Chapter Text
???
˜”*°•✧•°*”˜
"The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why."
Mark Twain
The world as they know it is being torn apart at the seams.
Baharuth calls for aid. E-Rantel is being evacuated and the refugees are seeking asylum in Carne Village. Unrest has taken over the Lizardmen in the wake of Shara Ashvattha. What remains of the other nations outside of the Treaty of Kingdoms remains uncertain.
Tree roots, thick and twisted with arcane wood, scrape as they tunnel through Nazarick and force her floors further and further apart. Periodic tremors shake the Great Underground Tomb. Debris drift from the ceilings. Paintings hang lopsided down the halls. The lake on the fourth floor quivers and the pillars skirting the coliseum on the sixth floor have crashed into the stadium.
Miniatures of Nazarick’s forces decorate the war table between Holly and Momonga. By aid of the earthquakes rocking the tomb, over half of the models have tumbled over and broken formation.
“I would ask that you promise me this one thing,” Momonga sets the model made in Holly’s image back upright.
Silence.
“Holly. I can not, no. Understand that I will not wage this war without your word on this matter.”
Perched up on the lip of the table, Holly avoids Momonga’s eyes as they hover over her. She once again allows for silence to fill in the space between them.
A snap and crack like that of dry thunder tears through the room. Roots burst through the ground. The tomb groans. Holly continues to stare at the floor as they scratch up the wall.
Momonga glances around the room. Holly’s forehead creases as the rich tone of his voice deepens.
“Look around you. Time is no longer on our side—”
“I’m not gonna promise you ssomething I can’t keep. If it comes down to the wire—”
“Then we shall act accordingly. Recklessness has no place in the company of the position we have found ourselves in,” Despite the scraping of roots clawing through Nazarick, Momonga’s footsteps thud against the floor as he moves to stand before Holly.
He clasps a hand over her knee. “Promise me.”
“That’ss not fair. What would you do in my position? Huh? If you could—”
“Your position is precisely why I must ask for your word on this matter. I will not risk losing you, Holly.”
“That doesn’t ansswer my question.”
“Yes, it does,” Momonga squeezes Holly’s knee. “You are more than aware of what I would aim to accomplish given your abilities under duress. Which only strengthens my resolve.”
A pause.
“You will give me your word before we leave this room.”
Another set of tremors strike the tomb and chunks of sediment drop from the ceiling.
“Holly. We are running out of time.”
“That’ss such a double standard. You can’t assk me—”
“And yet I am.”
The seconds stretch. Dust settles in the air. Footsteps race past the door and muffled shouting echoes through the halls.
“Fine! I promise! That’s what you wanted me to ssay, right?!”
“I ask so little of you,” Momonga’s voice cracks. “If—”
“Bullsshit! So little of me?!”
Shoving herself up from the war table, Momonga steps to the side as Holly storms out of the room.
She stops just before reaching the door.
Tears fall from Holly’s face and drop to the floor, hissing with gold. Wiping her nose, Holly tries to hide a sniffle as Momonga places both of his hands on her shoulders.
“I’m just so sscared. What are we gonna do—”
“It should be noted that there exists not one battle that Ainz Ooal Gown has forfeit,” Momonga grips Holly’s shoulders. She nods and he encourages her to turn around and face him. “And we are going to keep it that way.”
˜”*°•.☆ 𝒜𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 ☆ .•°*”˜
A writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, or because everything she does is golden. A writer is a writer because, even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any signs of promise, you keep writing anyway.
- Junot Diaz, Professor of writing.