DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own any of Tolkien's ideas or characters aside from Asphodel and the subplot I've created.
"But there's a beginning in an end, you know? It's true that you can't reclaim what you had, but you can lock it up behind you. Start fresh." — Alexandra Bracken
--
"YOU'RE CROOKED ASPHODEL, I want to see posture! Do you know what posture is?"
"Yes." The brunette nods. "I do."
The beady brown eyes of Elouise, Monsieur Alain's secondhand, narrow to slits. Being a ballerina at the Paris Opera Ballet was a viscously tolling job, made up of the highest highs and the lowest lows. There was no feeling comparable to what it felt like to stand up on that stage and do what she was best at; ballet, dancing, expressing herself through movement rather than words. She'd never been good with those. . . The lows were more than worth it, a thousand times over for that magic feeling in her chest. Asphodel would do just about anything to make sure she got her share of the magic.
'You're a magic little girl, my darling! I'll love you to my very last breath!'
Her mother used to say, and indeed she did. Her childhood had been one of many pleasantries, growing up in the French countryside surrounded by an expanse of green fields. Her father, she never knew— for her mother seldom spoke of him. It had always been the two of them, Mel and Asphodel against the world! That was until Mel Dupont had drowned herself in the bathtub of their country house one year ago to date, and yes Asphodel wished, she wished more than ever that she could have done something, anything to relieve her mother's pain before she had resorted to such measures.
So she tries not to think of the good times because it just makes her feel worse. Asphodel really can't help it though— because sometimes, she wants to remember.
Gone are the days her mother would sing her songs in the beautiful incomprehensible tongue she rarely spoke, gone are the days they would cater to their flower garden, her mother teaching her the ways of respecting the earth. Now, are the days she loathes, the days that drag endlessly on.
It is in the past, she says to herself.
But now, it was just her, and her one-bedroom apartment— and oh! Don't forget her tabby cat, pumpkin. (Yes, she named her cat pumpkin.) Halloween was much more than a day dedicated to all things spooky. It was her absolute without a doubt favourite day of the year! She'd spent more October 31sts than one could count, frolicking the streets like a madman and begging for candy from strangers.
Stop thinking, start dancing!
"I will show posture." Asphodel assures once more. The girl is a people pleaser, obnoxiously so. Her mother had made sure of it. If not to please than what was she to do? Her spine straightens, shoulders levelling out effortlessly. Okay— maybe not as effortlessly as she made it seem. Her muscles wracked with pain. She's just so tired, so eager to lay down that it is unbearable. The position is unnatural. She twists graciously, landing on a single foot. Then again, and again, and again—
"You are dismissed!"
The dancers around her begin to gather their things, heading out to change into more comfortable attire.
The ballerina's mossy green eyes flash bright with joy as her limbs fall back into their natural state. Finally, the ache stops. She can't seem to stop her thoughts from articulating back to how sleepy she feels. Skin shaded blue and purple lingers beneath her eyes to prove. She knows she'll pass out on the bed the moment she gets home. Her bed! So fluffy . . . and comfortable . . . and sof—
"Asphodel, viens ici s'il te plait!" Elouise catches her before she has the chance to slip out. The tired washed out green eyes of the girl in question snap to her superior.
It looked like her sleepy daydreams would have to wait a moment longer.
What could Elouise want now? Is she going to yell, or scold, maybe even punish? Almost anything is in the realm of possibility when you're up against a woman who knows no limits. Asphodel prepares herself, biting her lip as she approaches the stern woman. The ballet coach crosses her arms, staring at her with such dismay that a tight cramp begins to curl in the brunette's empty stomach.
"Yes?" Asphodel asks hesitantly, loosening her hold on her bag.
"I want you here an hour early tomorrow morning. We have much to work on, dear."
And usually, she's really good at hiding her emotions. But this time, it is like a hit to the heart, being insulted for the only thing she actually considers herself remotely good at. Not good enough, so it seems. Something is just . . . off, today. She can't describe it. For the minuscule of a second, her face drops, the light in her eyes diminishes, she can feel her heart sink, and unfortunately, Elouise is quick to pick up on it. Her ebony eyes narrow.
