The Weakling's Tsundere Messugaki

I meant to slip out without waking Estelle, who was still sleeping soundly, and go look for Celine. We had only rented the one room—where on earth had Celine spent the night? The thought kept nagging at me.

"Mm… where are you going…?"

While I was pulling on my clothes and buckling into my armor, the Saint—Estelle—rubbed her eyes and sat up. As she pushed herself upright, the blanket started to slide off her, and I whipped my head away in a panic.

"…I was just going to look for Celine. I was worried about where she spent the night until morning."

"Ah… then why are you looking away?"

"Well…."

I pointed at her with one hand. Estelle went quiet for a moment—then let out a cute little kyak and started rustling around under the covers.

…Somehow, I figured she got it.

"…You can look this way now."

"Okay."

When I turned back, Estelle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was there, wrapped up tight in the blanket from head to toe. She looked like a cocoon.

"Celine still hasn't come back this morning?"

"No, doesn't seem like it. That's why I was going to go find her."

Still… sitting here like this felt strangely off. It was nothing like our usual mornings. I scratched my cheek at the unfamiliar situation, and Estelle, looking a little shy herself, dipped her head slightly.

"Estelle."

"Y-yes!?"

"I'll be right back. You must be exhausted—get a little more rest."

"Ah…."

Estelle gave a small nod. Last night had been her first time, and I hadn't exactly gone easy on her, so she had every right to be worn out.

I reached out and gently stroked her hair.

"I'll be back soo—"

I was just about to finish the light pat and head out when Estelle caught my hand and wouldn't let go.

"…Hero, stay with me."

"…Huh?"

"Celine is… probably downstairs. She told me that's what she was going to do."

Estelle looked up at me through half-lidded eyes. Her faintly flushed cheeks and those shy, slightly trembling amber eyes were almost painfully lovely.

"…Please stay here."

…I couldn't win against that.

I was already fully armored, but I dropped back down onto the edge of the bed anyway. Estelle seemed satisfied with that; a faint smile touched her lips.

…She really was beautiful. Truly.

Estelle held onto my hand and fidgeted with my fingers, even though there wasn't much to play with.

Watching her quietly, I found myself thinking back to the things she had said last night. I decided to ask about one of them, casually.

"Estelle—you said you liked me from the very beginning."

"Eep… yes…."

"Then why did you insist on talking that way from the start?"

"…Because I was embarrassed."

…I'd guessed as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠much, but so that really was it.

Though if we were ranking things by how embarrassing they were, the words Estelle usually threw around were way more mortifying.

"So you talk like that when you're embarrassed?"

"…Sometimes. And sometimes I just wanted to tease you because you were cute."

"…Me?"

Me, cute? That word did not fit me at all.

"Yeees…."

"Is there some reason you use that tone when you're embarrassed, though?"

In other words: where exactly had she learned to talk like a little brat? Estelle had grown up in the Church—I couldn't imagine she'd had many chances to pick that up.

"The sister who raised me said this was how you do it…."

"What?"

Who said what now?

…A nun???

I looked at Estelle, half-convinced I'd misheard—but no, I clearly hadn't.

"She said if someone you were interested in ever came along, doing it this way would definitely get their attention."

"…That kind of attention isn't always the good kind, you know."

"…Eh."

Estelle looked genuinely flustered, as if that possibility had never even crossed her mind.

…Just who was that nun?

"Ah—was that wrong?"

"Ordinarily… I'd say yes."

Talking like that was hardly normal. Estelle stared at me with a faintly shocked expression. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I spoke gently to her.

"…Still. When you do it, I think it's… a little cute."

"C-cute…."

Estelle ducked her head. For someone this easily flustered, how had she managed to tease me so relentlessly all this time?

"…By the way, Estelle—did you grow up in the Church from the day you were born?"

"Ah, no. I was raised there from the time I was five."

"Then where did you live before that?"

"…Shall I tell you?"

Estelle looked at me with eyes that asked if I was curious. Of course I was.

"If you're all right with it, please do."

But I had no intention of forcing her if she didn't want to talk. When I made that clear, Estelle smiled with her eyes.

"All right, then…."

In this world, there existed something called a poll tax—a tax levied quite literally per head. The more members in a family, the more you owed. It was the kind of tax modern people could barely imagine, but in a medieval society it was an ordinary method of collection.

Relatively wealthy nobles could pay a poll tax without much trouble. For poor commoners, it was a different story entirely.

To commoners, the poll tax was an almost crushing burden. Considering that commoners generally had more children than nobles, the weight of it fell even heavier on them.

Contraceptives did exist, but they were nowhere near as effective as modern ones, and they weren't free. So the poor often skipped them simply because they couldn't spare the coin.

Children arrived by accident all the same—and if every child born was entered into the family register, the poll tax climbed accordingly.

