The Lady of Boston
This is an angsty story, rated T because of the poem, and mostly angst. It's based on Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem The Lady of Shalott and Emilie Autumn's song Shalott. Takes place in the 18th century. The 39 Clues do not exist.
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She was the cursed one. Born to a woman who had never wanted a child. Abandoned in a tower, furnished with only a mirror and and a loom, where she spent most of her time sitting at a stool, weaving. Amy Catherine Cahill. She had spent 18 years in the tower, never going out, never looking out. When she was eight years old, she had heard a voice telling her that if she ever tried to escape, or look down, through a rather large opening between the bricks in the tower, upon the town Boston, she would die. Amy, though living in solitary confinement, would never take the chance. In fact, she rather liked living alone in the tower.
"Why risk an injury or a broken heart?" She would muse to herself. She could look at the mirror to see the reflection of Boston below. But she knew, for 18 years she had become half sick of shadows. Her only comfort was her weaving, and her singing. The only people who had ever heard The Lady of Boston, as they called her, were the old reapers, plowing the crops at night, listening to her haunting melody. Amy knew she would die well before she was old. She would never see the sun come down, or have someone court her. But for the time being, she just wove at her loom., singing at night, and occasionally glancing towards the mirror to see the town below.
A few days before her 19th birthday, Amy sat at her loom, humming an old love song she had heard a pair of lovers singing. She glanced in her mirror. Her fatal mistake. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped, and her hands stopped weaving. A handsome man, about her age, with silky black tresses, chocolate brown eyes, and tanned skin, was riding past a beautiful white horse. Amy untangled her fingers from the loom, and ran to the opening through the bricks. She sighed as she heard him laugh, a deep, resonant laugh. Her heart filled with love. Perhaps all girls were the same to him, but at the time she did not care.
Suddenly, instead of hearing him laugh, she heard the loud crack of glass and the split of wood. She slowly turned around and gasped. The mirror had broken, pieces of glass falling down off of it. The loom was worse. It had split in half. The colorful web she had been spinning had frayed and turned gray. Amy paled. I really am the cursed one. She thought to herself in horror.
She ran down the swirling steps of the tower that she had never dared to go down. A sea was near the tower, and on the shores was a boat, held to a post only by a rusty chain. She sprinted to the boat, and broke the chain. She hesitated, only then noticing that the clear blue sky had turned into a stormy gray one. The clouds shot lightning down to the earth; an obvious sign that they were furious.
Amy took a breath and jumped into the boat. She nervously let the boat steer itself over the bumpy water. She looked around and smiled.
"I'm free!" She cried. She stared at the trees and pondered the village surrounding her old tower. She laughed in pride.
But not for long. Her laughs turned into sobs of grief and anguish. I'm going to die. She remembered the voice. And now looking around, knew it had spoken the truth.
She began to sing, of heartache of loss. Of how she was to die, and no one knew her. She thought of the man on the horse. She began to sing of her love from him. She lay down in the boat, still singing of her love. Clothed in a white dress robe, she sang in a strong voice, letting the rain envelop her. The villagers of Boston paused and listened to her. The man she had been singing of, who was a noble by the name of Ian Kabra, listened to the song and smiled at the fair voice.
Amy sang of her life in the tower. The last song she would ever sing.
She's locked up with a spinning wheel
She can't recall what it was like to feel
She says, "This room's gonna be my grave
And there's no one who can save me,"
She sits down to her colored thread
She knows lovers waking up in their beds
She says, "How long can I live this way
Is there someone I can pay to let me go
'Cause I'm half sick of shadows
I want to see the sky
Everyone else can watch as the sun goes down
So why can't I
And it's raining
And the stars are falling from the sky
And the wind
And the wind I know it's cold
I've been waiting
For the day I will surely die
And it's here
And it's here for I've been told
That I'll die before I'm old
And the wind I know it's cold..."
She looks up to the mirrored glass
She sees a horse and rider pass
She says, "This man's gonna be my death
'Cause he's all I ever wanted in my life
And I know he doesn't know my name
And that all the girls are all the same to him
But still I've got to get out of this place
'Cause I don't think I can face another night
Where I'm half sick of shadows
And I can't see the sky
Everyone else can watch as the tide comes in
So why can't I
But there's willow trees
And little breezes, waves, and walls, and flowers
And there's moonlight every single night
As I'm locked in these towers
So I'll meet my death
But with my last breath I'll sing to him I love
And he'll see my face in another place,"
And with that the glass above
As Amy sang the last line, she felt her blood freeze and her eyes roll back. She cried out as the icy pain overwhelmed her, then breathed her last.
(DIVIDING LINE)
About an hour later, the boat washed up to shore. The day was sunny again, and people crowded around the boat in curiosity. They screamed when they saw the lady within. Ian bravely walked up to the boat, and brushed away the auburn hair from the woman's pale face.
"She has a lovely face, God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Boston." Ian bent over and touched his mouth to her slightly blue one. It is said, an old wives tale spread through the people, that the lady's mouth slightly curved into a smile as soon as his lips met hers.
(DIVIDING LINE)
So, what do you think? It's a one-shot,on one of my fave songs by Emilie Autumn. The song is hers.
I do not own Shallot by Emilie Autumn, or Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem The Lady of Shallot.
~Amy