AN: Although the title and a few other things you might pick up on as the fanfic progresses were inspired by "Tristan and Isolde", including the love triangle element (I had a lot of fun working with the whole Merlin/Freya/Arthur thing in my last fic "The End of Magic" so I was very excited to sort of revisit that concept again but in a new way and without the crossover factor affecting the overall plot), it's not actually based on (nor does it follow the exact plot of) the legend, the Joseph Bedier book, the movie, or the opera which inspired the title. Nor is it fully intended to be a retelling of "The Lady of Shalott," though it has traces of it, especially in this first chapter.

Pairings: Merlin/Freya, Arthur/Gwen, and (for plot-related reasons) Merlin/Freya/Arthur.

~Chapter one: The Fairy Lady of Shalott~

THE FLAMING BOAT drifted along the currents of the lake of Avalon. The young warlock responsible for setting it on fire, as a farewell, a makeshift yet royalty-worthy funeral of sorts for his dead beloved, had already left. He had watched the boat drift off, even hesitated slightly before using his magic to set it aflame, but then he had gone; returned, having largely to keep his grievous mourning a secret, to Camelot, where he worked as the prince's manservant.

If he had stayed a while longer, he might have been rather surprised to see the growing interest a sizable number of magical flying, brightly glowing, spheres had taken in the boat. (These were the Sidhe, fairies of Avalon.) Then, on the other hand, had he stayed, and been clearly visible, not concealed behind a tree or boulder or some other out-of-sight natural landmark, perhaps they mightn't have come out into the part of the lake connected to the mortal realm in broad daylight and there would have been nothing to see.

Nothing different, just the boat on fire continuing to float.

The bright blue glowing softened slightly and the Sidhe looked like sleek, somewhat elegant, yet undeniably semi-grotesque as well, little creatures only a mite bigger than some large insects, with somber faces that were both curious and stern.

They examined the boat, but it was hard to see what was in it with all that fire, so they put the fire out and found the half-burned face, charred dress, and singed black hair of the young outcast Druid girl who had died a tragic death, unloved and feared by most, yet sent off by the one person who did love her as if she were a great princess of some mighty and noble kingdom.

The eldest of the Sidhe elders weaved his way through the air, beating his clear, almost skeletal, dragonfly-like wings, and looked down at her. "Mostly dead," was his comment.

"Yes, quite," a servant Sidhe responded.

"Is it of any use to us?"

"A dead Druid girl?"

"We have great magic. She might be revived if it was to our benefit."

The fairies whispered in buzzing voices amongst each other, some views differing, some uninterested now that they knew there was nothing they wanted in the boat.

"Before death and cremation," said one, "she must have been nice to look at. For a gangly human in a feeble mortal shell, anyway."

"Her clothes are that of a noblewoman's, but our great powers reveal that she is not. Only a Druid, as we've known from first glance."

The Sidhe elder considered this for a moment. "She cannot fool us mighty Sidhe. What mortal can? But, alive, she could fool another, lesser race and give us something we want."

More buzzing followed. The Sidhe could be greedy, and they were intrigued by their elder's words.

He silenced them with a single flashing light in his small, cold eyes so he could finish. "If we were to restore her to life, taking away her burns and injures along with death, and making a changeling out of her, sending her then out into the world to do our bidding, mightn't Uther be tricked into making her the bride of his son? Which would give us something we have desired a long, long time: a Sidhe queen. And not just any Sidhe queen, but one who sits upon the throne of Camelot itself!"

"A splendid idea! But how would Uther be convinced to make her Arthur Pendragon's wife?"

"Very easily. The man is not so hard to control, he is only an aging duffer, terrified of being enchanted yet hopelessly unable to smell or spy an enchantment even if it hits him on the nose," said the Sidhe elder. "This is what we will do. We'll keep her in the boat, floating towards the shore, with a letter under her hand. This letter will say that she is a great lady of Astolat, a recently fallen kingdom that was a good and close ally of Camelot and Uther Pendragon."

"Her name," said a fairy, reading her burned face as if it were an ancient script of writing, "is Freya."

"We needn't change it. Uther will not notice the difference. He is too stupid. But we can make it sound grander." The Sidhe elder smiled slowly and proudly. "The High Born Lady Freya of Shalott."

"What of the Druid mark she bears?"

"Let us make it so that those without magic cannot easily behold the restored marking. Uther will rue having ruled out all magic, as only such ones would easily see the one clue of her true identity." The irony made the Sidhe elder's smirk deepen.

