"I'm sorry, Mordred." Arthur's face contorted, ugly in grief.

(It's you who needs pity, father dearest.)

Mordred resisted smirking.

He curled his fingers tightly round the dagger's hilt behind his back, wincing at the metal's cold bite.

"Tut, father, another sin. You'd kill your own son."

Pause.

Too easily manipulated, Arthur emanated turmoil.

Guilt was winning -

"No."

-

Mordred worried briefly that rabid mirth shone from his eyes, for it swelled within his empty chest like bubbling acid.

It was almost too easy.

(This is for you, Auntie.)

Mechanically, he buried the blade in Arthur's stomach.

-

Far away, Mab smiled.