Record Of Lodoss War Fan Fiction ❯ In Her Waking ❯ One-Shot
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: EternalTwylight 
Always there is sorrow and death, even in the land of Crystania. But one dark elf, Sheru, will stand by her Lord and Master, Ashram, even until the end.
Anime/Manga: Record Of Lodoss War Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 11.21.2009 | Updated On: 11.21.2009 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 342 | Status: Completed
Always there is sorrow and death, even in the land of Crystania. But one dark elf, Sheru, will stand by her Lord and Master, Ashram, even until the end.
Anime/Manga: Record Of Lodoss War Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 11.21.2009 | Updated On: 11.21.2009 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 342 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own jack and certainly don't profit from it either. All characters belong to their respective creators.
Author's Note: This story takes place after the Legend of Crystania movie and 3 part TV OVA.
In Her Waking
By ~The Slow Hand Muse~
The words had left her lips and every part of it had been the truth. She would wait for him forever, she who was Sheru and to him and him alone Pirotess, because in the vastness of time and years he would be the only one to remember her, to remember what she had truly been. What they had truly been.
Master and vassal.
Lord and lover.
The Dark Knight Ashram of Marmo and Lady Pirotess of the Dark Elves.
She felt heavy beneath the burdens of her sorrow, her heart torn and shredded a thousand times over. It had endured on what little hope she could grasp between too thin fingers, so that she thought it not possible to break it further. But she was wrong. There was only just enough left, just enough to rip and bleed again as her pale eyes came into focus, alighted to the solemn and motionless figure of King Ashram upon his throne.
Nothing had changed, his head once more lay rested down against his armored chest, eyes closed and hidden beneath the dark spill of black hair. Silent and stoic and drifting between the thralls of death and dream, shut out and away from her, as it had been for 300 years.
Barbos was gone, her Lord’s soul free and his body his own but yet still she would be denied. Yet still fate had conspired to make her ending tragic, forever just a breath away from that which she’d sacrificed and enslaved her own will to; all for love, all for him, forever and for all eternity for him.
Grief pooled in around her eyes, filled up her vessel like a cup overflowing, the gravity of it all pushing down upon her fragile body, forcing her to her knees as she closed her eyes in against the flood of tears threatening to consume. Head bowed, she held back the sob that would have toppled her down into the blackness of chaos, and into the dark place from which she wasn’t certain she would ever be able to return from again, not if she would be thus forbidden again.
Her gloved hand trembled, shook uncontrollably where it gripped her knee, her body bowed in supplication and respect. The position had become so comfortable, even now as her muscles tensed and eased, settled into the familiarity of the prostration. She would worship him as she had done the moment her eyes had first beheld his glory. For he and he alone was worthy.
There was a small sound, the tiniest whisper of cloth over metal, of a breath being exhaled from the quietude of some distance place where breathing might not have been required. She found she couldn’t move, an ear twitching restlessly. She wanted to raise her head, she wanted a great many things but she fought against the reflex. If she looked up now and nothing had stirred she wasn’t certain the impulse to thrust the Demon sword, Soul Crusher, through the tender pulsing of her own flesh wouldn’t overwhelm her sense of duty to remain.
“Shall you always be upon your knees before me” the voice was raspy, laden with disuse and drifting darkly through her memories, “Pirotess?”
But this had not been a memory, no falsehood as another rasp reached her ears, the low brawl of a masculine chuckle, “Not that I don’t find you compelling in such positions.”
Tawny white locks danced as her head shot up, the tears that she’d so carefully held in check raining from her eyes with such tender and joyous relief. Her lips trembled, her heart fluttered caught between one beat and the next in dreadful fear that he’d crumble again, would be lost again.
“My Lord,” the concern leaked around her self discipline as the man began to rise to his feet, unstable and shaky. Her gloved hand reached out as dark hair slide forward over the pale expanse of his cheek, a shallow curtain of shadows in and around his hard grey eyes as he peered out at her from beneath noble brows.
