Noah had killed a man, an exile, a criminal.
Delphine had killed children, innocent, fragile.
He did not notice her moving until she was standing next to him. He watched her rummage through her bag out of the corner of his eye. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his forearms tightening as he watched her nestle the stuffed animal into herself. When she lifted the brown bag, however, and a mass of dried herbs fell from it, Noah let the fire spill forth from his chest. With a guttural, rough grunt-like yell left his throat. "No!" He smacked the herbs off the table, sending them flying. With his other hand, he grabbed her bag and all it had within. "You don't get to forget!" His hand that had just swiped her drugs off the table curled, a thick, calloused finger pointing straight at her face. "you don't get to forget what you did, Delphine. You don't--you--no--we don't get to forget."
He understands. The desire to take away the memories of the murder he had committed sat deep in his heart. But it wasn't right. It wasn't the way. They couldn't forget what they had done--each of them, killers in their own right.
