[He listens to all of these facts. They're good ones. Distantly, dazedly, he can recognize that: his appreciation for how straightforward the other man is being. There is no hesitation, no balking or fluffing for the sake of spared grief; he tells him directly, and even manages to add a bit of silver lining to the thunderclouds that blur his mind.

You only forgot a few months.

The question stirs him, and Fenris glances up from where his gaze had moodily strayed.]

Yes. I do, yes.

[He cannot help how brittle his voice has gone. Rubbing his mouth, he sits back, setting his empty glass (when had he drained it?) between them.]

I lived here for years. Nearly a decade before Anders— before the Chantry blew up. And I had— I thought I had [and what a terrible smile flickers over his expression, wry and haunted and so, so embittered]— not returned, not until now.

[Kirkwall was too full of memories . . . oh, the irony. Fenris shoves to his feet, boots scuffing against bare floor as he paces as best he can. He's too full of energy suddenly, jittery and bittr, fingers tapping against his thighs and his gaze roving wildly.]

But no. I had. I lived here for a time, I joined an organization, I befriended Rifters and then I left, and—

[He thinks to track it. To trace the timeline and line it all up neatly, and yes, he still wishes to. But not now. Fenris exhales sharply, shaking his head.]

So yes. Whatever mage decided to practice his craft upon me likely just skimmed off the top. How fortunate I am, that it is months instead of years that I have lost.

[It's a nasty tone, and really, Astarion doesn't deserve it. Fenris doesn't even mean to direct it at him.]

Did I tell you, then? How much of my life I do not recall? How much is already lost to me?