A/N : Here it is, my new AU for CS AU month on Tumblr! I chose to rewrite Tennyson's poem "The Lady of Shalott", simply because it's one of my favorite poems ever and I am a big fan of Arthurian legends. Plus, the imagery of this poem is astounding and I love the paintings by Waterhouse.

Credits to John William Waterhouse and effulgentcolors on tumblr for the cover, and of course, credits to Tennyson and Adam Horowitz and Eddy Kitsis for the story. I own nothing, not even all the words. Will you spot the words I took from the poem? ;)

The first part concerns the first two parts of the poem.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

Lord Alfred Tennyson - The Lady of Shalott - 1832

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One drop. Two drops. Three drops. A hundred, a thousand. A million, a billion. Water flew down the remote island of Shalott, pattering on the gray stone of the dark four-tower castle standing in the middle of the fields of barley and rye. Surrounded by lilies, its shape was like a stain of ink on a white parchment, its blackness fading into the clouded sky of this spring day. The wind bent the flowers and grass, howled like a wolf and hissed like a snake, sneaking into the castle of Shalott. But it was a soft rain, a simple shower, and the rays of the sun cast their dazzling light on the shadowy land, causing the dark to be even darker, the light to be even lighter, and the people who would see the island from the other side of the river would stare at its shades of light like they would do a painting. For in way, that is what the island of Shalott was: a phantasmagorical tableau lost in the middle of a wide river, a few miles away from many towered Camelot.

From time to time, the reapers would hear a light melody escape from the walls of the austere place, its notes dancing in the wind and coming to their tired ears. The chant caressed the sprigs of rye, slipped along the petals of the lilies, floated upon the calm waves of the river to reach the opposite shore and delight the strollers.

"'Tis the fairy, Lady of Shalott," one would say.

"'Tis no fairy my friend," another would answer, "'tis a princess cursed by the Evil Queen."

"The Evil Queen?" a curious child would interrupt.

"Yes child, the Evil Queen herself. Legend has it she cursed a princess to punish her parents, against whom she held a grudge. The poor princess was cursed to stay locked in the highest tower of the castle of Shalott, remote from the civilization forever."

"And what does she do all day?"

"She sings. It is also said she weaves. But she's yet to be seen."

Indeed, the identity of the Lady of Shalott was unknown by all. No one in all the kingdom knew who she was, or how she looked like. They only knew the sound of her beautiful voice and what the many legends said. She was a farmer's daughter who had been abducted by a witch because her parents had stolen some radish in the latter's garden, or a stunning princess taken away from her parents as a child, even an immortal witch doomed by the Gods centuries ago... Many times, bold men and women and reckless children had tried to reach the island and get into the castle. But the place was said to be haunted, and they always failed, coming back home disappointed and moody. A very old legend would say that he who would catch a glimpse of the Lady of Shalott would embrace a timeless happiness.

But who said happiness was easy to catch?

In the highest tower lived Lady Emma. Sitting in front of a large mirror she weaved what she saw in it, her fingers ceaselessly moving on the fabric with colors gay. Her golden mane fell in the small of her back, her curls following the movement of her head as she tilted it to the side, her eyebrows narrowed in concentration. And yet, if you could see her eyes, you would see the deepest sorrow in their sea green. For Emma of Shalott felt so terribly and hopelessly alone.

She did not know what her curse was. All she knew was that many years ago, the Evil Queen had abducted her and locked her up in this sinister castle, away from her family and her one true love. But the Queen was cruel and vicious: she had not told Emma what the curse truly was. All she knew was that she was not to look through the window. Her eyes had to stay locked on the mirror, or the curse would befall on her. But after all these monotonous years spent weaving and singing, she had convinced herself that her true curse was the loneliness she was plunged into, the nagging hole in her chest, the terrifying emptiness growing inside of her lonesome heart. The castle was not inhabited, she was the only soul living within its walls. Of course, there were servants, but they were the Queen's minions, ghostly shells deprived from consciousness. She was utterly alone, left with her childhood memories and the pictures moving in the mirror.

