* * *
We've all seen a child rolling on the floor, screaming at their parents.
With limited options to get what they want, they've chosen the most reasonable and effective means available to them, but frankly, it's not a pretty sight to behold from a third-party perspective.
It's not a pretty sight to behold from a third party's point of view, especially when you're looking at a bunch of dried-up heads crying and wailing for the world to leave them.
If a woman's tears are a weapon, a child's tears are a weapon. Cluster bomb-grade.
And as prospective parents watch the spectacle from a distance, these thoughts must be running through their minds, even if only subliminally.
If I ever marry and have children, my children will not grow up to be like that. I'll be the kind of parent who says no to no. I'll be the kind of parent who says no to no.
This is the kind of rhetoric that would be laughed out of the room if it came from someone actually raising a child.
I'd like to weakly defend it as a path that everyone goes through, because people have a tendency to look down on things they haven't actually done.
''I'll do it.''
Hugging me around the waist, the saintess urges me to deliver what she has entrusted to me.
With her magpie paws raised, she often hops in place.
It's a cute thing for a child her age to do, but the colors of emotion in her maniacal eyes as she gazes up at me are so black and white that I cringe in fear rather than affection.
''----No.''
I don't even know how many times I've said no. However, the strength of the arm around my waist showed no sign of weakening. In fact, it felt like it was getting stronger.
When I was in school, I used to flirt with my classmates, hoping that, for once in my life, a beautiful woman of great wealth would hang on to me, but even though I achieved my wish, I felt no sense of accomplishment.
I didn't need the same ponderous explanation for why I was being held by the waist by a saintess when all I wanted to do was hand her breakfast, as the characters in the chick-lit novels blurted out in their introductions.
I picked the wrong children's book.
That was my one and only sin that led to this situation.
◈◈◈◈
A priest dedicated to the saintess.
It's a fancy title, but I've found that the fancier the name, the less worthy the title.
The Guardian Priest's duties are actually quite unremarkable. They're errand boys whose job is to follow the saintess around and clean up after her. No, it's more like a babysitter.
You know, those braces-wearing high school nannies in American teen movies who get paid to play with babies. That's how I perceived this position.
I was worried about saintess's eye health because she was staring at a broken TV all day for some inexplicable reason, so I started reading her stories to distract her from the TV, and it worked so well that it became a routine between me and saintess to hold storytelling sessions every spare moment.
And it's only natural that saintess, who is at the age of dreams, would want to imitate the storybooks from time to time. I can totally understand that, because when I was in the midst of my own nose-drooling phase, I used to get together with my friends and play superheroes.
But then ----.
I can't believe they want to mimic the kissing scenes of princesses and princes.
Up until now, I've been used to wholesome scripts, such as knights defeating monsters and wizards ministering to dragons, so acting out such a pink script with a saintess was a very embarrassing act for me.
''Saintess. I've said it before and I'll say it again, a man and a woman kissing is not something that should be done rashly unless they are sworn to each other. Moreover, you are a saintess who is supposed to be chaste, and I am a guardian who disapproves of saintess, ugh----.''
''----''
''Don't bite----.''
I bit my stomach.
Apparently, I'm angry and hardened. She usually got angry when she was cautioned about something she shouldn't do or when she was disrespected, but to express it so directly was really unusual for her, who was usually emotionless.
Her lack of emotion is so rare that she reminds me of a robot that learns how to read people's minds, which is often used as a theme in third-rate emotional dramas. Another similarity is that she sometimes wants to turn off the power button.
''It doesn't matter, no is no, and if you keep this up, there will be no more storytime readings, no more stroking your hair, no more hugs.''
''----''
''Phew.''
My determination must have rubbed off on her, because the saintess finally freed me.
Apparently, when I bit her in the stomach, my frowning and sternness worked.
Shuffle.
Seeing Saintess's sobbing figure flopping helplessly on the floor, like a doll with a broken thread, I couldn't help but feel bad for her.
Honestly, what's the big deal about a kiss? I wanted to give her a kiss, too. What man wouldn't want to kiss the lips of a light-colored beauty with whom I would have never spoken in my previous life?
But considering my position and the world's gaze, I had to resist.
If the scandal of a guardian priest, a man who has served the saintess all his life, failing to grasp my subject matter and coveting the saintess's lips, were to reach the ears of the other congregants, that would be the day I would leave this world.
A poor apprentice priest had to be punished by having the nails of his pinky finger pulled out for stepping on the saintess's shadow, so it's safe to say that if you try to kiss her, you'll get your throat ripped out.
By the way, that poor apprentice priest is me from all those years ago. Honestly, even now, when I look at Saintess's face, my pinky finger often hurts from the trauma of that time.
''If you'll excuse me now, Saintess. I'll see you later during lunch-''
Kwazik.
Just as my crisis-ridden self was about to relax, the murderous tone that slapped my ears and the vivid colors of blood that swept across my retinas instantly engulfed my self-consciousness.
They say that the human brain freezes for a few seconds after witnessing something so traumatic, and it was true. A nauseating sensation blurred my vision as my brain refused to process the unbelievable reality in front of me.
A saintess. With a pointed iron. She was slapping the back of her hand.
''Saintess-sama-!!''
Kwazik. Kwazik. Kwajik.
Even during that brief moment when I threw myself out of the way, Saintess' self-inflicted wounds didn't stop.
At a constant angle, at a constant speed, the sharp metal was slamming down on my own hand, and I felt like I was watching an emotionless machine.
''What do you think you're doing!''
Somewhat roughly, I snatched the weapon from her hand, which turned out to be the fork I had used for breakfast. She must have sneaked it away when she hugged me earlier.
She didn't even make a pretense of holding it in her hand when she was eating, so why----.
''Wound---- show me the wound!''
''----''
I carefully lifted the saintess's white hand, stained red, and examined the wound.
They were horrible. The back of her hand, the knuckles, the wrists, the front, the back, and the back of her head, and the bitter scent of blood that stung her nostrils.
It was a slander that would have made a grown man scream, but the saintess, who was actually the party, didn't change a single color on her face, just stared blankly at my hand, which was still clutching hers.
''My Lord. I am your finger. A mere lamb. Under your power, all things in this land shall rest, and all glory shall be yours.''
Grabbing the Rosario from his chest, he quickly recited a prayer of healing.
Why did you do this----.
He focused his attention on channeling the divine power into his hand, forcing the thoughts of doubt out of his mind.
No, that's exactly what I was going to do.
If only I hadn't been jolted awake by the soft breath of someone gently lifting my hair.
Kwadang.
''Kwak----!''
It was a close call. A soft touch grazed my cheek that would have touched my lips if I hadn't jerked back in surprise.
That it was someone else's lips was obvious and self-evident to anyone in this room.
It was a painful truth that he would prefer to ignore as much as possible.
''Welna----!''
''----''
I called out to her in a voice that, by my own admission, sounded rather silly, but alas, my pleas did not seem to reach her.
Her doll-like face was as emotionless as ever, her slender fingers stained with crimson blood, her own lips twitching in amusement.
I wondered if it was my mood.
Somehow it looked like he was smiling.
* * *