[Dorian would love to give a quick and clever answer, but they are into a forest now, and he can feel the branches arcing overhead, building vicious fences between them and the sky. He finds himself answering in another key.]

I don't know.

I've been alive for a century and a half, but I don't know how to live. I've felt lacking my whole life, like there was something missing, like there was something more and I just couldn't touch it. Once, and only once, was I ever truly alive, and I lost that so quickly that if it came to me again, I don't know that I could stand to reach out and make it mine once more. [His hand slips into Judas's, and seeks to braid their fingers together.] The things I've said about living are just someone else's words, spoken through me a long time ago. And as for the value of those words, well. They led me to my attic, knife in hand, hoping not just for the end of my life but for the end of my existence.

So perhaps I shouldn't try teaching you anything at all.