by Lorena
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room
She saw the water lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
- lines 109-117
(Tennyson, “The Lady of Shalott”)
Comfortably tucked away in the gentle rolling landscape of Somerset sat famed Camelot, ensconced between endless fields of grass and wildflowers on one side and of rich, golden barley and rye on another. [1] The road that led to and from the mythical castle of ivory towers and brilliantly colorful pennants snaked its way through the English countryside, connecting legend with reality, high chivalric code with the stench of war, romance with betrayal, immortality with death. Countless travelers had followed the golden road, finding comfort in the promises and the hope that those gleaming towers offered as they approached and courage if they faced the other way.
A wide river cut its meandering way through the picturesque hills and valleys of Somerset, following the road to Camelot before turning in the direction of the sea, where it melted into the welcoming arms of the blue ocean. And there, in the middle of the widest part of the river, sat a fairy tower—alone, isolated from the world, cut off by gentle currents and the curse that haunted its inhabitants.
The island of Shalott was just a small piece of land—equally rich in vegetation as that found cradling Camelot. All manner of trees and flowering shrubbery filled its diminutive area, serving as a mysterious backdrop to the even more mysterious tower that rose high in their midst, standing proudly in its exile, its white stone mirroring the brilliance of the alabaster castle not too far away. The tower’s foundation was surrounded with a thick growth of climbing roses. The flowers were unusually lush and large, giving off the oddest aroma when the petals unfurled themselves to the sun’s touch, enticing wanderers from the mainland to pause in their tracks and stare in wonder at the mysterious blooms.
Many of them would brave the river and make their way across with the use of what local folk called a “fairy boat.” It was a small rowboat made of white wood, the interior comfortably lined with velvet cushions and a rich tapestry blanket. The boat was always tethered to a decaying tree stump that jutted out of the water, inviting passersby with its odd richness. Many did heed the call, but they were never to be seen again, and legend had it that they’d been ensnared by the fairy of Shalott.
Nobody had really seen this elusive creature, but people had claimed to have heard it—either in the early evening hours, when exhausted reapers retraced their steps home or in the early morning, when the moon was still hovering above, and the sun was waiting its turn to peer out of the horizon.
People had sworn that they’d heard gentle, languid strains of songs that no one recognized or understood. The music, it seemed, came from nowhere, but everyone knew better. The voice—low and sweet and soothing—surely came from the topmost windows of the white tower, serving as a siren’s call to those foolish enough to heed it. The music was tantalizing, to be sure, and local folk and careful wanderers had been rather good in keeping their distance, where they could listen to the fairy’s night music in awe and wonder without risking either safety or health.
Of course, as it always had been, there would be those foolish enough to test fate, and like those who’d thought it a wonderful adventure to board the fairy boat and cross the river to the island, they’d disappear without a trace.
Caught between tradition and change, however, people in the land never sought to challenge the strange forces that controlled Shalott, their fear of the unknown overriding all other consideration, and so an unsettling compromise was reached—albeit non-verbally—between the people and the tenants of the white tower.
In truth, there was only one tenant and twenty-nine ancestral phantoms in that lonely island. And the curse whispered among the local folk was one of heritage and the bloodline.
The tenant was a boy, who was being raised into a long line of night stalkers. The ancestral phantoms were those of his sisters, long dead and yet alive in the old, discolored portraits that crowded the gray walls of the tower room. They stared out with blank eyes and lifeless half-smiles, watching their youngest brother slowly transform into the creature that would assure their family’s longevity, urging him in quiet voices that floated from the thick gilded frames to stalk and kill. To entice them with his beauty. To claim his victims quickly and efficiently. To collect from them the life on which his strength and his power would hinge. To dispose of their remains swiftly, feeding the lush roses with their corpses, enhancing the aroma that the blooms would give off, which in turn would beckon more victims into the trap.
“You are vampyre,” the portraits would whisper around him, but the boy wasn’t convinced.
“I am human,” he’d whisper back as he sat at the loom, gazing in quiet despair at the patterns and the colors that he was slowly bringing to the fore, physical and symbolic reminders of what he was.