"I'm sorry? Is something wrong? Are you too lazy than to work for what you want?" Her voice raises pitch. She takes an ominous step closer. The room is so silent Asphodel can hear her own shallow breaths. God, she thinks to herself, I really have to work on my emotionless facade. "If so, there are thousands of other girls who are more deserving to hold a place in our ballet . . ." The older woman's voice is almost taunting now, like she's daring Asphodel to stand up to her, ultimately meaning more punishment.
You're such a wimp.
"No, Mam. You've misunderstood Mam. Of course, I will be there. Thank you." Asphodel being Asphodel, is forced to choke down the tears that threaten to stream down her pale cheeks, taking Elouise's harsh words to heart. Sensitivity had always been one of her worse traits, strength never her strong suit.
The woman nods dismissively, a silent signal pf permission to tell the girl to leave.
"And Asphodel?"
"Yes?"
"Anyone can be replaced."
A chill shoots down her spine. She's embarrassed to admit that she's absolutely terrified. She then proceeds to sling her bag over her shoulder and scurry out.
It doesn't take her long to change into a pair of leggings, flats, and have a jacket thrown over her thin powder pink leotard.
Taking one last look in the studio mirror, she sees the same old girl, a tiny bit more miserable than usual. (There's not much of a difference when she's so used to it though.)
She rakes a hand through her dry hair, devoid of shine, dyed the same dark taupe it had been for years now. Her natural platinum blonde had demanded attention, which was the last thing she possibly desired, hence the dye she forced herself to let seep into her hair when blonde began to peek out at her roots. She's not so sure where she gets the colour from, though her best guess is her father. Asphodel had never dared to ask. There was no way of knowing now . . . even if she desired. Asking dad related questions had only ever upset her mother. One thing was for sure, Mel Dupont's dark blonde locks were in no way of resemblance to her daughter's.
Eyes, far too green to be considered just another pair of green eyes, bore back at her. Shades of icy moss interweave through tints of washed-out mint, hardly doing their job of concealing the chaos inside. She herself can see through them. A collection of sleepless nights and poor nutrition have partnered to paint her a terrible complexion. She's sure, if you looked up the definition of sleep-deprived twenty-something-year-old, you'd find her picture plastered beneath the words ASPHODEL DUPONT.
Who is, Asphodel Dupont? She cant help but question.
--
Sitting in the car and scarfing down hummus and crackers as if it were her last meal, Asphodel regards the flood of ballerinas tiptoeing through the parking lot to their vehicles. She had been in their shoes moments ago, rain pillowing down onto her chartreuse rain jacket, making a run for her small car with the utmost urgency. The sky had opened— and with it came water. A lot of water.
The rain was a given when you lived in Paris. The place was a rain magnet. It was a bonus though, that way the flowers in her small windows sill garden were almost always in bloom. God forbid Ashodel's flowers weren't in bloom!However; it did mean she would be able to go home and watch reruns of Friend's. . . and maybe even make peanut butter celery stick boats as a healthy alternative to popcorn! (Because she has to watch her figure, says Monsieur Alain . . .) It would most definitely give her that warm rainy day comfort that she so desperately needed at the moment. You know? That indescribable feeling of happiness you get from lighting a nice smelling candle, watching a movie and eating food— all while the sky cries from outside? Yeah, she was looking forward to it for sure.
It wasn't as if Asphodel didn't like people, she did, she really did. It was only that she felt nurturing a bond between friends would only ever result in loss. She has this theory, that you can't feel the pain of loss when you have nothing to lose, to begin with. She had lost nearly everything she held near and dear to her deteriorating human heart— and she would do just about anything to make sure she never felt that way again. Besides, the others at the company were not so keen on befriending the brunette either way. The business was too cutthroat for casual friendship. Anytime a roll was given in a ballet, resentment would emanate through the house's chilly halls, the dancers would turn on each other in the name of jealousy, shooting glares across the room and doing anything they could to make the other's life miserable. She can still recall the evening Celeste Aralet had poured what seemed to be an entire jar of blueberry jam in her favourite pair of running shoes. Celeste had snuck into the change rooms during rehearsals, and when Asphodel went to slip them onto her feet afterwards, too eager to get home than to check her shoes for blueberry jam— it had not been pleasant. All of it, because Celeste had not been cast.
