Merlin was utterly spent—his body ached with weariness, his stomach churned with hunger, and the biting cold seemed to seep deeper into his bones with every passing moment. The rain, relentless and heavy, had soaked him through. It cascaded in torrents, turning the world into a curtain of gray, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Nightfall only added to his misery, the darkness pressing in on all sides as he trudged along the riverbank.
His steps faltered, boots squelching in the mud. With a jarring thud, his leg gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto his hands and knees. Mud coated his palms as icy rivulets of rainwater streamed through his hair and dripped from his chin. The ground looked so inviting, promising rest he desperately needed. But Merlin knew—if he lay down now, he would never rise again.
With a ragged breath, he forced himself up, one foot planted shakily under him, then the other. Step by agonizing step, he pushed forward, his limbs heavy as lead. Minutes blurred into hours, the rain a constant companion. Just as the last vestiges of his strength threatened to give out, he saw it: a dark hollow in the cliffside. Shelter.
Relief coursed through him like a lifeline, though he was too exhausted to smile. Staggering toward the cave, he ducked under its stone overhang, where the downpour dulled to a muffled roar behind him. The air was still frigid, but the shelter from the wind and rain felt like a small blessing.
The cave was blacker than the night outside, its depths obscured by shadow. Merlin groped forward blindly, his foot striking something solid and unyielding. The sharp pain made him gasp as he dropped to his knees. His fingers searched the ground until they found the culprit—wood. Dry, precious wood.
He didn't hesitate. With a whispered spell, his eyes gleamed gold, and flames leapt to life, illuminating the small cave. The flickering light revealed jagged walls and a low ceiling, but Merlin barely registered his surroundings. He was already tugging the damp, clinging fabric of his clothes away from his skin, his fingers clumsy with cold.
His tunic and trousers, heavy with rain, were laid over nearby rocks to dry. Stripped to his bare skin, Merlin huddled near the fire, shivering uncontrollably. He held his trembling hands out to the flames, the heat licking at his fingertips. The warmth seeped into him slowly, too slowly, and exhaustion dragged at his eyelids.
He curled up on the ground beside the fire, the hard stone unforgiving against his body. Hunger clawed at him, but the need for rest won out. The shivers wracking his frame began to subside as sleep claimed him, the crackle of the fire his only lullaby. Outside, the rain continued to fall, the storm unrelenting. But for now, Merlin slept, unaware of what awaited him when the morning came.
Here's a polished and slightly refined version of your story, maintaining the tone and detail while enhancing flow and readability:
Merlin jolted awake, heart pounding. Fragments of a dream clung to his mind—though calling it a dream felt far too kind. It was a nightmare, vivid and suffocating. He blinked up at the jagged cave ceiling before rolling onto his back, draping an arm across his eyes.
The uneven, unyielding ground beneath him had done little to ease the aches in his body. Every muscle protested as he moved, and somehow, he felt more exhausted than when he had collapsed the night before. A violent shiver racked him, snapping him from his daze. Groaning, Merlin peeled his arm away and glanced at the fire. The once-strong flames had dwindled to a faint glow, embers clinging desperately to life.
With a sigh, Merlin dragged his protesting body upright. His hands fumbled for the dry wood nearby, stacking it over the embers. He muttered a quiet spell, and his eyes flickered gold. Flames sprang to life, their warmth a soothing balm against his chilled skin. He inched closer to the fire, relishing the comfort it offered.
A faint light filtered through the cave's entrance, casting long shadows on the walls. Morning had arrived. Merlin's stomach clenched painfully, a hollow ache twisting deep in his gut. He wrapped his arms around his middle, his mind racing to recall his last meal. Had he eaten anything in the dungeon? He couldn't remember. Hunger gnawed at him like a relentless beast.
Shivering again, Merlin's attention turned to his damp clothes hanging near the fire. Thankfully, they had dried enough to wear. He dressed swiftly, though his fingers were clumsy from the lingering cold. As he tugged on his tunic, a scraping sound from the cave's entrance froze him in place.
Fear coiled in his chest, cold and suffocating. Had they found him? Would he be dragged back to Camelot to face the pyre? His pulse thundered in his ears as his thoughts spiraled. A quick death here would be merciful compared to the slow agony of fire. Slowly, he turned toward the sound.
Relief washed over him—it was only a squirrel. The tiny creature tilted its head, staring at him curiously. Merlin's stomach growled loudly, and guilt twisted in his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His eyes flashed gold. A soft whine, a snap, and the squirrel fell silent.
Merlin moved to its still form, hands steady despite the pang of remorse. With practiced efficiency, he prepared the animal, his magic aiding him as he worked. The fire crackled and popped as the squirrel roasted, filling the cave with a tantalizing aroma. He didn't bother with utensils, not that he had any—his hands sufficed. He ate quickly, his stomach grumbling in satisfaction as it finally received nourishment.
When he finished, his gaze drifted to his wrists. The tattered remains of his neckerchief were still wrapped around the raw, angry wounds. Slowly, he unwound the makeshift bandages. A sharp hiss escaped his lips as he exposed the injuries—skin red, raw, and tender, though no longer bleeding. But the redness worried him. Infection was a real danger.
Merlin closed his eyes, murmuring a healing spell under his breath. His magic flared briefly, but he felt no relief. Healing had never been his strength. Frustrated, he rewrapped his wrists as best he could.
It was time to move on. He couldn't risk staying in one place too long. Yet, he had no clear destination. Ealdor was out of the question; he couldn't bear the thought of endangering his mother. With a weary sigh, Merlin stepped out of the cave and into the morning light, the river's steady flow guiding his path forward.
One foot in front of the other—because stopping was not an option.