“It’s a tricky thing, though, isn’t it? What’s right?“
His chest barely stirred as he studied the grain of the low table before him. His hands were sensibly folded as if in great contemplation, and perhaps he was. Santino found it easier not to look up, not to punish himself with the look of cool distance from a cherub's likeness. He was not cowed but neither was he present as he could have been. He stared down into the chasm of centuries that divided them and found the sight comforting.
Armand's voice was chilled and steady, almost innocent in its cruelty. He knew where to prick, no doubt. He knew which scars would open under gentle pressure. At least when it came from him.
"Quite tricky," He admitted. "Though only ever in hindsight. Perhaps it is a flaw that can't be erased from us and will only deepen with age. At all times I believed I knew what was right. Even now, I think I know. I have the inclination. Nothing but experience keeps me from trusting that instinct. I know what it has done to me, and to others. And yet, in me beats the same conviction that beats in all old men perhaps: They are fools and I am right." At last the sardonic twitch of his lips betrayed a glint of emotion. He looks up at Armand through latticework of ink black lashes. "As others have put it."