Judas Three
There was part of him – a big part, if he was honest – that didn't want to do this. He had loved Arthur as a father, as a brother, as kin and king. Now, he had left him no choice – Mordred had pleaded, he had tried, he had cried and nothing there had been no mercy. He was no fool – he knew how far gone Morgana was, how guilty Kara had been, but that didn't have to mean that Arthur wouldn't give them a chance, if they asked.
Morgana said he had never given her a chance. Somehow, it didn't feel like the man he knew.
It was too late to question it now – it was war, and blood, and pain, life and death at stake. His body reacted without his mind thinking, fast as a lightening, striking the king under his heart – so close to where he had stricken Mordred before.
There should have been no space for remorse, but something inside him – something essentially good and incredibly pure – broke as he saw Arthur's torn gasp. Once he'd been worthy, twice a traitor, thrice damned.
But as he suffered and wished to be undone, Arthur's blade came in a masterstroke worth of his fame, it's edge sharp as a dragon's breath, it's aim perfect as Mordred's hadn't been, robbing the life out of him, and there was nothing for him to do but to smile – a blessing, a release, a parting in perfect ease.
There was no need for remorse.