He was, by no means, immortal. Just like his sisters and his ancestors down the line, he was stolen away by his predecessor as a child and taken into the tower. There he was shaped and trained by the gradual infection caused by well-timed bites on tender, white skin—bites that would increase in frequency the older he got, which then tapered off and finally stopped by the time he reached his thirteenth year. At that point, his predecessor, having lived as long as any vampire was expected to live, expired, leaving the boy alone to complete his transformation through his nightly hunts till he turned twenty-one, the onset of full-fledged adulthood signaling the finalizing of his change. And it was expected that once the boy would reach his thirtieth year, it would be time for him to find his heir, and the process would repeat itself.
What his sisters (as he’d long called all those who’d gone before him) hadn’t expected was for the boy to cling to his humanity much more tenaciously than they wanted.
He fought his transformation every step of the way, his general helplessness in the face of those smiling portraits really nothing more than the growing sensitivity toward daylight. He couldn’t flee in the night without being caught without shelter when the sun rose, and he was also—understandably enough—terrified of how local folk, upon discerning his identity, would hunt him down the same way he was expected to hunt his prey.
He clung to his humanity by refusing to feed on anything living, insisting on the wild fruit that grew around the tower instead. But he could hold off for only so long, and he all too often found himself feverish with want of blood, no matter how hard he tried to stave off the need. And stubbornness in denying his transformation would leave him lying weak and hungry in his bed, staring dully into the darkness around him as he waited through the evening hours for the day to arrive, and he’d be forced to sleep off the effects of deprivation.
He’d do this—kill himself in the process if need be—if only to buy himself one more day of his rapidly endangered humanity.
His reluctance had given his phantom sisters much grief, and it was all they could do to sing their nightly lullabies in a tongue foreign to mortals around them. Their collective voices—hollow, gentle, enticing—would float out of the tower, filling the surrounding countryside with their call, offering pleasure yet unheard of by living men, baiting the unwary and the foolish and leading them to the tower, where the boy would be lying feverishly, his hunger gnawing his body and overcoming his will when the temptation became much too great for him to fight.
If he refused to hunt, his sisters would bring his prey to him.
The pattern was quite common. The boy was beautiful in the most unusual, unearthly way. Entranced, his victims would step forward, further seduced by the whispered singing that filled the room, and offer themselves to their hoped-for and horrified lover.
His struggles against his needs would be feeble once nature had taken its course, and his hunger would drag him further down the depths of his cursed existence. Naked and entangled in rich satin, velvet, and brocade, slender, white limbs gracefully wrapped around the eager, straining body that enfolded him in its warmth, weeping with every kiss dropped on the gentle curves of his face, neck, and body—the boy would tearfully plead for mercy to the leering faces that surrounded him in their gilt frames in spite of the assurance that mercy would be nowhere near. The voices would continue their quiet lullabies, and he’d feel the warm tingling sensation that heralded the monster that he didn’t want to become.
Tears wouldn’t stop the sharpening of his canines and the inexorable pull of the vibrantly pulsing jugular that hovered a mere inch or two away.
“I am sorry,” he’d whisper before he’d give his fatal kiss, repeating his apology as he crouched against the wall, watching the lifeless figure lying sprawled on the bed, and he’d curse himself and his existence.
“You are one of us,” the portraits would coo, and they would reward him his pains with songs that they claimed were sung in Arthur’s court, and the blood-soaked air would be filled with lively strains of madrigals, encasing him with visions of banquets and tournaments and bright pennants fluttering in the wind.
The boy would be left to dispose of the body, and he’d return to the loathsome room to take his place by the mirror that offered him the only glimpse to the outside world and the loom into which he was to pour out his hopes and dreams.
It was a loom that was as much a part of the tower as it was a part of his curse.
On the weathered chair his sisters had sat, night after night, weaving their tapestries as dictated by what they saw in the mirror. As none of them could gaze at the outside world in the day, it was the mirror’s province to offer them shadow versions of what they wished to see.
The boy had heard of Camelot in his childhood, and it was—at one point in the distant past—his greatest desire to see the fabled castle, to lose himself in the code of chivalry that dictated the lives of knights and their ladies as well as their king. To find a champion who would take him as he was, regardless of breeding and frailties.
But the portraits scorned those dreams, insisting on their uselessness.
“Do you wish to lose yourself in the weakness of mortals?”
“I am mortal,” he replied as he bent over the loom, thin, white fingers mingling colored threads into patterns he always felt were feeble interpretations of the world beyond Shalott.
