DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own any of Tolkien's ideas or characters aside from Asphodel and the subplot I've created.
"Courage is knowing what not to fear." — Plato
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ASPHODEL DUPONT USED TO BE AFRAID of the unknown. Now don't get her wrong, she was not afraid of dying, she was only afraid of what came after.
The blonde awakened with a start, her eyes, made out to be even greener than their usual pale emerald by the vast abyss of grass around her, dart around the clear blue sky above. Flowers dance in the wind through her peripheral vision.
She smiled fondly.
The wind, it was singing. A soft and harmonious melody that lifts her heart out of her chest and sent dose after dose of much needed revival to her soul. It was only a hum, a ghostly echo she had to listen carefully to in order to hear clearly. Asphodel needed more of it, she yearned for it.
Asphodel Alcarinquë!
Daughter of the forest!
You are home,
you are home!
Home? She was pretty sure this flowery field was not her apartment.
Asphodel stiffens, the memories of her swan song sweeping through her mind in a mini Tsunami of thoughts. The truck's wheels squelching against the pavement, the voices of stranger's approaching her lifeless body.
Oh god, she realized in finality. I'm dead . . . Wasn't she supposed to be upset or something? Wasn't she supposed to be the in the least bit, panicking? There was definitely something abnormally wrong with her— because she felt the opposite. No, not joy. More like an underlying tone of gratitude that it was finally over.
She tilted her chin to her chest as she raised a feeble hand to her foresight. The short and brittle bitten fingernails of her pale hands have decidedly morphed into gracefully nimble and long versions of what had previously been. Asphodel felt her heart hammer in her chest. Weird. Her thick lashes dust her cheekbones as her eyes flickered to the ballet leotard and leggings on her body. A mixture of dry and wet blood has permanently stained the expensive fabric of the leotard, leaving a sinking sort of sickness in the girl's stirring stomach. Her hand goes to feel, finding no wound. But there's so much blood, she observed, arched brows furrowing. When she lifts her hand back up, the pigmented liquid dripped from her fingers and onto her cheek.
At this point, she sat up, her jaw immediately slacking at the sight before her. All remnants of confusion inside vanish. The scene is a beauty to behold. A meadow, so warm, it's all she can feel. It is a cacophony of otherworldliness, an ocean of golden flowers in every direction. The grass beneath the blinding yellow is thick and lush, making for the perfectly soft surface in which she sits. Asphodel stares wistfully, fearing that if she were to look away it would be gone when her eyes returned.
Icy blonde hair blankets her bare shoulders, running down to its usual just past shoulder length in a pin straight path. Her eyes widened instinctively. The last she could recall, her hair was dyed a drugstore 'toffee brown'. Not . . .not this!. Had the heavenly beings gave her a makeover while she was under? Were they going for the natural colour she'd been born with? If so, they'd definitely got it spot on. It's exactly like when she was little, soft and smooth.
She cracks a smile at her own joke. Why are you like this?
And then there it was again with a gust of warm breeze.
Asphodel!
Asphodel!
A new light dawns on this day!
"By the Valar, what has happened to you?" A deep voice drawled jokingly.
She whipped her head around, eyes drinking in the sight of a tall man with chestnut hair longer than her own. He is a warrior, no doubt, a sword sheathed at his hip, though something tells her he is of no actual threat. His eyes are a smoky alabaster, the colour of twinkling stars against a pitch black sky, flickering to meet hers with a charming glint glossed beneath. This was no regular man, it became increasingly clear. He was far too beautiful to be labelled 'regular'. To say that would be to curse all things pretty and nice. He was like a ken doll, she supposed, except with long shiny hair and the clothing of a medieval citizen her eyes had observed. Hmm, weird. Let's not forget the pointy tips of ivory ears that poke through strands of dark hair.
Yep, not a man.
She's surprised she isn't more shocked. Asphodel had seen her fair share of crazy things throughout her twenty three years of life. But than again, the fact that he he had ear abnormalities, though strange, did not come close to rivalling the singing trees of the the forest Mel had taken her daughter to every year, or the whispers she heard in her head every so often. Those were childish things, bits and pieces of a life in the countryside and so far off she can hardly wrap her mind around the memory.
Asphodel tilted her head, staring into the eyes of the stranger. A small smile is shot her way.
"I am Elladan, son of Elrond. I mean you no harm." His deep voice soothes the confused girl. She cannot draw her eyes away from his face. Emerald irises scan his fair features curiously, not understanding how someone, a male, could be so pretty and so handsome at the same time.
"Your ears," Asphodel murmured. "they're pointy."
