Author's Note: This fic contains extreme spoilers for the finale of the BBC series, Merlin. Read at your own discretion.

Even though I hate Mordred for what he did, part of me remembers the kind and loyal knight of Camelot he had once been. This fic is more my own introspection about Mordred's sudden change of heart. He may've been angry, but the thought of him absolutely detesting Arthur with every fiber of his being till the end doesn't sit well with me. So, this happened. Enjoy!

I was born to kill Arthur Pendragon.

As a boy, I didn't think much of my destiny. The name was just that—a name. I was merely the Druid who was chosen to end the Once and Future King's life. Fate had not come knocking on my door, so I decided to not knock on Fate's. I was content.

That was until I and the man to whom I was apprenticed were caught in the most dangerous place on Earth for our kind—Camelot. He died, and I was the lone survivor of our duo, saved by the great Emrys himself. But my relief was short-lived, for I soon became very ill due to a wound inflicted by Camelot's soldiers. Again, I was saved from death by a physician convinced to help by the man who went by Merlin, unrecognized for his great power, in the kingdom. I was nursed back to full health by Morgana, who turned out to be the daughter of Uther Pendragon, the man who had endangered my life in the first place. I didn't quite understand the irony at the time, but as I grew older, I suppose it could've been considered quite paradoxical.

Then, there was the issue of getting me out of Camelot. Morgana would be in deep peril if she were even suspected of aiding my escape. And so, I was introduced to Arthur Pendragon, who was then merely a prince. He was the only man who could bring me to safety, but I did not view him as my savior. Instead, I viewed this turn of events as a way to make my destiny even harder. Apparently, Fate would have me kill the man who saved me. The idea bothered me, and I knew that it wasn't right.

Less prominently, I also knew that I could never lay a hand on Arthur Pendragon, the one who went against his father's wishes and brought me back to my beloved people. This thought ran through my mind as I looked back over my shoulder after telling the man my fateful name.

It was many years before I saw Arthur again. My body had changed, and I no longer had to crane my neck to look at him. However, I was ordered to capture him and bring him to Morgana. I knew, from this order, that she had had the love driven from her heart, and that hate had quickly swooped in to fill the vacancy. But I was too timid, too afraid of being driven from the place where I felt somewhat safe and accepted, and I allowed Arthur to be taken prisoner. I attempted to offer him kindness, to repay him for what he did all those years ago, but I knew it was nothing. I was leading this man and his friend to their deaths; Merlin had a right to be suspicious of me.

I made my choice when the man I was supposed to murder was at the mercy of Morgana. I betrayed her, though I suppose I never felt any loyalty to her to begin with. At least, not anymore. Before I knew it, I was accepted into the ranks of Camelot's knights with a new title. Arthur considered me a trusted ally and friend, and I couldn't help but feel the same. I was so ecstatic to be at Arthur's side, serving the man who would bring freedom to people like me.

But even though I should have been at peace, true tranquility couldn't be achieved with Merlin's suspicions hanging over my shoulder. He obviously knew of my destiny, and no matter how many times I stressed the high regard in which I held Arthur, he would not believe me. Perhaps this mistrust was bred by past experiences; I wouldn't know. But the reasonable man I had met was resolute in his stand against me. As long as Arthur's best friend did not trust me, I could not fully trust myself. Even so, I continued to serve the King as any loyal knight would. I tried to prove myself time after time, and my efforts worked perfectly on Arthur and his knights. But Merlin remained fixed on my prophesied treachery. I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter, but I was never a very good liar.

One day, doing my duty as a knight of Camelot proved to be my greatest bane. In a camp of Saxons, sworn enemies to the King, was my long-held love, Kara. I chased her before seeing the face obscured by the shadows cast by her hood. If my loyalty had been just that, loyalty, I would have driven my sword home. But I told her to get away and aided the escape of someone trying to harm my King, which Merlin had, of course, seen. The man by whom I was trying so hard to become trusted had witnessed my treachery. I tried to reason with him, but I saw the reasonable doubt flaring in his eyes. He promised he would tell no one, and I believed him. Merlin may have suspected me, but he was a man of his word. I breathed a little easier.

