The early morning light casts the stone walls of the citadel in that particular shade of white that makes Merlin think of hope and home; he runs his fingers along its cracks, sending his magic through his fingertips and into the stone, mending and molding. If anyone were to walk by and greet him, they would have simply thought his eyes were reflecting the sun when he smiles back at them.

Merlin is surprised it's so quiet, with the castle so full of guests and their servants; Camelot is hosting royals from across the land for Midsummer festivities, and the first banquet with all of the guests present is tonight.

I wonder where everyone is. It's unnaturally quiet for this hour of the morning. Arthur will definitely be wondering about his own whereabouts if he doesn't make his way to the King's chambers shortly.

He turns a corner and his breath catches — he sees her, bathed in a morning glow and sitting on the low railing running along the garden. Her hair is braided and pinned up, with some strands falling over her face. The light breeze keeps her hair from settling and pulls Merlin into the room, and he can see it — he would reach up and tuck it behind her ear, and maybe she'd smile at him and maybe her cheeks would turn pink and maybe she would notice that his ears are doing the same —

Princess Mithian looks up suddenly and catches him staring. He flounders, pats his pockets and pulls at his scarf and overall he knows that he has been caught red-eared and wide-eyed and she's laughing, and Merlin thinks how can she be so lovely, and quick, you fool, say something!

But there's a knowing sparkle in her eye, and the effort of holding back her smile makes her cheeks dimple. "Good morning, Merlin."

"Good morning, my Lady," he stammers.

She bends forward, sighing, and Merlin notices she's abandoned her slippers and is rubbing her bare foot.

"Is there something wrong?" Concern creeps up, unexpected, and her face flushes in embarrassment.

"Oh, no. Nothing so awful. Just a princess practicing her steps. I'm not used to wearing such tight slippers."

It takes a moment for Merlin's mind to catch up, to make the connections, but then he remembers the banquet and the the decorations and -

"You're practicing the dances?" he asks, incredulity colouring his tone.

Her cheeks are flaming now, and Merlin feels his heart sink and begins to panic. "No, no, of course that's not what I meant – I just thought, why would you need to practice? I'm sure you're a wonderful dancer."

She tilts her head up, haughty, like Arthur when Merlin teases and fusses, but Merlin can't help but laugh at the expression on her face as she exclaims, "I'm simply not used to these slippers — I'm much more comfortable in boots. They're giving me blisters."

And without thinking, Merlin hears himself saying, "I know the steps," and he swallows his mortification and hopes his shock doesn't show on his face but Mithian is staring back at him with surprise stopping her speech and widening her eyes for just a second — but like any proper princess she quickly schools her expression and sits a little straighter.

Her fingers tremble as she tucks her hair behind her ear and the pink on her cheeks looks just a little bit brighter when she replies, "Well, perhaps practicing with a partner will make this easier."

And then Merlin is stepping forward, into the morning light and closer to her, and he bows, a little teasing, because Merlin can't quite break the habit of defenestrating propriety and etiquette completely, but she doesn't really seem to mind because it makes her giggle and Merlin's heart pounds in his chest.

She takes his hand and stands, skirt billowing and she turns towards him, and when they find themselves chest to chest Merlin wonders what he's gotten himself into. But Mithian is confident and sure in her hold, hands gentle on his shoulders and eyes focused on his.

"Well?" she asks, the corners of her lips lifting into a grin. "Will you take the lead?"

And Merlin does, though of no mind of his own. All he knows is the feeling of silk beneath his fingers, the smell of parchment and oranges and lilies, the blush on her cheeks and the line of her neck, angled up so that her eyes meet his own.

Merlin finishes the dance, stands back and bows, overwhelmed by this sudden feeling of this is right, and lowers himself further so that he can kiss her hand, still held softly in his own.

He notices that her feet are still bare, and still holding her hand up to his lips he can't hold back his smile. And I thought the whole point was that she needed to get used to her slippers? She feels it against her skin and begins to pull back, opens her mouth to ask what it is he finds funny; however, Merlin stands, schools his expression but is unable to hide the twinkle in his eye.

She's confused by the change in his demeanor, he can tell, but there's a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth and perhaps she is similarly affected by their dance, and perhaps Merlin will be lucky enough to have another dance, later.

He gives her another bow, wishes her well. There's a skip in his step, and he can't be bothered to complain when as a greeting Arthur throws a goblet at his head.