Dusk settled softly over the canopy of the Größe Forest. Faint rays of sunlight filtered through the branches, dappling the mossy glade where Ainz and Fern sat in companionable stillness. A small brook gurgled nearby, the water catching the light like liquid silver. Crickets had begun to chirp. Fireflies danced lazily over patches of clover.

Ainz sat upon a conjured black stone bench that rose from the earth like a forgotten relic. His skeletal frame leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands folded loosely. Beside him, Fern rested cross-legged, robe pooled around her like a curtain, her violet eyes narrowed in deep thought. She flicked a pebble into the brook, the splash smaller than her frown.

She'd been following him for more than an hour.

Not in a subtle way, either. She had trailed behind him with the intensity of a hunter—staring, glaring, occasionally making faces like she was trying to solve a riddle written on his spine.

Every time he turned to ask if something was wrong, she would blink innocently and say, "I'm just going this way too."

She'd said that four times.

In the middle of a forest with no paths.

Eventually, Ainz gave up, cast [Create Greater Item], and conjured the large bench with a mental sigh so deep it nearly unseated his dignity.

He wasn't physically tired—he couldn't be—but something in his soul, if such a thing remained, had slumped into a chair long before he actually sat down.

So he conjured the bench. Sat. Tried to enjoy the soft rustling of leaves, the murmuring brook, and the faint glimmer of fireflies dancing between blades of clover.

Then came the footsteps.

Quiet. Intentional. Not stealthy—just… trying too hard.

He didn't look up.

There was the sound of a robe rustling. A soft little hmph. Then a pointed clearing of a throat.

Fern sat down on the bench with the grace of someone trying very hard to look like she just happened to be there. She crossed her legs too quickly, then uncrossed them, then leaned forward and picked up a pebble like it was the entire reason she had entered this glade at all.

She flicked it toward the brook. It missed. She didn't look bothered.

Ainz stared ahead.

She leaned her cheek on her hand, eyes fixed on the water. Or pretending to be.

They sat in silence.

The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful—the kind that tried to act normal, but was wearing an uncomfortable outfit and knew it.

Fern hummed lightly. Shifted. Picked up another pebble. Flicked it again.

Eventually, Ainz could feel her gaze.

Not just a glance. Not a side-eye. Staring.

He turned, slowly.

She quickly looked back to the water, her posture stiff as a board.

He waited.

Her head turned slightly—only just enough to peek at him.

He turned back forward.

She did it again.

"…Fern."

She didn't turn around. "Yes, Mister Gown?"

Ainz paused. "You're not exactly subtle. Also, I would prefer 'Ainz,' if it's all the same."

"I'm not trying to be subtle," she replied defensively, still facing the brook. "…I like Mister Gown better. You sound like some old noble with something to prove."

He exhaled. "It makes me feel old."

"You are old," she said, entirely deadpan.

Another pause.

Ainz stared. "That is beside the point. You have followed me for over an hour and are now pretending you're here for the ambiance."

"It's a very nice brook," Fern answered, unbothered.

"Fern."

"What?"

"You're staring at me."

"I'm not."

"You are right now."

"…No I'm not."

"You are."

A very long, very loud sigh followed—one that rattled faintly through his rib cage.

She finally turned to face him properly, eyes squinting with exaggerated suspicion. "You act like this is the first time I've tailed you."

"It's the first time you brought snacks and a blanket."

"I came prepared. That's responsible."

"I saw you set up a picnic behind a tree."

"You looked broody. I gave you space."

Ainz stared at her for a long moment. "You are remarkably persistent."

"And you're remarkably dramatic."

"I am not dramatic."

"You're holding a scary staff that glows ominously just to look at rocks."

"It helps me think."

"Mm-hm."

Another pause.

...and she was staring again.

After several more minutes of enduring her owl-like scrutiny, he finally spoke, slow and low. "Fern. Is there something wrong?"

Her eyes narrowed further, not in annoyance, but in suspicious concentration. Then she answered, calm as ever. "Maybe."

Ainz turned his head toward her. "Are you going to tell me?"

"Eventually."

He was quiet for a beat. Then exhaled in defeat. "Wonderful."

Fern leaned forward, chin in her hands, studying him like she expected his bones to rearrange themselves into an answer.

"You've been quiet all day," she said abruptly, her voice cutting into the hush.

Ainz tilted his head, the faint glow in his sockets flickering. "Have I?"

"You have," she said, puffing one cheek thoughtfully. "Quieter than your usual… undead brooding."

There was a beat of silence.

"...Was that supposed to be comforting?" he asked dryly.

Fern tilted her head, unfazed. "Sort of. You don't talk about yourself much. You just loom. And sigh dramatically."

"I do not sigh dramatically."

"You do," she said with utmost seriousness, pointing a tiny stick at him like a judge. "You do this long, slow skeletal exhale like the entire world is disappointing you."

