The first time he killed, he could see everything. Past and future, love and hate, pain and pleasure.

The others never saw this, never felt this perverse mixture of experiences. In their eyes, to kill was to gain glory, and only after feeling the threat of death was it possible to live.

Migrations from continent to continent, following his troupe. The others grew bolder in their kills, unafraid of severing a life from the world. But he could see them, their hopes, their dreams. Instead of lives flashing across their owners eyes, they showed themselves to him.

Slowly, his strength and spirit waned. Many times he considered conceding defeat, escaping the sorrow he felt each day.

But killing was glory, battle brought fame. Greed won over guilt, and the torment went on.

A drabble that I wrote with my friend, TheIronRelic from Fanfiction. This is easily the most ambiguous thing I have ever written, and it is very open to interpretation.

Reviews are appreciated, thanks a bunch!