Emma bitterly remembered the sweet moments she had spent in Camelot, among her family and all the gentle people of the royal castle. She could still see herself running in the gardens chased by Killian, a cunning and fierce young boy raised by the Blue Fairy of the Lake. Oh, how she used to love spending her days by his side, pursuing the butterflies and hiding among the old trees! Often they would go by the lake and swim into its clear waters under the benevolent eye of the Blue Fairy, and one day, as they were lying on the mossy grass of the bank, he had told her : "Emma, when we are older, you now, adults, will you marry me?". Emma, who was eight years old at the time, had cocked an eyebrow at him. "Will you still love me by then?" And his smile, his cocky and adorable smile had enlightened her soul and warmed her little heart. "Far longer than this Emma. Far longer."

And now, here she was, weaving and weaving and sighing as the only images that graced her tired eyes were the reality of the mirror and the dance of her memories. And these questions churning around in her mind : where was Killian? Why hadn't he found her? Had he only looked for her? She was twenty now, and even though she was still very young, she knew that her life went by, that time was like the web she weaved: a thread that looks endless but which eventually runs short. And what about her parents? She could barely remember their faces... Only the sound of her mother's voice as she sang her to sleep was still intact. The warmth of her father's arms. And the laughter of Killian... His blue eyes...

Singing the hours away did not help her with those fleeting images. She weaved, she looked closely at the mirror, and yet, she could not get rid of Killian's piercing blue eyes. She saw so many things in those treasured irises, from the summer sky to the stormy sea, things that she was never to see again. This was the real curse: a lifetime of loneliness and confinement, like a bird in cage whose wings would still be there. She was young and beautiful, many would say she had her whole life in front of her, her wings were ready to be expanded. And yet, fluttering them was of no use. She would only end up crushed against the walls of her dim room. So there she sat, watching the light of the sun changing from pale pink to vivid ocher on her tapestry, soon replaced by the silver moonbeams.

When midnight struck in the far-off city of Camelot, she would stop and go to sleep in her four-poster bed, welcomed by cold and immensity. This bed was too large for her, and this room was too small, just like the mirror remaining on her desk. What was this little piece of glass compared with the world outside? Keeping her eyes on this mirror was frustrating and painful. She only wanted to taste the fresh fragrance of the night, see the owls instead of hearing their songs, gaze up at the stars instead of the ceiling of her room. But if she did so, the real curse would be cast, and she knew it would be worse than her loneliness. Sometimes, she would stay up at night and weave again, for the mirror was filled with the lights of festive Camelot. The damsels would dance with their knights, the music would come out of the static mirror, filling her ears with delight. But it was a vicious pleasure, for the more the scenes were light and lively, the more loneliness Emma felt. "I am half sick of shadows," she would say, hurt by the very existence of life outside of these walls. And one night, while the moon was overhead, two lovers came into the pictures, lately wed. The sight broke the princess' heart as she remembered this day by the lake with Killian. "That should be us my love," she whispered as the moon decreased to let the sun rise in the sky.

Could have beens were her comfort and her pain, her dreams and her regrets. The Evil Queen was stealing her life, squeezing her heart in her hands while it was firmly anchored in her chest. That was why the cruel woman had not taken Emma's heart: so that she could feel every little emotion, every pain, so that she would cry until her eyes were dry. Emma was not weak, but as the days went by, she felt her strength slip away from her body. She was exhausted, no hope was to be seen in this lethal mirror of hers. Only darkness. The darkness of what she would never be able to touch again.

Yes, only darkness.

A/N : I hope I didn't disappoint, I know some of you (fans of the poem like me) were eager to read this... I hope I didn't massacre it at least! I turned Killian into some kind of Lancelot and the Blue Fairy is Vivian (or Vivien, I don't know how she's called in English) as Lancelot was raised by her, the Lady of the Lake. Also, as you may have noticed, there's a tiny reference to the fairy tale Rapunzel!