For some reason, he is deeply amused by this, grinning all the while shaking his head to himself. So what if she was stating the obvious? It was more of a statement than a question; that she had made clear in her questioning tone. It's still irritating, you know, because generally when you're asked a question, you give an answer back.
"What?" Her voice strained, eyes narrowing.
"It is only that they are no different than yours, Asphodel. You stare at me with such disbelief when we are one and the same." He says, ever so calmly, taking slow steps toward her.
"You know my name." Her bright eyes wavered back to Elladan as a steady thump set pace in her chest. In the blink of an eye, the girl stood on her two feet, feeling dizzy but determined. The pointy eared man's eyes go all wide at her unpredictable behaviour, as a dark scowl pulled at her pursed lips. "How do you know my name?" The blonde pressed, far less concerned with the whole pointy ear situation than with what he had just said.
"All will be revealed in time." Elladan coaxed, noticing the brief flash of fright through her eyes. He felt terrible, withholding what Asphodel was dying to know, but he had no choice. The elf knew he could not tell her here, in broad daylight. He knew he had to gain her trust, somehow— be it anything.
" Tolo ar nin, Asphodel. Av-'osto, an ngell nîn." The words spilled past his lips but all that Asphodel could manage to comprehend was a symphony of riddles. Realization washes over him as he watches her face conform to confusion. Elladan is sad almost, to see her so confused at the sound of the language of her own people. He had at least expected her to understand Sindarin— if not speak it.
"Everything will be explained soon— if you come with me," He said, eyes kind and set on hers. This time she understood, this time he spoke English— and not Klingon, or whatever the hell that was. Her thoughts ran with the wind, could there be a tribe of pointy eared men somewhere in those woods, awaiting Elladan to bring her back so they can roast her over a fire like a rotisserie chicken? That would be bad, really bad. "I ask this of you, Asphodel." He interrupted her inner ramble.
Asphodel took another step back, her wired in survival impulses taking control over her limbs. Hell yeah she was exhausted, and hungry, and confused, the list went on and on. The girl had just died on the side of the road for gods sake! He was strange, too strange for her own liking— and she wasn't getting the answers she wanted.
"I," She bit her lip, trying to find the right words. "I call bullshit on that. Tell me now, or I won't be going anywhere with you anytime soon." She demanded— leet it be clear she was not requesting. Things were beginning to take a turn for the worse, as the two had a stare down, the only thing separating them being the abundance of golden flowers swaying in the breeze.
God, they were so unbelievably beautiful . . .
Focus Asphodel! This is important!
"It is in your best interests to come with me, Asphodel. I have said it before and I will say it again; I mean you no harm. You have my word." Every step she took backwards is one he took forwards.
Her head was humming vivaciously.
Why did he have to sound so convincing? How did she know if his words were genuine or not?
The afterlife was surely not as it had been depicted in the media. They never mentioned the fair faced beings, too beautiful to put into words, too freaking pestering for their own good.
Asphodel could feel her lungs become more and more deprived of air. The conflict was draining her already drained supply of energy to greater lows than ever before.
"Please," Her voice was a desperate plead. She then gulped, choking down the urge to vomit as a spell of dizziness overwhelmed her. "how do you know my na—"
And miraculously, for the second time that day, Asphodel laid unconscious in the field of golden flower.
Elladan sighed, sliding his hands under the stubborn elleth's body and lifting her up into his arms. She was too stubborn for her own good.
His father would not be happy about this. Elladan was given a single task, to bring the elleth back safe and sound, though this— he glanced down at her bloodied body — would have to do.
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The elvenking sealed the letter appropriately, his mind elsewhere as he awaited the arrival of his most trusted messenger.
He remained in a state of disbelief.
The elf was tempted to go to Rivendell himself, to scream in the face of Lord Elrond with all of his fury. Only then, would the lord know how truly upset Thranduil had felt upon receiving his letter earlier in the day.
The 'false pretenses' so he considered them, that had been presented to the king were the root of much commotion throughout the woodland realm that fatal day. Tables were flipped, innocent elves shouted at, all lingering peace was stolen from the halls of the hidden palace in the name of a slew of measly words scribbled onto paper.
It was as if a wound from long ago had been abruptly ripped open without warning. (Though let it be said, it had never been healed to begin with.)
Upon reading the letter of which the lord sent, Thranduil's broken heart had only shattered into tinier pieces of what was left.
The king refused to entertain the idea. Elrond was a blind man to think it be.
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note: it's just so much fun to torture my characters! thank you SO much for taking the time to read!