>From outside the aroma of blooming roses would float into the room, penetrating the heavy drapery that shielded the interior from the world and filling the air with its potent, sickeningly sweet stench until the boy felt his stomach turn. The vines had been feeding on the corpses quite well.
“You are always one of us. You cannot leave.”
“I am human.”
“You are vampyre.”
“I am human.”
“You will die if you embrace your humanity.”
“Then I will die.”
The portraits would laugh quietly at his obstinacy, and the conversation would end. But they were well aware of the pains the boy would take in maintaining his humanity. Even when the sun rose, he’d force himself to remain awake, weakened by the disappearance of the moon’s influence, his feeble strength largely maintained by the cover of darkness afforded by the heavy drapery that shut out the windows, and he’d remain at the loom, earnestly weaving the shapes and colors that the mirror offered him. And there he’d stay till his body couldn’t take the strain, and he’d crawl to bed, wrapping himself in the thick, sumptuous blanket that would protect him from the day.
He persisted in his fight, and his sisters would persist in their efforts, at times scolding him outright for what they considered his selfishness.
“We made you what you are,” they hissed. “You owe us your allegiance.”
“No,” he whispered into the covers, burying his face in his pillow when his body alerted him of the all-too-familiar and similarly detested cravings of the night. “I am not your puppet.”
“You are heir to the bloodline.”
“I am myself and myself alone. I am no one’s tool.”
“You are one of us.”
“Human,” he’d sob into his pillow as his body shuddered from hot, terrifying need, and his sisters began their lullabies. “Human.”
Then a lover would appear at the door.
He was fifteen—on the cusp of adolescence and still not fully transformed into a nocturnal demon—when his humanity surged yet another notch forward.
He was sitting at the loom when his eyes took note of something that up to this point he hadn’t really noticed. He stared long and hard at the mirror, blue eyes widening at the sight of lovers in each other’s arms, talking, laughing, wooing. They didn’t offer each other the fatal embrace that he’d been lavishing on his own lovers. There was something in their smiles and their gaze that he’d never really considered before. He frowned, feeling odd stirrings in his stomach.
And the longer he watched, the more muddled his mind grew.
He saw tenderness. He saw sympathy. He saw love. With every light touch of a hand against a flushed cheek, with every playful tug of a golden curl, something completely foreign and disquieting began to cast its shadow in the boy’s mind. And he pondered long and hard as he watched couples float across the mirror’s shadowy depths, showcasing clear, unadulterated joy at being in each other’s company to the boy’s wondering eyes.
They were far, far removed from the naked lust that goaded his midnight lovers on, encouraging them to take advantage of a trapped boy not yet used to the workings of the world. They were far, far removed from the primal, insatiable hunger that drove him from his own humanity and forced him to feast on their foolish blood.
The boy was confused, and none of his sisters could satisfy his desire for answers.
“They are weak,” they laughed in their phantom voices, showering him with pitying looks from their antiquated frames. “You are much stronger, more powerful. They fear you.”
“I do not want to be feared.”
“But they do. They cannot help it. They do not understand you and your heritage, and it is not your problem to solve. You are here to give our family what we need.”
“I want to love.”
“You cannot.”
“I want to be loved.”
“You cannot.”
And his sisters began their lullabies.
One day, just outside the tower and across the river and further into the mainland, a knight appeared on horseback. Young, hearty, and hale, full of vigor and the need for adventure, he idly sauntered by, pausing in his tracks at the sight of the tower of Shalott.
He set aside his shield, and, shrugging his cape off one shoulder, he raised his arms and gingerly took hold of his helm and lifted it off, exposing his head to the mirror’s shadow world and to the weakened boy’s astonished gaze. Sunlight spilled on the knight’s features as he gazed up thoughtfully at the tower, highlighting the soft sweep of brown hair and the green depths of his eyes as he squinted. The boy inside stared at the mirror, a trembling hand flying to his chest as he felt something constrict inside.
As the young knight lifted a mail-covered hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the boy of Shalott saw the white and gold surcoat glimmer in the light, the cape that draped proudly down the knight’s shoulders flap gently in the morning breeze, the silver hauberk capture the sun’s rays and reflect them in a million tiny stars. And his dazzled eyes could barely make out the figure of the knight standing at the side of the river, arm raised, lifted up as though beckoning to him.
The boy looked on in disbelief.