Then there was the men— though calling them boys was a far more suitable term — of the ballet, who'd ventured down every winding road that they could in efforts to win Asphodel over. She could ramble on for hours, they were just that terrible. Despite their numerous failures, the men around her had never ceased in their attempts to woo the girl. Against her every desire, she stood out amongst most other girls, she did not encourage their antics, nor did she reciprocate a single ounce of whatever it was anyone had ever felt for her. She just couldn't, it was out of the question. Apparently, the prospect of 'the chase' had only made it all the more exciting for men who dared to approach the ballet's resident ice queen. Why though? It just doesn't add up. Who wants to flirt with the snappy girl with the ever constant RBF (Which Asphodel liked to consider the best around) Don't get her wrong though, she knew she was okay looking, okay looking enough to be the daughter of Mel Dupont.
'People will be drawn to you. They will try to manipulate you. You must be wary of this my light, it is a dangerous world out there. ' Mel herself had said many a time before.
But why? One could look at her and see the questions flying around her head like those little birds in that one MacBook filter.
The puzzle of 'life' was incomplete, like she had lost a piece under the couch or something. Maybe it was love, or friendship— perhaps even a starring role in the ballet's newest production. Whatever she was missing, had left a huge, gaping, hole in her chest. (There was no way she would be able to find it beneath the couch.)
But at the moment, she's kind of totally is on the verge of a mental breakdown. The fleeting glances of faces passing by her tiny car is what stops the girl. Pigs would fly before she let anyone else but herself know how utterly sad she was— not that they would care anyway. She doesn't necessarily expect anyone to. Life goes on. People have themselves to worry about.
She knows that better than anyone, literally. Asphodel is a full-fledged worry-wart. It has been that way since forever. Somehow, she always manages to think over every scenario, every possibility. It is a gift and a burden tied in one; she is always prepared, and always worried. It had been the culprit of much stress acne throughout her teen years, which had probably been the worst part of it all. She managed though. The girl would take overthinking over underthinking any day when her own company was all that she had left.
But wait! She was beginning to dislike herself more by the day.
Maybe I could die, like mom.
She had contemplated it before, so childishly. Though she was well aware that life was a gift not to be taken for granted. Stop thinking, Asphodel! It's like her brain is on fire! She's thinking about overthinking and then thinking about trying to stop thinking about overthinking.
So forth, Asphodel does the same thing she always does: begins the traffic infused drive back to her apartment. The day has been everlasting. Her feet ache from the hours and hours of strenuous practice. Pirouettes and Grand Jetés, the shrill demands of Monsieur Alain echo through her mind even now. (That man knew no limits.) Her dark taupe waves have been let loose from the tight bun atop her head, offering immediate relief to the pulling pain at her scalp. These things were not our of the ordinary though. It would have been like any other day if not for the downpour sent from the heavens. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, against the window, weaving into the rhythm of the Fleetwood Mac song that hummed through the car. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. She eyes the traffic light. This is taking too long. A pang of rumbling thunder sounds in the distance.
Thunder only happens when it's raining!
She laughs, turning up the volume and letting the rhythm consume her.
Mossy green eyes find themselves in the rearview mirror, assessing her ivory face with a critical stare. She wears no makeup as per-usual. Tidbits of dry skin flake around her nose and forehead, and she can't help but grimace. Gross . . . Since when had her skin gotten so bad?
A loud honk rips her attention away from the mirror and to the rod in front of her. The light is green, damn it! Quickly, she looks both ways, stepping down on the gas and into the intersection. A transport truck turns the opposite direction, wheels spinning against the wet pavement, relentlessly unmoving. It can only mean one thing. She perceives it, in shock. The truck slides with a defeating squeal of rubber.