So the fairies set, wickedly, about their task; their magic made her skin fresh again, her breath and life-yes, her very soul-return to her body, her hair (parts of it having been turned to ashes by the flames) thick, full and dark once more, and her princess dress mend, beautiful as when it was first given her.

They were very prideful and satisfied with themselves and thus spoke, unconcerned, of their plan, repeating it many times over, unaware, unthinking, not even considering that the newly revived Freya might be overhearing their words, remembering. Nor did they think to swipe her memory or do anything to keep her from spilling their secrets. They were far too consumed with pleasure at the thought of their future Sidhe queen.

They had even been quarreling a bit over which fairy, which nobly-born Sidhe, was good enough to have the honour of being planted in their newly acquired changeling.

Finally it was settled that a well-loved Sidhe girl who, if anyone is interested in knowing this though it does not really come back into the story, was actually the first cousin of Sophia, a by then dead Sidhe who had come into Camelot sometime before and been killed in the end by the very same warlock who'd loved this Druid who was soon to be a changeling, would be the one.

But as fate and destiny themselves would have it, when Freya was ready, and they sent their fairy into her, it would not take. She writhed, rocking the boat back and forth, the fairy trying to take hold, her body fighting it automatically, instinctively.

At first, the Sidhe elder and the other fairies weren't in the least worried. They thought their future Sidhe queen would easily over-come this girl's natural resistance. Alas, they had not counted on three factors. One, the girl had magic; not like theirs, but magic nonetheless, some of which may have helped her. Two, the girl was no newborn baby, no child, which they would usually make changelings of; she was too old. And three, she was still cursed. The fairies of Avalon had seen her name and what she was in a glance, but they had missed what should have been most evident: that she was a Bastet still, the curse holding even in death (or near death, whichever it truly was), and the fairy within her would have to settle for being one, too, forever more; for being cursed with her.

Unable to abide this upsetting fate, the fairy gave up the fight and died, exiting Freya and ceasing to exist in any form ever again.

The Sidhe elder was vivid with rage. His face was suddenly more glowing white than blue. If he had been a very bit less angry and more thoughtful he might have destroyed her. Instead, in his fury, he magicked the boat away (in a move equivalent of a human without magic shoving or kicking it aside).

"Let the waif be at the pity and mercy of her own kind," said the Sidhe Elder, enraged, "or go straight to Hell-for all I care!"

ARTHUR AND MERLIN walked quietly through the forest a day or so later, out on a hunting trip. That is, Arthur walked quietly. Per the prince's sharp words, eye rolls, and occasional snorts of annoyance, Merlin made plenty of noise, stepping down too hard on fragile twigs, speaking too loudly and at the wrong time, dropping the weapons he was supposed to be carrying, and tripping over his own two feet more than half of the time.

"Merlin," said Arthur, peevishly, looking over his shoulder at his servant, "I understand that you apparently can't help carrying my crossbow lopsided like it could fall from your grasp any moment, or stomping through these woods five paces behind me like an ogre, but must you breathe so loudly?"

"My loud breathing is scaring the animals away..." Merlin repeated flatly, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it," he added, insincerely, under his breath.

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Sire."

"Come on, we're going this way."

Merlin saw which direction Arthur was indicating and felt himself grimace involuntarily. It was the lake. There was nothing significant to Arthur about that lake, but it was both where Merlin had first overheard Aulfric speaking to the Sidhe, plotting to give Arthur Pendragon's soul as a sacrifice to allow his daughter to return to Avalon, and, far more recently, said his final goodbyes to Freya. The shoreline of the lake was where Freya had died in his arms, promising one day to repay him for his kindness and love towards her. In short, he wasn't in a great hurry to go back there so soon, the hurt so fresh.

"Can't we go the other way?" Merlin asked quickly. "That path over there looks very...uh...green. That's where all the animals will be."

"You don't know the first thing about hunting animals," Arthur snorted.

"Yeah, but I know animals like to eat," Merlin prattled, a bit pathetically. "And they like green...things..."

"Green things?" Arthur repeated.

"Grass and big leaves and what-not," concluded Merlin, half-smiling in a forced, feeble manner.

"Merlin, is there a reason you don't want to go the way I'm telling you to?" Arthur's eyebrows went up challengingly.

"No, of course not," said Merlin. "It's just, you know, there's nothing that way. Nothing to look at. Except the lake."