Kara was found soon after. I immediately blamed the man whom I trusted, but it was, in reality, my own blunder that had resulted in my love's capture. She was tried not for the possession and utilization of magic, but for her attempt on the life of the King. I was appalled that she would try to kill the man working tirelessly to bring peace to the land, but I knew her since I was a child. She couldn't have done it knowingly. She must have the wrong idea. Surely, I thought, I could convince her, and my merciful lord Arthur would give her a second chance.

I was wrong.

But she was one girl. Arthur had to see that she didn't truly pose a threat. I had to tell him the truth of who had helped the girl currently in the castle's dungeon, and so I did. I got down on my knees and I begged the man who had given me, the one destined to be his death, to save a girl who was entirely insignificant to anyone but me.

But he merely looked at me with his somber blue eyes and shook his head. Apparently, Kara was a threat. She had to pay for her crimes against Camelot. He told me that he knew how much it would hurt, but I would soon recover from the loss.

He was mistaken. I would not recover from the loss, because I wouldn't lose anything. Kara and I were going to disappear on that night. I loved Camelot and I loved Arthur, but I too loved the girl whom I had known as a child. I decided—perhaps foolishly, I don't know—that I would choose my love for her over my love for my home and my King. But the ever-observant Emrys lived up to his sacred title, and he knew of my plan and informed the king.

I was knocked unconscious by a man I considered a friend. I was locked in the dungeons of the castle I had considered my home. Meanwhile, my love was being dragged away from our parallel cells to be hanged.

I could not bear it. As I felt her life force flicker out, my power, so carefully hidden, lashed out and aided me in my escape. It did what I couldn't when my King found Kara and me in the forest. Tears poured down my face in a tumultuous mix of sadness, anger, and utmost loathing. So engulfed in rage, I went to Morgana and was forced onto my knees. I resisted the urge to rear back from the look in the eyes of the woman who had saved my life so many years ago. Shaking with grief and fury and tears still wet behind my eyelids, I told her Emrys' identity. I betrayed my former King and friend and sealed his fate—and my own destiny.

I sauntered through the battlefield with my indomitable sword clutched tightly in my fist. I had to find Arthur Pendragon. I could nearly taste my vengeance, it was so strong in my mind. Perhaps too potent, for the feelings of foreboding and nagging loyalty to the man I sought to kill were entirely snuffed.

I found him crouched down beside a body that had once belonged to a man I considered a comrade. His blonde hair shone in the light of the flames as it bowed forward in grief. Briefly, I thought that all the losses he had endured were enough to match mine. All of Camelot's people were Arthur's loves. He caused my suffering, and I caused his. Did I have to kill him?

Images of Kara's face flashed before my eyes, scared, yet determined as she was marched off to face her death. Once again, my waning rage boiled in my blood with an unprecedented ferocity, enough to frighten even me. Despite his appearance, Arthur was a cruel and merciless man, I told myself with gritted teeth. If he knew the truth, he would have killed me, his knight, just as his father would have. I had been a fool to think he was different from Uther; with new resolve, I stepped forward to kill the King.

For a moment, I believed that Life would be kind of enough to let me take Arthur's life without looking into his eyes. If I met gazes with that man, my convictions would crumble. I couldn't allow that; Arthur had to pay. He had to die by my hand. That much was said by prophecy itself.

But I had no such luck. As I swung the sword into the target of Arthur's neck, so perfectly exposed in his position of mourning, his came round to meet mine with a memorable sound of clashing metal. Clearly, he hadn't known who I was before he had turned around, for his blue eyes softened as they met my own. That expression, that look in his eyes—was that guilt flickering there? Hurry. Hurry and kill him before it's too late. He'll kill you just like he did Kara if you don—

All mental processes were snuffed out as my blade was driven mercilessly into Arthur's stomach by none other than my own hand. An expression, not of the agony he was surely feeling, but of heartbreaking sadness broke out across the man's features. I ripped the blade out of the King's—my King's—body, allowing him to fall to his knees. He looked up at me. There was no anger in his gaze; instead, regret and sorrow thrived, alongside the unsaid inquiry: why?

