[ Arthur shakes his head minutely, a small smile playing on his lips. How many times have they been described as stupidly noble? It seems accurate, now, with the way she speaks of him, but who is Arthur to draw the line between well enough and too much? ]

Mystique.

[ Or - because he's heard it said before, by Lancelot and on the device when she calls upon him - softer, now: ]

Raven. We are all going to die. We, as Knights, have made it our life's mission to make that death worth something, and there is nothing moreso than the life of another.

[ Another shake of his head and he inhales deeply, exhales. Tries not to let his voice shake, and hopes for the day the words will come easier. ]

When the day comes, Lancelot's death will strike me as one of the most crippling losses I will suffer in all my years, for I will lose more than just a Knight and a very dear friend. I will lose that light which he sees in all, that which is good and pure and right in this world. From this, I will never recover.

[ This, he knows now, with certainty, as he can feel the aching in his bones. It doesn't leave. It will never leave. Arthur gives pause, to swallow back everything that threatens to overflow, to keep his eyes dry and his tone steady. He is King. He moves forward. He must. ]

But it is for this very same reason that I do not worry for him. I trust his judgment, more than I trust even my own, because I do not see the same light in his eyes. He is a better man than I. I am sorry, Mystique, I cannot help you in this.

[ Because he's already failed. He's already gone. And there is nothing Arthur can do to fix that. ]