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Singing.
That’s what Merlin’s hearing: singing. That’s what’s pulled him from his sleep.
Well, as long as I'm awake…
Merlin slips away from Arthur and pushes himself onto his feet, unsteady as ever, but luckily there’s no falling involved in his departure from the sleeping king, and the journey has made Arthur weary enough that he doesn’t wake from being unsettled, which could not be said for him in the more common context.
About which you know nothing, Merlin reminds himself, although he’s only conversing with himself. Not even that, since it’s all in his head...but he still feels the need to qualify the circumstance.
It’s Morgana.
Morgana’s the one who’s singing.
Sitting regally under the largest tree on the edge of camp, some small child - an orphan from the town, perhaps? - curled up at her side, their head resting on her knee. Her voice is so uncharacteristically ethereal that it could belong to no one but her, and Merlin, like the child, finds himself mesmerized by the soft, tender sound of the lullaby.