Dusty rose lips part from each other, brows furrow, eyes widen. Her frantic glances prove there's nothing she can do, this truck is about to squish her small Chevrolet like an ant beneath a boot.
With the compression of metal, her restless soul is greeted by a welcoming white abyss, her body sprawled out across the ashy grey roadside. A variety of noises ring in and out of consciousness. First, there's yelling, then comes the silence, the sound coming hand in hand with death. The girl holds a relatively straightforward understanding that she won't be making it out of this.
The busy street traffic she had grown to loathe so much had all but stopped. Those near to the accident had stepped out of their vehicles, curious stares directed at the girl laying in a puddle of her own crimson blood.
Asphodel had expected it to be noisy— anything but silent. Though she supposes its better this way. She has time to say goodbye to this world, the earth, the animals, the nature that she had always felt so peculiarly intertwined with.
The metallic taste of warm blood pools in her mouth, before running down her chin and dripping down onto the pavement. Her lungs are devoid of air, empty, motionless— and those striking eyes of hers, remain lifelessly open, greener than the flourishing dewy grass lining either side of the road, staring up at the clear blue sky that had so suddenly become devoid of rainclouds. It's the last thing she get's to see, a lone jay, soaring overhead; a happy ending to a sad story.
I get to die, like mom.
It was 'lights out' for Asphodel Dupont. Peace had finally come— but not without a price.
--
An elleth with sunshine hair, almost white, runs through an abundant field of flowers, letting her fingers bristle against their petals as she smiles. Her bright green eyes glimmer with joy and a clear blue sky lingers above, not a wisp of cloud in sight. Tall green trees sway in the breeze, surrounding the large field from every direction.
The woods are at rest, all is well. The breeze sweeps in from the south, warm and tingly against his creamy skin. It reminds him of fairer times, a time long ago when Arda was young, before Isul and Anar, when the light of the two trees had been alive and well.
He does not recognize her; though it appears that she does him. On another plain, unbeknownst to the golden elf, she is familiar, a twin flame to his, a beacon of light amongst existing light. Their spirits know each other. She is indistinguishable. There is something here, between them, he does not know what.
Confusion floods him— a bizarre, happy, confusion. He has no cause to feel otherwise. Elation, a warm shower of light blanketing the two children of Eru. What he feels is . . . it's, prepossessing and radiant. He can't bring himself to look away. It is as if every ounce of preexisting breath in his lungs has been ripped away from him. The elleth herself may feel familiar to his heart, but this feeling rooted deep down inside is certainly anything but.
"Glorfindel!" She lets out a melodious laugh, turning her head to glance at the elf who stands at the cusp of the field. Her laugh is unlike anything he has heard before. It is song to his starved ears and joy to his longing heart. "Don't you just love it?" She asks, wondrously.
A wide grin stretches across his lips. Whoever, or whatever perhaps this entity is— Glorfindel is grateful to have been acquainted. It is a breath of fresh air amongst smog.
The grin is reciprocated across the field as she begins to run towards him, arms outstretched. He does not understand, though he does not take action to stop her.
Golden, his hair gleams under the light of Anar. How ironic; he, Lord of the House of Golden Flower, is standing in a field of golden flowers, across from him a golden elleth.
It has always been he, who radiates light and power, he who many find themselves gravitating towards. Yet here in this field— a rival stands before him. Glorfindel can't help but then to laugh airily— well, he tries. . .
But the sound cannot seem to pass his lips. It is undoubted, she knows something he does not. Glrofindel has been left out of the loop. All that there is, is her, and startlingly amber green eyes, reaching out and gazing into his old soul as if she can see straight through him.
Then, there he is, his own body in front of him, arms wrapped around the elleth, their lips meeting with the utmost delicacy.
That is when the elf realizes, it is only a dream . . . . or a memory. Either way, he is left mesmerized— a smile lingering on his lips.