He was being called from the tower. Silver and white light permeated the mirror’s gloom and lit up the heavy, oppressive darkness of the tower’s chamber, sending a sudden surge of restlessness through the boy.
He touched the mirror’s cold surface with his hand in a vain attempt to touch the knight who was calling to him. White fingers pressed themselves against the glass, and the boy wanted to weep.
“You are one of us,” his sisters hissed around him again and again, their voices rising in an urgent chorus. “You cannot go to him.”
“I am human,” he whispered not so much to them but to himself as he watched the young knight in the mirror. “I want to love.”
“You cannot be weak!”
“I want to be loved.”
The knight made a move to walk back to his horse, and the boy cried out, pressing more desperately against the mirror.
“You cannot go to him! Let him be!”
“No,” the boy whispered, eyes widened in horror as he felt the burden of his curse weigh on his body, the lure of sleep casting its painful net over his shattered mind. “No—I am half sick of shadows!”
Ignoring the cries of his sisters, the boy jumped out of his chair and ran to the window, reaching out and grabbing hold of the ancient, decaying fabric that hung, untouched, for countless years. He savagely flung it aside, flooding the room instantly with sunlight.
For the briefest of moments, he found himself staring at the brilliance of the silver knight below as the latter mounted his steed, and he smiled for the first time since he was spirited away to Shalott.
He could barely hear his sisters’ phantom voices shriek and wail as he glanced over his shoulder to watch the day tear through the sepulchral gloom of his home, blanketing each inch of gray stone with white brilliance. Every piece of fabric touched by the sun rapidly deteriorated, fading and shredding and falling to the floor in lifeless piles of rotten cloth.
The loom shook and crumbled, releasing the tapestry that he and his predecessors had woven, throwing it high before it was picked up by the morning breeze and flung across the room, where it, too, faded from the touch of the sun’s rays. The shadow mirror shivered in its stand, the glass lightly undulating as though it had liquefied and its surface had been disturbed by ripples. It shrank into itself before bending out of its frame, and tiny cracks rapidly spreading themselves out like capillaries broke the surface. The cracks grew, and the mirror pushed itself further out and shattered into a million tiny shards that flew all over, raining down on everything and cutting the boy’s flesh as he cowered, raising his arms to protect himself.
His sisters continued to cry out their despair, their wails of grief piercing the air for several more seconds before they slowly faded away, and the boy was left with nothing but shattered remains of what once was his heritage.
He turned around and looked out, only to find the young knight already riding off, following the road that led to Camelot.
His body rapidly weakening from the strain of overcoming his vampiric heritage, the boy nevertheless stumbled down the stairs, his eyes still burning from the blinding light that had enveloped him just now. He heard the call of Camelot amid the rush of voices in his head—those that cursed him for his frailty and taunted him with reminders of what he’d done, of all the men he’d killed.
“I am not one of you,” he whispered raggedly as he burst out of the decaying wooden door and into the greenery of which he’d seen only in the night. Tears burnt their way down his cheeks at the agony of daylight in his face, but he blinked them away, mustering up what little strength he had left to find his way to the boat that floated idly by the edge of the river, left untethered by his last victim. He quickly climbed inside, pushing himself away from the grassy slope with a weary shove, and he collapsed inside amid rich velvet and silk. And there he lay, allowing the river’s current to carry him away from his prison, following the road that led to Camelot and the silver knight who’d urged him out of his cell.
Eyes heavy from drained energy and the stunted transformation that would now haunt him if not attended to right away, the boy closed his eyes against the sun, allowing the day to infuse pale features with their warmth and their promise of a new day. He could hear distant voices of people—travelers and merchants, farmers and noblemen—all raised in lively conversation and laughter, anger and tears—everything of which he’d long been deprived in his incarceration. How different the world looked outside the mirror, he thought, and he smiled wanly, pale lips curling softly at the simple pleasure of feeling human if only for a brief moment.
If he were to die, he knew that he would die happy at least, finally able to embrace that part of him too long denied. His failing senses noted the birds and the whispers of wind among trees—of the gentle sounds of water lapping against the side of the fairy boat—of the alabaster towers of Camelot as they rose above the distant forest, beckoning to him. He could even hear the faint sounds of music from those fabled towers—of jousting and carousing—of the threats of war and plagues—and he almost wept with joy.
