He never thought he'd get to this point in his life.
Sitting on the stone bench, staring at the grave of the man he'd grown to accept as being not nearly as perfect as he'd once assumed, Mordred fought back tears. The scars that littered his arms were a testament to the abuse he'd caused himself in his repeated efforts to end his life before its' time, and as his nails dug into his palms he fought back the urge to claw at the ground. This was not how he'd expected to be spending his sixty-sixth birthday, mourning the loss of one of the only friends he'd claimed to have, but life had a way of making silly buggers of him despite his best efforts otherwise.
"Galahad... I'm sorry," he murmured, standing slowly before bending to play a single white rose across the ground marker bearing a name and dates the tears in his eyes made too blurry to read properly. "It should have been me." As the words left his mouth he straightened up, pulling the gun from his pocket and bringing it to his mouth. "I'll see you soon, my friend."