and you look like I shit in your berries. What's the deal?”
That isn't what he meant to say, either. He's very bad at this. Which is shameful because Katsuki shouldn't be bad at anything.
Shouto takes a bit to respond, and to anyone else it would seem like he's refusing to answer. Katsuki knows better. He can see the thoughts moving around in Shouto's head and the way he worries his jaw, selecting his words.
It comes out slowly, as if Shouto isn't positive about what he's saying. “I think. He wants me to ascend.”
Oh.
Oh.
That… That makes a lot of sense about a lot of things.
Ascension is something reserved only for the truly worthy. The mortals who prove themselves deserving of their domain. It's so rare but those who make it, those who join the myths of legend—they go down as the greatest mankind has to offer. It's why The Disciple is such an amazing story. His praises are still sung by everyone with endless glory and soldiers proudly acting in his name.
Katsuki looks at the silks and gold on Shouto's body, and it's with agony he knows that Shouto's assumption is correct.
Endeavor is all about endless glory.
Katsuki swallows, dry, and some distant part of him hopes there's something in this mess that gives Shouto an out.
“Did he say so?” Katsuki asks, controlling himself so he doesn't yell.
“Not really. But I think it's what he wants,” Shouto answers. “This morning he was talking about making history, and it was this look on his face—”
The look of a man who knows his name will be known to all the corners of the Earth, Katsuki remembers. The look of a man who knows if his favorite child ascends, he'll carry a legend that sings the praises of his temple. The look of a conqueror whose desires are within reach.
The wind passes by and if Katsuki strains to hear it, he can catch the echoes of Endeavor yelling for his Son.
No wonder Shouto is hiding today.
“I don't think he'll force me to do it soon. I'm too young. But when I'm older…I think he'll send me to war. So I can prove myself.” Shouto burrows into himself more, coiling tightly into a little ball. “I don't want to. I'm tired.”
Shouto's always been tired. He's been exhausted since they met, and he's never gotten to rest.
There isn't an easy solution here. There never has been. They're children, they're insignificant and powerless and small—if Katsuki were to challenge Endeavor, he'd either be struck down right there or be thrown from the mountain into the unforgiving cliff sides. And that's if the other warriors don't beat him senseless for heresy against their patron.
If Shouto were to protest and stand tall, his family might be made to suffer in his stead. His mother. Fuyumi. Natsuo. Touya, who already hasn't been on Endeavor's good side. No one would be safe, because they're all expendable compared to a favored Son. And Shouto isn't selfish enough to force them to take his punishment. All he can do is hide in places like this, far enough away he can't hear the screaming quite as loudly, and pretend it's quiet.
They're stuck, they know it, and there is no way out that they can grasp for.
Yet.
Katsuki thinks, because under his anger he's always been bright and always been good at using his brain, and he clenches his fists. He takes a deep breath, cooling the simmering pot of anger that sits within his chest, and extends one hand.
His pinky finger is raised in silent invitation.
“I'll help.”
Shouto's head lifts, and it isn't hope in his expression. It's a subtle fear. The traces of memories Katsuki doesn't know about, but knows they exist and knows it has something to do with the scar on his face.
“Don't—”
“Shut up,” Katsuki hisses. “I'll help. You won't go to war. I'll ascend and kick the old man's ass for you, even.”
“You can't, he's—” Shouto tries to protest, tries to back away from the help being offered.
“Take my stupid finger, you idiot!”
Shouto bats his hand away like it's trying to burn him, scooting away quickly enough to knock over the bowl they'd both forgotten about. “Why are you even trying? It's not your problem!”
It isn't Katsuki's problem, it's never been his problem, but he can't ignore it. Maybe he could, once, before he tried to take any vows. Before he learned better. Before someone took him seriously and taught him what real warriors are made of, taught him that just being loud and strong isn't enough.
You're going to do amazing things, Kacchan.
“Because I can't call myself worthy if I just sit back and do nothing!” Katsuki screams, his eyes going blurry with angry tears. “So take my stupid finger, you idiot useless demigod bastard!”
The quiet that follows is smothering. For a beat Katsuki fears someone heard, someone knows they're hiding and will drag out Shouto kicking and screaming and he's just made everything worse, but nothing happens. The only thing that intrudes in their sudden silence is the wind, which whistles between the vines as it races through the mountain peaks.
Shouto stares at him with wide mismatched eyes. Katsuki stares back. His arm shakes, with the tension in his muscles, and he licks his lips before speaking once more with a hoarse voice.
“I swear in The Disciple's name. You won't see war.”
Shouto looks like he doesn't want to accept it. Which Katsuki gets. This temple is all he's ever known, and the only people who leave do so with shame and disgrace etched into their bodies.
But, slowly, Shouto lifts his hand. His pinky hooks around Katsuki's and they shake once before he withdraws.
There isn't anything they can do, that day. Eventually Shouto will have to leave and go inside. He'll have to face his father's wrath for being missing. Katsuki will be sent back to the children's quarters where he and the other boys maintain a tense silence.
But, at the very least, there's a goal to work toward. Shouto returns to his curled up ball and Katsuki allows him, putting his hands together in the prayer position he was taught and focusing on his request.
If he's going to get Shouto out, he's going to need every resource he can get his hands on.