He would never say he was first and foremost a child. Whis had more pride in himself than to say such a thing. Having outlived countless generations of mortals, by all accounts he perhaps should have been considered an adult in a child’s body. But that assumption did him a great disservice.
He first noticed the blood from the corner of his eyes, just off the path. Glancing between it and his destination in the distance, he turned to curiously, timidly, investigate, footsteps light and ginger. There was so much of it, one puddle after another. They led him to a suffering and wretched thing.
Whether he liked it or not, he was a child and fully unequipped to deal with the sorrows and remorse of the dying. So he stood frozen, heart pounding in his ears, and without meaning to, dropped his scepter.