The creaking of old worn leather announced one step, his gauntleted hand catching the arm of his throne in support as he struggled to remain upright. All around him whispers fell, the dark cloak rustling, the crimson lining obscene like a smear of blood to the black and pristine perfection of his highly polished plate armor.
Her heart was going to burst all over again, her lungs ached as she released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding as another step threatened to bring the King back down. Her legs moved of their own volition, her smaller frame coming forward with grace and speed, diminutive hands pressed firmly to his broad chest in support.
And it was then that his warmth melted into her, the press of his body a solid line in against her own weaker, softer flesh, his arms pulling her into the circle of heat, his life pulsing in a maddening rush beneath his hard exterior.
He was alive and he was awake and she was in his arms again.
The bare pads of her fingers traced over the smoothness of his chest, came to rest as her wet cheek was cradled in against his body, his powerful hand soothing through the uneven locks of her hair, tangled and then pulled, angling her head back and up to gaze unobstructed into the piercing stare of his grey eyes, so full of fire, brimming to overflowing with vitality.
Half lidded and dreamy she let her golden eyes sink into the intensity of that heated focus, fingers curling into his armor and gripping where ever they might find purchase and never be released. Through slightly parted lips her voice echoed like crystalline bells, “Lord Ashram…”
The statement had never meant to be finished, the soft declaration of her eternal love and devotion because he’d known, he’d always known. His lips had descended upon her own, eating at the open portal of her mouth and drinking down in heady gulps her amorous offerings. His breath burned where it touched her lips, poured into her willing mouth with all the command he’d inspired as a Lord, a Knight and a King.
“Pirotess,” strong fingers slid down along her spine, a wake of electricity dancing merrily along her skin as his teeth grazed hapzaradly along the swell of her lower lips, the demanding of his mouth and hands guiding her, pushing her as only he could. Fire and ice warring inside her as his tongue swept her mouth, plunged in sweet exploration between the velvet of her lips.
“My Pirotess,” he intoned intimately, forced the words into her being, conquered and claimed all over again what had always and would always forever be his.
End!
Author’s Note: Don’t kill me, this was only meant as sweet little scene between my all time favorite cannon pair. I will not be going further into the scene, so do not ask. Perhaps if enough voices are raised I could be persuaded to do a naughty little “sometime after” scene.
Author's Note: This story takes place after the Legend of Crystania movie and 3 part TV OVA.
In Her Waking
By ~The Slow Hand Muse~
The words had left her lips and every part of it had been the truth. She would wait for him forever, she who was Sheru and to him and him alone Pirotess, because in the vastness of time and years he would be the only one to remember her, to remember what she had truly been. What they had truly been.
Master and vassal.
Lord and lover.
The Dark Knight Ashram of Marmo and Lady Pirotess of the Dark Elves.
She felt heavy beneath the burdens of her sorrow, her heart torn and shredded a thousand times over. It had endured on what little hope she could grasp between too thin fingers, so that she thought it not possible to break it further. But she was wrong. There was only just enough left, just enough to rip and bleed again as her pale eyes came into focus, alighted to the solemn and motionless figure of King Ashram upon his throne.
Nothing had changed, his head once more lay rested down against his armored chest, eyes closed and hidden beneath the dark spill of black hair. Silent and stoic and drifting between the thralls of death and dream, shut out and away from her, as it had been for 300 years.
Barbos was gone, her Lord’s soul free and his body his own but yet still she would be denied. Yet still fate had conspired to make her ending tragic, forever just a breath away from that which she’d sacrificed and enslaved her own will to; all for love, all for him, forever and for all eternity for him.
Grief pooled in around her eyes, filled up her vessel like a cup overflowing, the gravity of it all pushing down upon her fragile body, forcing her to her knees as she closed her eyes in against the flood of tears threatening to consume. Head bowed, she held back the sob that would have toppled her down into the blackness of chaos, and into the dark place from which she wasn’t certain she would ever be able to return from again, not if she would be thus forbidden again.