So commoners found a loophole. They didn't register every child. Only some of them made it onto the books.

Boys, who could eventually be put to work as laborers, were registered far more often. Girls, by comparison, were left off far more often.

In every country, children who never made it onto a register were born this way—and the practice continued even now.

Wealthier nations had eased the burden of the poll tax enough to curb the problem somewhat. But the country where Estelle was born—the Apollo Kingdom—was not wealthy enough for that.

Estelle had been one of those children. Born, but never entered into any register. She didn't even have a name. In that era, naming a child cost money. You had to visit an astrologer; you had to seek out a priest for a baptism. For a commoner, the fees involved were no small sum.

So within the family she was simply called by a nickname: Star.

"Star, what are you doing?"

"I'm praying."

"Hm? Again today?"

Born with divinity already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in her, Star had been able to hear the voice of God—faintly, but truly—from the time she turned four. A beautiful, warm voice that slipped along her ears and resonated inside her head. It was more than enough to stir a little child's heart.

So she prayed constantly, hoping to hear that voice again. Her parents simply thought she was a deeply devout child, and left it at that.

Every time she prayed, the voice came.

At first Star did not understand what it meant. It did not take her long to figure it out.

A child who had never received a name, who existed and yet did not exist on any official record. A child who might well have lived out her whole life in quiet obscurity and died the same way.

Star's ordinary days changed in the autumn of the year she turned four.

"Star!"

Hearing her mother's frantic voice as she burst into the house, Star tilted her head.

"What is it?"

"Come outside, quickly. We have to run."

"Uuung?"

Star tipped her head left, then right, wearing a face that said she didn't understand at all. This was their home—where were they supposed to go?

But unlike her unhurried daughter, the mother was desperate. As if there was no time to explain, she scooped little Star up hard against her chest and bolted out the door.

Cradled in her mother's arms, Star peeked out to the side and said,

"Mamaaa, there's something weird over there."

"…Star, you have to be quiet. Shh."

"Uuung…."

Star didn't understand why, but she decided to obey. She had always been a child who listened well to her parents.

And so Star watched quietly behind them as they put distance between themselves and it. Reflected in her bright, round amber eyes was a monster that looked half human and half dragon—a Drakan.

Clutching Star, her mother fled the village and made for the nearest city. Once they arrived, she spoke urgently to the guards; their faces went pale, and they began to move at once.

Looking a little relieved, Star's mother let out a long breath. Watching her, Star asked,

"Mama, where's Papa? I don't see my brothers either."

"Papa and your brothers…."

Her mother swallowed a choked sound, as if the words themselves were too hard to force out, and tears spilled down her face. But a child as young as Star could never have understood what was in her mother's heart.

"Mamaaa? Why are you crying…?"

She didn't understand the feeling—but a small child who sees a parent cry will cry along. Not knowing why. Simply because the parent is sad.

"Hwaaang, don't cryyy… uwaaang."

In the end, Star burst into tears in her mother's arms. Even as they hurried about their work, the guards looked on the weeping mother and daughter with pity.

"Excuse me."

One of the guards approached and spoke. Star's mother, still sobbing, lifted her head a little.

"The child must be cold. Come inside the post for now and warm yourselves by the fire."

"Ah… thank you…."

"And… I don't know if this will be any comfort, but our lord is a truly kind man. If you explain your circumstances, he'll let you live inside the castle walls. So please don't worry too much."

"…Yes. Thank you so very much."

Thanks to one warm-hearted guard's kindness, the mother and daughter were able to settle inside the city.

Just as the guard had said, the lord provided them with a livable house and enough support money to cover basic food and lodging for a while.

Even so, they couldn't live on support money forever. Star's mother was always out looking for work, and Star, left alone, prayed constantly.

"Please let Mama earn lots of money."

If effort always led to results, how wonderful that would have been. This world was not so kind.

There wasn't much work available to a woman who had been nothing more than a farmer's housewife. Helping with other people's housework. Taking in mending. All of it paid pennies.

Neither mother nor little Star ate very much—but even so, the income was barely enough to scrape by.

And Star was still growing. You couldn't deliberately starve a child at the age when she needed to eat well. So her mother fed Star as much as she possibly could, and starved herself as much as she could bear.

Months passed that way. The year turned, and Star became five years old.

Winter was ending and spring was approaching, but the air was still cold. Star's mother, doing mending as usual, suddenly clutched her head and collapsed.

At the heavy thud of a chair toppling over, Star came scampering out of the room where she had been praying.

"Mama?"

There was no answer. Star didn't know it, but the reason her mother had fallen was simple: overwork.

A sickness that came for a woman who ate almost nothing and worked endlessly just to scrape by on odd jobs. Perhaps it had always been inevitable.

And just like that, Star was alone.