He also heard voices nearby—voices raised in surprise and even terror. But he was fading and so couldn’t quite make out the words. All his weakened mind could comprehend was the note of urgency in those voices, and he sank more deeply into the cushions that cradled him.
The mist gathered before his eyes.
The vague sounds of splashing water caught his dying attention.
A shadow appeared at the boat’s prow, and he thought he heard a voice calling.
“Who is this?”
“The fairy boat!” someone cried. “The fairy boat!”
He could barely discern the brilliant explosion of silver that seemed to cast an odd halo around the figure that suddenly appeared and bent down over him. Voices everywhere wove themselves into each other until he couldn’t discern one from another, but his heart felt a welcome connection to the garbled noise around him.
“He lives,” came a quiet voice—much closer now, and the shadow above him moved, and he felt himself gently lifted up and cradled against someone’s shoulder.
Something cold was pressed against his lips, and a burning draught made its way down his throat, forcing the dry, blood-caked passage to open up and receive a new source of life. The burning tore through his insides, and his body weakly struggled against its effects, but its stunted transformation had rendered it helpless against foreign intrusion, and it simply collapsed against the force of simple, life-sustaining water.
He forced his heavy eyes open, his muddied vision struggling to take in the sight of brown hair and green eyes encased in a silver halo.
“Rest. Let me take you back,” came the voice, hushed and soothing, and the boy smiled, closing his eyes and sinking back into a deep though feverish sleep.
His people would take care of him. Of that he already knew. It would take some time, but their humanity wouldn’t allow them to abandon him to the curse that had once been his heritage.
Notes (very long):
[1] The exact location of Camelot is still in dispute today, but one of them has been guessed to be Cadbury Castle, South Cadbury, Somerset. Others include Caerlon, Monmouthshire, in Wales; Queen Camel, Somerset; Camelford, Cornwall; Winchester, Hampshire. (from the New Encyclopedia Britannica)
Ideas for the roses and the buried bodies come from Angela Carter's "The Lady of the House of Love." The use of vampires in both this fic and the short story aren't in any way related. I've already mapped out the basic plot of the fic before reading Carter's story.
On the metaphors:
This fic is once again a metaphor regarding Quatre’s situation as the heir of the Winner dynasty. I wanted to delve into the area of his voluntarily giving up his obligations and his connections if forced to choose. Too many stories have already been written where he succumbs to family pressure, and he fulfills his obligations by marrying and siring a dozen or so children and pretty much living the rest of his life utterly miserable with himself. Personally, I find that a bit of an easy source of 3x4 angst. Plus I’ve always considered Quatre to be strong enough to defy the dictates of his family if he felt himself being denied his own humanity in the process.
Yes, he loves his sisters and his father, but to what extent will he deny himself for them? I want to touch on a side of him that can be possible.
I chose vampirism here not so much for titillation purposes but really more as a criticism of the kind of pressure that Quatre faces as the heir to the Winner fortune. I’m not a friend of big corporations, either, as I’ve always seen them as bloodsuckers in almost a literal sense, hence the use of vampirism as well.
The lady of Shalott is confined—imprisoned both literally and metaphorically by the social constraints placed on her by Victorian society (though Tennyson uses an Arthurian theme). That's really no different from Quatre and the confinement that threatens him as the heir of Winner Enterprises and the one to produce a gazillion babies to prolong the family line.
The lady of Shalott is “sick of shadows” and looks out the window and falls in love with Sir Lancelot, which is a rebellion against her confinement and the “curse” that haunts her. Quatre is “sick of shadows” (the burden of his obligations) and looks out the window (out into the world beyond WE) and chooses Trowa (risking his reputation, his position, and his relationship with his family), which is a rebellion against his confinement and the “curse” (his being the only male heir) that haunts him.
The mirror cracks to signal the breaking of the lady’s link with her confinement. The mirror cracks to signal the breaking of Quatre’s link to his confinement—either he disinherits himself or he’s disinherited by the family. In this case he disinherits himself.
The lady sets out in a little boat toward Camelot, where along the way she expires—which serves as her emancipation. Quatre sets out in a little boat toward Camelot (metaphorically, the world outside WE), where along the way he expires—which serves as his emancipation. Though in this case I choose not to let him die not because I want a frivolous, happy ending to the story, but because I want to show that the world outside WE is worth the sacrifice he makes. His survival only emphasizes his strength and the connection he has with the outside world.