The Night Patience Ran Out
One night.
In the deepest hour before dawn, when even the crickets had fallen silent, two figures sat facing each other.
The Hero and the Saintess.
Well — that wasn't quite accurate. The Hero was staring at the Saintess with tedious, unwavering patience, while the Saintess, like a criminal before judgment, kept her gaze pinned to the floor, unable so much as to meet his eyes.
".......”
How long the silence stretched, no one could say, but at last the Hero spoke first.
"Saintess."
His voice was as soft and gentle as ever — and yet to her, it had never sounded more terrifying.
"...Y-yes...?"
A terse reply, as always. That was how she had always spoken to the Hero — brushing off every question with a hollow answer, and sometimes simply refusing to answer at all.
Textbook avoidance.
She knew perfectly well that this way of responding was wrong. And yet, the only reason this fragile arrangement had held together for so long was—
"I'm afraid the time has come for us to talk."
—the Hero's patience.
Not, it must be said, because she was a Saintess, some 'chosen being' deserving of special consideration.
"I've spent the past several days thinking it over at length — what grievance you hold against me, that you would behave this way."
The reason for that patience was simple: to the Hero, she was a 'companion' — someone he was meant to trust.
Let us turn back the clock a little.
The Saintess had once been an ordinary girl.
She held no particularly deep faith in the Goddess, nor did she possess any special talent. Hers was the simple, unremarkable life of a novice — playing with the other sisters, laughing, praying, occasionally lending a hand to those in need.
But then, one day, a 'revelation of the Goddess' arrived — one whose authenticity no one could verify.
"To strike down the Demon King who would bring ruin upon this world, I shall specially cherish this child and grant her my power."
"May she walk beside the Hero and bring salvation to this world."
On the strength of that single revelation — that one unverifiable prophecy — she was thrust from ordinary girl to Saintess.
And so she was lifted onto a seat she never wanted, implicitly coerced into a journey she never chose, burdened with companions she never asked for.
'You must be the Saintess. I look forward to traveling with you.'
And then, as though someone had scripted it in advance, the Hero arrived the very next day.
He was a thoroughly ordinary-looking man — honestly, if anything, he gave off a slightly gloomy impression. A soft, mild voice entirely at odds with his dark eyes and the heavy circles beneath them; he looked like someone who hadn't eaten or slept properly in days.
Unpleasant. That was the word, unvarnished and unfiltered, filling her mind.
To throw away her youth — her entire life — enduring a journey where life and death hung by a thread, playing Saintess beside a man like that, all for the sake of a single revelation from the Goddess?
"Ah......."
And worse — no one had ever asked if she even wanted this.
Was she not afraid? Did she not wish to remain at the convent, living an ordinary life? Did she not want to refuse the whole thing outright?
Not once. Not a single person.
No one asked.
People simply rejoiced. They blessed her for being chosen by the Goddess, called it a glorious honor, and pushed her toward it.
As though, from the moment she became Saintess, any other choice had simply ceased to exist.
And of all those people, the one who remained closest to her was the Hero.
Perhaps it had all gone wrong from the very beginning — the moment she took every ounce of hatred she felt for the bindings around her and hurled it at the one person who was nearest, and safest, to hate.
From that moment on, the malice only accumulated.
Humans can only endure their aimless resentment and irritation by pouring it onto the closest available target.
At first it was subtle — ignoring what he said, answering with half a mind. After battles, she wouldn't even bother with proper cleanup, just standing there blankly; when the Hero was injured, she'd patch him up carelessly and call it done.
She had no appetite, so she refused every dish set before her — but when the Hero kept offering her food he had foraged entirely on his own, she ate it with a shrug, as if she had no choice.
All while not knowing that he had spent hours searching the surroundings just to find it — and that he'd given her more than half of what he managed to scrape together.
A childish tantrum.
Yes — an utterly unreasonable fit of pique.
But that was only the beginning.
The Bard.
The moment he joined the party, everything grew worse.
The Bard was, one might say, the Hero's polar opposite.
A wit that made people laugh, a silver tongue, songs that lifted the mood, and a practiced skill at charming women.
And with that practiced skill, he melted even the Saintess's frozen heart like spring ice.
Above all — he was easy.
The Bard demanded nothing of her. He never called on her to treat his wounds, never asked her to stand the night watch, never earnestly sat her down to debate which direction they should march tomorrow.
He simply sang for her, made her laugh, told her she was pretty, and behaved as though all that mattered was enjoying today.