Ainz regarded her, silent. Trying his best to not sigh.

"I'm used to it now," Fern added with a shrug, flicking the stick away. "But today, it felt different. Heavier."

Another silence stretched.

She stared at him. He didn't fidget, but his posture slumped ever so slightly, bones folding in on themselves like the shell of a creature retreating from warmth.

Eventually, Ainz's voice came low, almost reluctant. "You asked what it's like to be undead once."

She leaned forward, eyes bright. "Yes! And you dodged the question. Like a coward."

"I am not—" he began, then stopped, the flames in his eyes flickering unevenly. "It's not something I know how to explain easily," Ainz said, resting his hands atop his bony knees. "I don't sleep. I don't eat. I don't breathe. I feel no hunger, no fatigue. I cannot cry. I cannot weep, even when I try to remember what it felt like."

Fern's teasing fell away. Her small mouth pressed into a line, her brow scrunched up in quiet concern.

"I… remember what emotions were," he continued. "But I only feel them in bursts now. Faint impressions. Like smoke through fingers. Sometimes my body—this undead shell—triggers something called Emotional Suppression. It activates when I feel too much. It just... drowns the emotion."

He looked toward the water, the orb in his chest glowing faintly.

"And without those feelings, it becomes easy to think cruelly. Coldly. As if kindness is a strategy, not a virtue. I start to… drift toward that mentality. That it's easier to control people through fear. Easier to kill than to forgive. That compassion is a waste of time unless it buys leverage."

"That sounds…" Fern's voice dropped, her arms curling around her knees. "Sad."

"I guess it is."

She frowned, brow furrowed in thought. "So every day, you have to fight that?"

Ainz nodded slowly. "Yes. Every day. Some days, I win without effort. Other days, I realize I've already lost half the battle before I've noticed. I see people not as lives, but as tools. I weigh every action for its utility. I justify evil for the sake of greater goals."

She didn't flinch at the word evil. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. "You haven't lost, though."

"No," he admitted, and his shoulders lifted—then sagged again. There was a trace of something old—something human—in his voice. "But it's always there. Whispering. Telling me how easy it would be. How little effort it would take to become something else. Something terrible."

Fern leaned back slightly, chewing on her bottom lip. She then sat up, arms akimbo. "You know what I think?"

Ainz hesitated. "Do I want to know?"

"I think," she said, tapping her staff gently on her boots, "you're the saddest person I've ever met."

Ainz turned to her, his eyes flickering slightly—caught between surprise and some deep, echoing discomfort.

Her words hit not like a blade, but like a chisel—carving into a place long petrified.

She didn't look back at him, not right away. She stood instead, brushing off her robes with small, stiff motions. Her fists balled at her sides. When she finally raised her gaze again, her expression was unreadable—but her voice was clear, calm, and sharp.

"And that's saying something," she went on. "I've met ancient mages who lost their whole village. Some who buried their children. I've met an immortal spirit trapped in a lake—her eyes hollow from a thousand years of loneliness. But you—Mister Gown—"

He flinched.

"You're like someone who died, and never got a chance to mourn himself."

Silence.

"You've got that same silence," she murmured. "Like there's a funeral going on in your chest. Forever."

Ainz didn't move.

He didn't speak.

His robes swayed faintly in the breeze, but everything else was frozen.

Inside, a familiar sensation clawed at him. It was cold. It was weightless. It was heavy. It pressed around the hollow space where a heart used to beat. Where a man once lived. The echo of a name—Suzuki Satoru—whispered faintly in the void between her words.

He wanted to scoff.

To deflect.

To raise a shield of sarcasm or disinterest.

But nothing came.

Her words lodged themselves deep. Not as insult. Not even as criticism. But as a truth so plain and raw that he didn't know what to do with it. Like a mirror dragged in front of a phantom.

She hadn't meant to hurt him. That's what made it worse.

She had simply seen him.

Not Ainz Ooal Gown.

Not the Overlord. Not the Sorcerer King. Not the terrifying undead ruler of magic and might.

Just… the shadow of a man who essentialy died sitting in a chair behind a computer.

A man who had lost his friends, one by one.

A man who had stayed behind when the world moved on.

Who had clung to a guild name like a tombstone.

You're like someone who died, and never got a chance to mourn himself.

His eyes dimmed.

Emotional Suppression kicked in—once, twice—fighting a storm that had no shape.

Internally, he slumped.

Is that what I am now? A puppet of grandeur and memory?

Had he really never grieved? Not for his friends. Not for his world. Not for himself?

He thought of Touch Me.

Of Peroroncino, Bukubukuchagama. Of the quiet nights in Nazarick's throne room, alone, waiting for someone to log in.

Of the imaginary graveyard he had built in a forest no one remembered.

He had buried everyone except himself.

He hadn't mourned.

He had lingered.

A whisper of power wrapped around an identity too fragile to name.

