[ his eyes follow its path, lips parted in a half-formed protest.

it's not about satisfaction.
it's not about how he'd felt after the fact, because it had happened anyway.
it had happened, it could never unhappen, and despite the gaping hole in his mind, despite him truly believing that he hadn't needed to remember, part of him had still wondered.
wondered if he had always been a prisoner of his own bloodlust.
wondered if he'd killed that Disciple simply because he could.

it's true, in a way.
his tale is one of twin lives: one that covets, one that spurns.
only one survives, every time.
he destroys the other.
he just can't help himself. ]