Xerxes woke up somewhat well rested. The night before had been…. Painful, to say the least. He had not seen such a brutal massacre since Northrend.
But that wasn’t what got to him. He had grotesque nightmares, he was used to seeing these things. He didn’t enjoy them, but they just weren’t as shocking as they used to be.
What got to him was the boy trying to bandage and save decapitated corpses.
It struck somewhere deep. Very deep. Something he had done his best to bury. He remembered it clearly, he did. He remembered sitting in the diseased, blood stained snow trying to save people who were already gone. Reassuring corpses that they would be okay. Nearly dying himself to injuries.
That was his turning point, then. The true last straw. If he couldn’t save people with the power of the Light, then he’d just have to kill the people threatening to bring harm to those he wanted to protect.
Xerxes pulled open the drawer on his nightstand. He took out an old wooden box and flipped it open. Inside was an old, dusty set of prayer beads. He took them out and knelt by his bed.
Somebody had to pray for the people he saw scattered and mutilated. Who else would?
Old habits die hard.