All of the reasons—the excuses—I had reassured myself with disappeared, leaving me grasping at empty space as I stared down at the mortally wounded man at my feet. He was dying, but all he could do was manage to mock me with his heartfelt sadness and repentance. How could he look at the man who had ended his life like tha—?

Ah. I suddenly understood everything as an impossible pain ripped its way through my chest. I looked up to see Arthur, having moved faster than I would have thought possible in his injured state, standing before me, his face close to mine. His blue eyes burned with a fierce patchwork of emotion, and I smiled wildly at his unknowing kindness. Now that I was dead, I didn't have to live with myself after doing what I did. I would probably die before Arthur. Fate was much kinder than I had once thought.

His sword was drawn from the sheath of my body, and I crumpled without the support. My eyes were glazing over, and I couldn't find the strength to look at my savior and King. I soon lost control of my body as I grew stiff in Death's embrace.

I thought it would be over as the blackness swallowed me, but the darkness soon retreated to allow me another glimpse of the world I'd thought I'd left. There I—no, my body—was, and there was Arthur, slumped against the rock wall as he fought against the mortal wound I had dealt. His eyes were half-lidded, drifting somewhere between the waking world and that of dreams. Always the loyal servant, Merlin, or I should say Emrys when he was in that form, happened upon that scene. He looked at my body with a mixture of hope and dread as his mind raced through the possible implications. But then, his wizened eyes happened upon Arthur's now-unconscious form, and he once again gazed at my empty shell with a hatred that dulled what I previously felt entirely.

I followed them to the forest. I watched Merlin's tear-filled confession, and Arthur's reflexive reaction of disbelief, shock, realization, and finally anger. I nearly cried with the young sorcerer as his best friend told him to leave him, even in his dying moments. I watched as Arthur slowly accepted the idea and put piece after piece of the hidden aspect of his life together. He shot glance after curious glance at his friend, in awe of how many times Merlin must have saved his life. Now, the only thing bothering the King was that Merlin hadn't told him after all that time.

I wept for all that was lost. I killed all the hope for Albion to be created and liberated. He still loved his friend as much as he always had, perhaps more knowing how much the warlock had done for him. Perhaps I, too, could have had that love and admiration if I had been as loyal as the one who had been entirely correct to suspect me.

And I watched that remarkable man have his best friend, his everything, die in his arms. I looked on as the great Emrys cried unashamedly as he clutched the lifeless body to his chest. I sobbed with him as Arthur was cast out into the calm waters of Avalon too soon. I felt the most potent anger I had ever experienced course through my body—and it was all directed at myself.

I hovered above the trees framing the lake, the image of Arthur's death boat burning scorched into my memory. I remained there even when my King was reduced to nothing but ash, floating atop the gently rippling surface of the sacred realm of the Sidhe

After what felt like eternity, I felt a tugging at my shapeless existence, and I turned to look at who had disturbed my silent vigil. I knew it would be the one summoned to escort me to Hell; despite my fear, I would go willingly. I deserved whatever horrors any demon wished to inflict on me. I took the shadowy hand timidly, screaming as its darkness began to corrupt me. I felt heavy, heavier than lead, and I began to sink—right into the waters of Avalon. The creature pulled me deeper into the depths, but a faint glimmer caught my eye before I was entirely shrouded in hungry darkness. Excalibur lay suspended in the cyan waters, its gilded hilt sparkling mysteriously amidst the shadows. As I focused in on the fine weapon that had ended my own life, I saw the faint outline of a pale hand clutching the hilt, as ready for battle in death as it was in life.

My name is Mordred, and I killed Arthur Pendragon.