"Merlin, we're not here to take in the scenery," Arthur told him.

"It's probably wet," Merlin blurted. "Down that way."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you not want to get your boots muddy?" he snapped sarcastically. "Don't be such a girl, Merlin! Come on."

They were just coming into sight of the lake, a mile or two up from where Merlin had originally sent Freya off, when Arthur stopped in his tracks and blinked. "What's that?"

"What?"

"That, over there." Arthur pointed, blinking again. "It looks like a small boat of some sort."

Merlin saw it, then. And recognized it. So the fire had gone out before consuming the boat, and, because nothing in his life could ever be easy or simple or forgotten, it had washed back up on the shores.

"I'm going to get a closer look."

"Arthur, don't. I'm sure it's nothing."

Arthur, naturally, didn't listen; he went on, first at a brisk fast-walk, then a near run, till he reached the side of the boat.

I hate this, thought Merlin, miserably. But at least Freya would, doubtless, be mostly ashes by now, so no chance of Arthur recognizing her. It was, however, rather sick that that was the bright side of things.

"Merlin!" Arthur called. "There's a girl in here."

"Dead," said Merlin.

He didn't actually phrase it as a question, but Arthur took it as such. He leaned closer. The girl was cold, very cold. But though she was cold as a corpse, he thought he heard a faint hum of raspy breath and saw her chest rise ever so slightly.

The first time, he was unsure. When she did it again, roughly half a minute later, Arthur was certain.

"Alive!" cried Arthur. "She's alive. Merlin, don't just stand there gawking, get over here and help me!"

Merlin felt frozen. There was a buzzing in his ears; his heart beat like a drum. Arthur's voice, now calling him a lazy lump of a servant, sounded distant, quite far away.

Freya was alive? No, it couldn't be. He must be mistaken; it was the wrong boat. It was only a boat that looked like the one he'd put Freya in. It had to be. Freya was gone. He'd loved her and she was gone. This had to be some other girl, set adrift on the lake. Although, it was a staggering, not to mention unlikely, coincidence.

But was it any more unlikely than Freya coming back from the dead?

He watched numbly as Arthur lifted the girl out of the boat. One glance was all it took; there she was, Freya herself, in the same dress he'd stolen from Morgana's chambers, no signs of fire, cold and limp, but (according to Arthur, anyway) alive.

Finally, he rushed forward, ignoring Arthur's grumbles that it was about bloody time. "Light a fire," he ordered. "She's very cold and she needs heat."

Arthur, you clodpole, if you wanted me to gather firewood you shouldn't have told me to come over here and help; you're giving me mixed signals! Merlin almost gritted his teeth in exasperation, but he was too stunned to put his thoughts into words. Furthermore, he could not take his eyes off of Freya's drooped form in Arthur's arms.

"Merlin," growled Arthur impatiently. "Now!"

He didn't want to leave her, even for a minute, worried Arthur would recognize her as the Druid who had been a Bastet; but, if he was right, and Freya needed heat... If this time he could save her life... Merlin took off as if his feet had wings. Arthur had never see him move so fast.

As it happened, Arthur didn't recognize Freya as the Bastet. There were a few reasons for this. She was dressed as royalty, not a nomadic outlaw, for starters, and, for another thing, he had only seen the Bastet in her human form briefly and in the dark. She had spoken to him, shortly, and their eyes had met, but Arthur did not place the face of the weak girl in his arms that he was cautiously lowering to the ground as that of the cursed Druid. If he thought she looked a bit familiar, he resigned it simply to being that she reminded him, for some reason or other (perhaps it was the dark hair), a little of Morgana.

Then, of course, there was the letter. It fluttered out from under her arm, and as soon as Arthur had let go of her completely, he noticed it, caught it before it touched the ground, and began to read it.

Merlin returned with the firewood. It was too damp to light, but he struggled with the flint anyway, alternatively peeking at Freya and then looking back down at what his fumbling hands were trying to do. Finally, sure Arthur was preoccupied with the paper he was reading, Merlin quickly used his magic to light the wood.

There. Now Freya would have warmth.

It was a cruel thing those Sidhe had done, casting her away. They had restored her life, it was true, but not her strength. If she had become a changeling as they'd intended, she would have had their protection, but, in casting her off, they'd basically just ensured that if she was not found, she'd die all over again, and slowly. The Sidhe elder had said she could go to Hell for all he cared, and, hearing that, Freya had dimly sensed her forthcoming second demise and been resigned to it; but she had not thought Hell would be so bitterly cold. She was so numb she could just barely feel the arms that lifted her out of the boat. And, the little that she did feel, she was half-convinced wasn't real; only a dream.