Her gloved hand trembled, shook uncontrollably where it gripped her knee, her body bowed in supplication and respect. The position had become so comfortable, even now as her muscles tensed and eased, settled into the familiarity of the prostration. She would worship him as she had done the moment her eyes had first beheld his glory. For he and he alone was worthy.
There was a small sound, the tiniest whisper of cloth over metal, of a breath being exhaled from the quietude of some distance place where breathing might not have been required. She found she couldn’t move, an ear twitching restlessly. She wanted to raise her head, she wanted a great many things but she fought against the reflex. If she looked up now and nothing had stirred she wasn’t certain the impulse to thrust the Demon sword, Soul Crusher, through the tender pulsing of her own flesh wouldn’t overwhelm her sense of duty to remain.
“Shall you always be upon your knees before me” the voice was raspy, laden with disuse and drifting darkly through her memories, “Pirotess?”
But this had not been a memory, no falsehood as another rasp reached her ears, the low brawl of a masculine chuckle, “Not that I don’t find you compelling in such positions.”
Tawny white locks danced as her head shot up, the tears that she’d so carefully held in check raining from her eyes with such tender and joyous relief. Her lips trembled, her heart fluttered caught between one beat and the next in dreadful fear that he’d crumble again, would be lost again.
“My Lord,” the concern leaked around her self discipline as the man began to rise to his feet, unstable and shaky. Her gloved hand reached out as dark hair slide forward over the pale expanse of his cheek, a shallow curtain of shadows in and around his hard grey eyes as he peered out at her from beneath noble brows.
The creaking of old worn leather announced one step, his gauntleted hand catching the arm of his throne in support as he struggled to remain upright. All around him whispers fell, the dark cloak rustling, the crimson lining obscene like a smear of blood to the black and pristine perfection of his highly polished plate armor.
Her heart was going to burst all over again, her lungs ached as she released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding as another step threatened to bring the King back down. Her legs moved of their own volition, her smaller frame coming forward with grace and speed, diminutive hands pressed firmly to his broad chest in support.
And it was then that his warmth melted into her, the press of his body a solid line in against her own weaker, softer flesh, his arms pulling her into the circle of heat, his life pulsing in a maddening rush beneath his hard exterior.
He was alive and he was awake and she was in his arms again.
The bare pads of her fingers traced over the smoothness of his chest, came to rest as her wet cheek was cradled in against his body, his powerful hand soothing through the uneven locks of her hair, tangled and then pulled, angling her head back and up to gaze unobstructed into the piercing stare of his grey eyes, so full of fire, brimming to overflowing with vitality.
Half lidded and dreamy she let her golden eyes sink into the intensity of that heated focus, fingers curling into his armor and gripping where ever they might find purchase and never be released. Through slightly parted lips her voice echoed like crystalline bells, “Lord Ashram…”
The statement had never meant to be finished, the soft declaration of her eternal love and devotion because he’d known, he’d always known. His lips had descended upon her own, eating at the open portal of her mouth and drinking down in heady gulps her amorous offerings. His breath burned where it touched her lips, poured into her willing mouth with all the command he’d inspired as a Lord, a Knight and a King.
“Pirotess,” strong fingers slid down along her spine, a wake of electricity dancing merrily along her skin as his teeth grazed hapzaradly along the swell of her lower lips, the demanding of his mouth and hands guiding her, pushing her as only he could. Fire and ice warring inside her as his tongue swept her mouth, plunged in sweet exploration between the velvet of her lips.
“My Pirotess,” he intoned intimately, forced the words into her being, conquered and claimed all over again what had always and would always forever be his.
End!
Author’s Note: Don’t kill me, this was only meant as sweet little scene between my all time favorite cannon pair. I will not be going further into the scene, so do not ask. Perhaps if enough voices are raised I could be persuaded to do a naughty little “sometime after” scene.