It was so comfortable it became addictive.
Perhaps that was only natural.
After all — unlike the Hero, the Bard was not the one responsible for the party.
Whenever she was near the Hero, everything she owed came rushing back — the title and burden of Saintess, the journey she never wanted, her own negligence.
But at the Bard's side, she could forget it all for a while.
So little by little, the hours she spent at his side lengthened, and she drifted further from the Hero — never once stopping to ask herself whether it was fondness, or affection, or simple escapism.
And so the Saintess poured all her resentment onto the Hero, while handing her smiles to the Bard. As though that were only right.
Every time the Bard struck up conversation with her, her mouth — which never properly opened for the Hero — would loosen and flow. Every time the Bard sang with a laugh, a smile would bloom across the face that had known only blankness and indifference toward her companion.
'Honestly, wouldn't it have been so much better if this man had been the Hero instead?'
By the time that thought crossed her mind, the situation was already beyond repair.
The Hero had never once raised his voice. He had only ever asked, plainly and politely.
"If you aren't too tired, might I ask you to take the second watch?"
"I have other tasks today — could you spare a moment to help prepare camp?"
"Saintess, I'm sorry to trouble you, but could you look at my wounds a little longer?"
Requests, never commands.
And yet.
'I'm tired.'
The first time, she genuinely was tired, so she refused.
'Later.'
The second time, she felt it wasn't really her job.
'Can't you handle something that small yourself?'
From the third time onward, she simply assumed the Hero would do it anyway.
Because he never got angry. Because he never pulled a sour face, and never once forced her hand.
And so, at some point—
the Saintess stopped regarding the Hero's requests as requests at all.
Whenever she had a spare moment she stood at the Bard's side listening to his songs, and no matter how often the Hero asked for help, she brushed him off with barely a glance.
It did not take long for that, too, to become the natural order of things.
Having abandoned every duty to the Hero, the Saintess rotted away in comfort.
And the most terrible part of it all—
was that she alone never noticed she was rotting.
For sin reaches its ripest flavor just before it spoils completely.
And then, the day of reckoning arrived.
"I believe you must leave the party, Saintess."
".......W-what?"
Somewhere in the course of those weeks of travel, the Hero had decided to discard her.
The Hero was not a fool.
"W-what...? What do you... I, ah..."
The first thing that welled up in her mind was not remorse.
'Why now, of all times? Why say nothing all this while, and only now—'
No. He had said something. He had asked countless times. He had waited for her, again and again.
But in the Saintess's mind, none of those had ever registered as 'warnings.'
Just simple requests — requests she was free to decline. Requests the Hero would end up handling himself whenever she refused.
So this came entirely out of nowhere.
At least, it did to her.
That was how she saw it.
Faced with words like a bolt from the blue, the Saintess — who at the Bard's side could pour out honeyed rhetoric and silver-tongued persuasion without missing a beat — could produce none of it now.
Perhaps these were the very words she'd secretly longed for: a legitimate way out of the Hero's party, the shackles she'd resented so bitterly. Freedom.
But the word never managed to settle anywhere in her mind. It simply fell.
When did that calm, gentle voice turn so cold?
Why say this now, of all times? What on earth did I do wrong?
If I'm cast out like this, what happens to me afterward?
It felt unjust.
Unjust — and terrifying.
And amid all of it, one emotion lifted its head. A very small one. An emotion she truly, desperately did not want to admit to.
Regret.
Anxiety for the future tangled itself around it, squeezing her heart tighter and tighter. And at last, from the mouth of a Saintess who could no longer think straight, the worst possible words came spilling out.
"Th-the Bard, does he... know about this? ...Gah?!"
The instant the words left her lips she clapped a hand over her mouth, but there was no retrieving what a loosened tongue had already released.
If there was any silver lining, it was that even she could anticipate how ugly the next words out of her would have been.
'He's on my side. He'd save me, no question.'
As though the Bard were her guardian — her lover. A childish, cowardly threat: if he finds out, he won't stand for it.
"I... that is..."
And yet, even at those words, the Hero's eyes did not so much as flicker — the same tired gaze as always.
"Ah, there's no need to worry about that."
He answered, calm as ever.
"The Bard, you see, told me several days ago that he would be leaving the party of his own accord."
".........W...what?"
The words escaped her in a childish, broken whisper.
The last lifeline she'd been clutching in her hands — had just been severed, clean through.