"She's a noblewoman," Arthur said, putting the letter aside. "From Astolat." Astolat was a friend of Camelot, before it was taken.

Merlin didn't care what or who Arthur thought she was, so long as he meant her no harm.

"Keep her warm," Arthur ordered next. "Make sure the fire doesn't go out and hold her close enough to it that she can feel the heat. I'm going to get the hunting blankets from the pack."

Merlin lifted her into his arms and did as Arthur said. Also, he took off the brown jerkin he wore over his tunic and put it around her shoulders, rubbing her arms and breathing hard on her chilled hands.

Suddenly Freya's eyes fluttered open.

Merlin felt his heart stop beating and his breath catch in his throat.

His form was blurry; she blinked, then saw him. She smiled. She wasn't sure how she had come to be with Merlin again, but she couldn't deny her delight over it. This was no Sidhe Hell; this was heaven, by the lake. Merlin was holding her, but she had no fatal wound this time, just a lot of coldness. And that coldness was slowly thawing. Freya didn't think she'd ever been so happy.

She opened her mouth, ready to speak his name and tell him what had happened, but then she saw him shake his head down at her.

Something was amiss. He knew her, as she knew him, but he didn't want her to react as if she recognized him.

Arthur returned. "She's awake."

She turned her head and saw him. Trembling, she murmured, "No...please..."

"Shh..." Merlin whispered. "It's all right. You're safe now."

How could she be safe? This was the same Arthur Pendragon whose blow had killed her. She could not forget the face of her killer, Merlin's master. More importantly: Uther Pendragon's son.

"Nothing is going to harm you," Arthur said, putting a blanket over her and crouching down beside them. "We're your friends, Lady Freya of Shalott. We come from Camelot. King Uther is my father."

Freya finally understood. The letter...the one the Sidhe had written...they hadn't destroyed it when they'd rid themselves of her... Arthur had read it, and believed she was a friend of Camelot. The plot the fairies had hatched was unfolding, just not the part about her body being the shell for a Sidhe queen.

"Thank you," mumbled Freya, weakly.

Perhaps they would leave her once she was warm enough. She could find her way in the woods, make a home for herself, try to avoid people so she wouldn't have to kill them when she turned into a Bastet... Merlin could come visit her from time to time, maybe. She'd had no problems controlling herself (even as a Bastet) around him; she would never hurt Merlin, so he was as safe with her as she was with him. Halig was dead now. He was the only person she wasn't actually sorry she'd killed. She hated that she was the cause of so much death, but she was also aware that she'd rid the world of one who would cause just as much harm as (if not more than) her curse did. She would, of course, have to be wary of others like him; she knew she couldn't always trust people. But she could trust Merlin, and he would help her. And she would, in the midst of all this, find a way to repay him.

"We're taking you back to Camelot with us," Arthur told her. "I'm sure my father wouldn't want me to return you to Astolat, with the political state its in, and your own state of health. We have a physician at Camelot and spare rooms. You can get well there."

Freya began to tremble and cry. She couldn't go back to Camelot; to Uther! Uther would find her out! He would kill her! "Please, I'm well enough, please... I don't want... Please don't take me there."

Merlin was a little afraid. Uther didn't know Freya, but if he found out who she really was... He was willing to play games with his own life, every day, as he had no choice, really, in the matter, but he wouldn't gamble Freya's... She had magic; it wasn't safe for her.

On the other hand, he couldn't bear to leave her again, nor could he disobey Arthur's forthcoming orders that he put her on the horses, ignoring her pleas, which Arthur took for simple delirium.

What was reassuring was that, Merlin noticed, even when his eyes were directly in line with it, Arthur appeared incapable of seeing the Druid mark on her arm. He wasn't sure why that should be, but he was grateful for it.

If only he could be sure Uther would be the same...

"It's all right, Freya," Merlin whispered in her ear as he helped her onto the horse, speaking quickly so Arthur wouldn't hear. "I'll make sure they don't hurt you, I promise."

"Your troubles are over, Lady Freya," Arthur announced, mounting his own horse (Freya was sharing Merlin's).

No... Freya shook in the saddle, only steadied by Merlin's protective grasp. You're wrong, Arthur Pendragon, they've only just begun. I can feel it.