So the two of them had done a terrible thing to protect their friend. A dark act committed in haste, perhaps, or panic, or grim necessity, because they had believed Robin's life had depended on it. He was right, it wasn't an excuse, but that didn't mean it mattered for nothing.
Qebhet pressed her teeth against her bottom lip. You were all different people then, she might have said, because it was true, but Much evidently had his doubts. That was the beginning of me, he'd said: the first act that he was remembered for, and it was the murder of a child. It must be an awful guilt for a person to carry, and she didn't want to deny the weight of it, not when the strain showed so clearly in his features.
"And it... disturbs you," she said slowly. "To know that you're capable of such an act, even in service of a friend. Perhaps you're afraid that you are still that same person. Somebody who would use the end to justify the means." It was the furthest thing from the truth, Qebhet thought, but that didn't make his fear any less real. "I know you don't want reassurance, but... can I tell you what I think?"