[This is not the first time someone has looked at Fenris and hoped that he knew them. This is not the first time eyes have searched his face so hungrily, mouth drawn and with bated breath; this is not the first time Fenris has felt that familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach, like missing a step, like skidding up the edge of a cliff—
But unlike Varania, Fenris feels no trickle of memory. He searches desperately, pushing at old shadows and half-remembered words, but no. Nothing.
He does not know if that comforts him or frightens him.]
No.
[No, it frightens, though he refuses to let that fear show.]
But you know me. I can see it in your face.
[His eyes drift over Astarion's face, studying the curves there, the pale skin, scarlet eyes . . . but no. No, there's nothing.]
no subject
But unlike Varania, Fenris feels no trickle of memory. He searches desperately, pushing at old shadows and half-remembered words, but no. Nothing.
He does not know if that comforts him or frightens him.]
No.
[No, it frightens, though he refuses to let that fear show.]
But you know me. I can see it in your face.
[His eyes drift over Astarion's face, studying the curves there, the pale skin, scarlet eyes . . . but no. No, there's nothing.]
How?