He finally spoke, voice dry and soft. "You… have a gift for cutting through the armor, Fern. Your bluntness is commendable. That was both poetic and painfully, tragically depressing."

"Yes, I get that a lot from miss Frieren," she replied with a nonchalant shrug.

For a moment, she remained quiet, her face scrunching up in deep thought. Then she turned, hands diving into her pouch, her mood shifting instantly. "Mister Gown, I have decided. I am helping you."

"You're helping?" he echoed, wary.

"Mm-hmm." She stepped behind him, chin held high.

"Fern… why—what are you—"

"Hush. You're too tall. Crouch."

He sighed—a long, low exhale like a mausoleum releasing breath after centuries. "Fern…"

"Crouch." She demanded again, her voice stern. "And I am helping because you're tall and broody and scary and you need this."

He sighed again. He knelt stiffly, like a noble tolerating a strange ritual. The flames in his eyes faded in resignation. "If this is another flower crown—"

"It is another flower crown," she confirmed, pulling out a small wreath of fresh blossoms—carefully braided from wildflowers, moss, and two tiny feathers she'd found earlier. "But it's a better one."

She gently set it atop his skull. It wobbled slightly. She adjusted it with intense concentration, her mouth pursed.

He paused, hesitant. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Because you look scary," she said matter-of-factly. "And because I know you don't feel anything properly. So if I can't make you feel happy, I'll at least make you look like someone who might be."

Ainz was quiet. His gaze lowered, flames in his sockets dimmed—less in irritation, more in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. "…It's an odd logic. Ridiculous."

He looked away. "But… not entirely wrong."

"It's Fern-logic," she said, as if it explained everything.

He sat still for a long moment.

The glade was quiet.

Fern didn't respond immediately.

Instead, she stepped in front of him with an unusual quiet. Her small fingers reached for the edge of his robe — adjusting the black fabric with neat little tugs, smoothing the folds across his lap, brushing a bit of invisible, nonexistent dust from one shoulder with an almost fussy seriousness.

It wasn't ceremony. It wasn't a joke.

It was care.

Quiet, deliberate, wordless care.

"I want people to see you and think," she said softly as she stepped back, "'Oh. Maybe he's nice.' And maybe… maybe that'll help you feel it, too."

Her voice wavered slightly. She pressed her hands together, glanced down at them, then looked up.

"And maybe… if enough people believe that… maybe you'll start to believe it too."

Ainz turned his head to her, very slowly.

"I hope you know," he said, with the kind of weary dignity only the dead could perfect. He pointed at the flowers drooping over his skull. "this does absolutely nothing for my reputation."

Fern shrugged with zero remorse. "It does wonders for your silhouette."

Ainz exhaled — a long, slow release of air he didn't need, heavy more in tone than breath.

He sat in stillness for a while, the weight of her words sinking in beneath the silence.

Then, quieter: "…I never thought anyone would try this hard to help me seem human. Or remember what that means. You and Übel, in your own strange ways—you both remind me there's something still worth holding on to.

The glow in his eye sockets dimmed, almost sheepish.

"…Thank you, Fern."

She blinked at that. Her expression shifted—just slightly—but she didn't smile.

Not yet.

He looked down at his hands, skeletal fingers curled slightly. Then he asked, low and uncertain, "What would you have me do, Fern? How do I stop this slow erosion? How do I keep what remains of the person I was?"

Fern sat back down beside him, legs crossed neatly, arms wrapped loosely around her knees.

"You find people," she said gently. "People who'll look you in the eye and see you. Not the power. Not the title."

She looked up at him, her voice growing firmer.

"You. The sad, lonely, overpowered skeleton man who wants to be better than what the world thinks he is."

Ainz didn't flinch. But the flames in his sockets fluttered — not from emotion exactly, but from recognition.

Fern leaned forward slightly, reaching up with careful fingers, and nudged a small daisy petal that had slipped behind the curve of his skull back into place on the flower crown.

"Then," she said, matter-of-factly, "you let them walk beside you. Even when it's hard. Even when you're scared."

Ainz didn't respond right away. He sat perfectly still, but somehow smaller. Quieter. The orb beneath his ribs pulsed faintly. The glow of his eyes softened to a fragile ember.

Then, in a voice like dust disturbed by the gentlest breeze, he said, "Thank you."

Fern glanced up at him sideways. "You're welcome," she said.

Then she added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: "But the crown stays on until bedtime."

"I don't have a bedtime."

"You do now." She said with finality.

And in the quiet stillness of the twilight glade, with crickets singing and fireflies floating like soft-spoken stars, Ainz Ooal Gown sat cloaked in flowers and awkward dignity.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries… he felt something fragile, and real, and deeply alive:

Less alone.

A/N:

Enjoy! I should be uploading a chapter of He Who Brings the End, She Who Remembers the Beginning this weekend fingers crossed.