"Yeah?" John grins, sharply wry. "Does it? Only if you're a pussy, I think. I mean, sure, at about the three hundred to five hundred mark it's probably easier to start pretending you're not human anymore. That you don't need to be sad for them because you're, like, better than them, right?"

With the obnoxious condescension of an adult speaking to a teenager who thinks they've seen everything, he stops touching Armand's chin and ruffles his hair a little. "You have to fight that, though. It's not good to lock yourself away." Paps his cheek gently, suddenly fond. Those horrible bright eyes remind him of Mercymorn — of Cristabel, who had turned passionately suicidal at five hundred, which kicked off the whole Lyctorhood thing.