Chapter Text
Grimmjow became a priest to avoid poverty. It was an easy choice after being raised as an orphan on the streets, where the temple was the only reliable source of food or shelter. He watched thrice a week as the town tossed coin after coin into the devotion box. There was no future in this world for him except becoming a priest, so that's what he did.
He had never believed in the god of the temple. He made the prayers, swept the steps and tidied the shrine, but they were chores he was paid for. The so-called God of Protection had turned a blind eye to one too many of his street friends for him to truly believe. Why would he belive in something like that anyway?
On a clear sunny day, that changed.
Grimmjow held the wooden broom gingerly in his hands. The ancient thing was riddled with splinters and had a tendency to break through even the toughest calluses. Shrine sweeping was a slow, dedicated task for this reason alone. Just as he felt the prick of another wood sliver sliding under his skin, Grimmjow heard the sudden smooth ringing of the singing bowl for prayer. Normally, he would think nothing of it. This time though, he knew the bowl was damaged and couldn't hit that note anymore. The sound of the bowl grew louder, harsher, becoming more like the rumbling of a storm approaching on the horizon. It warbled, waved, and settled into one deep note that left chills on his skin.
He ignored the stone in his stomach and turned around. Darkness like the night sky shrouded a small figure in the center of the shrine. His blood turned to ice when a pale face rose from the shroud and met his gaze.
"What do you do for your god?" The voice rumbled, splitting his thoughts and sending him to his knees as he clutched his head. It was inside him, ringing in his ears and on his tongue and through his nose. "To what god do you pray?"
There was no denial viable in the face of this truth. His youth full of hardship and empty stomachs, dirt under his nails as he buried his friends, aspiring to be clad in red robes black belts just to have clothes - was for naught. Before him stood the God of Protection: Kurosaki.
"You. I pray to you," he said.
Kurosaki sniffed and tilted his chin up. "What would you do for me?"
What would he do? Grimmjow flashed back to the worst of his deeds, all that he did to ensure he was chosen as the next priest. Poisoned wells and cures up his sleeve. Bushels of fruit swiped in the night to give to the hungry. Coin lifted from pockets to give at devotion. He would do many things for this god.
"I'd kill for you."
The pain in his head let up. The shroud around the god dropped and revealed his flowing fabrics of vibrant red and black and gold, overlapping and flashing like a volcano exploding in the night. Stepping on air, Kurosaki walked from the shrine to stand in front of him. "No, you will die for me."
He could do nothing to stop it. One finger touched Grimmjow between his eyes and his fate was sealed. His vision faded to black, catching only last glimpse of the god smiling at him with something almost like pity. He hated this god.
Coming out of a fog, Grimmjow groaned. His nerves tingled like he was struck by lightning. Shaking off the feeling, he was struck by the realization that his robes had changed. The rough fabric he had grown used to was now a light cloth with leather belts wrapped around his waist to hold it up and at his wrists. Most notably, he held a weighted steel blade with its sheath tied at his hip.
"So you survived that?" Kurosaki was once again in front of him. About the height of an apple, the being seemed more like a god of pollination than protection.
"Yes, I survived a nap. It'll take more than that to kill me," Grimmjow snapped. His breath caught before he said more as he remembered what the god said before. "Why will I die for you? Would it not be better to stay alive?"
Kurosaki shook his head disparagingly. "You are a priest, devoted to me in all ways. As such, I know your fate. If you do nothing, then you will die in three weeks. Your soul has been promised to death. However, if you are able to complete three tasks for me, then I will change your fate and spare you."
Grimmjow wanted to squash the little god. He knew threats when he heard them, and this was unlike any other threat. His youth was nothing more than one promise of revenge after another that fell flat. But this was different. It wasn't a promise, it was an offer. Accept and he had a chance, decline and he would have nothing.
"Why would you want to change my fate? I know I'm not devout, up until you appeared I didn't even think you were real. Surely there are others more deserving," he said.
"You were here when I arrived. Anyone else could have this chance, but only you were here to find me."
The words rang hollow in Grimmjow’s ears. He had hoped he was special, maybe even destined for greatness if given the chance. Instead, he was destined to die unless given another chance. He was no more special or important than any of the other priests or devotees at this shrine. Spite rose in his veins, sticky and bitty on his tongue, wanting him to say no to the offer just so he could throw off the god's plans. He swallowed those words though. He knew when to take the hit to his ego and live to see another day.
"I'll do the tasks."