The blade that ended me may well have been my own and not Mordred's. When I began my reign, I was a worthy servant to my people. I thought only of protecting the weak and defending the helpless. How did it come to this? The nervousness I felt at my responsibilities faded over the years, replaced hubris and blood lust. From the slight paid me by Rome, I crafted the idea of conquering it, all in service of my glory while my people suffered without the service I was obligated to provide. Thoughts of my people turned to thoughts of myself, and the thrill of battle and of taking a man's life - asserting ultimate power over my foes - drowned the humbler bearings and noble intentions that I had previously held.
Alas, these ponderings will not serve. As a king I failed, and I was justly punished for it. Now I must be a savior, and I fear my faults taking hold of me once more yet I must succeed! Perhaps God himself sent me here to redeem my people as well as myself. Yes. I can do this, these Britons are in dire need, and yet how to help? I shall have to think more on this matter later, my bite-sized companions wish to teach me more of their language.
-Arthur, king no more