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Sometimes Merlin has dreams. He doesn't think they're prophetic. He doesn't let himself want them to be visions.
Waking, he scrubs his eyes, thinking of the last one. Like most dreams, it was just blurry snapshots - using a flash of light to scour stairs, rather than his bare hands. Calling the wind to clean the whole stable, the stableboys whooping and cheering as it whipped through their hair. Stealing Arthur's food via levitation, blatant, laughing as he tried futilely to grab at it.
Merlin doesn't think he has prophetic dreams. He's not sure how to want this future. He can't.