Night, like a dank mist had settled on the snow-ridden valley; the darkness pregnant with expectation and malice. He had not moved but sat huddled, drawing small comfort from his own warmth. The cold was encroaching on him, tendrils of frozen air seeking out the cracks in his armour, the week spots in his clothing where a sliver of icy breath could slip and shiver. The night's grip was gentle, caressing, tender; until you realized how terribly strong its hold really was, when you tried to wriggle away and found you were bound by unfeeling fingers of crystal, ever tightening the deathly embrace. The wind sang into his ears 'Sleep,' it breathed and brushed his face. The malevolent lullaby was inviting; sleep's gentle arms beckoned ever nearer. But shot through the melody of the rushing wind were howls, screams and something else, something wholesome in this place of despair. A voice, fraught with worry yet still lit with hopes, a voice he knew.
The darkness trembled and the wind seemed to falter in its song. Light blinked in the distance and Night shuddered and then drew itself up in a rage of storm and threw itself with renewed vigour at the lantern bobbing along and the voice still calling his name, calling him. The voice began to sing, clear and true, the notes mingling with the wind's cacophony. Now the melody merged into strange guttural words and the light burned brighter and flared up, lighting the whole valley. Through his half closed eyes he saw the figure that the voice belonged to, the slight form and shock of dark hair that were so familiar. But the words were strange and filled with power. Arthur's eyes dropped once more and his mind wavered into unconsciousness and back. When his eyes opened again, half closed against the snow flurrying around him, he was there beside him but he spoke in his bright clear tones again and his speech was normal though his befuddled wits was not able to yet understand what exactly he was saying.
'Arthur! Arthur!' Merlin draped a cloak around him speaking to him all the while. He turned away briefly and began to light a fire, using the kindling from the pack on his shoulders. Arthur was sure he had not dropped off again but the fire was alight so quickly that he was sure must have. There was no way it was humanly possible to lift a fire at that speed, at least without magic. But Merlin was here and the cold was no longer quite as fearsome and that spark of hope reassured him that it would be all right. Merlin was here and suddenly he felt safe, if still cold. Merlin was here. He was here for his King, his master and his friend. Arthur knew that and was grateful.