[For a moment, his mouth twitches, snarling resentment so clear on his face. He wants— he doesn't know what he wants. To fight, maybe, to rip into this man for no other reason than he's close by; he wants to bite and snarl and dig his fingers in, just so someone else will feel an echo of the chaotic rage and terror thrashing through him.

But no. Astarion does not take the bait, and in the next moment Fenris sags, one hand coming up to rub at his face. Drink, and Fenris obeys: coming to take his glass and sprawl into his seat.]

I don't know.

[There. That's honest enough, isn't it? Fenris downs half the glass, and no, it isn't strong enough, but it does help. The jagged edges of his soul cannot be soothed so easily, but at least the flare of temper is calmed momentarily.]

Eighteen years, I think. Something around there. I was around that age when my master subjected me to the ritual that gave me these markings— a feat so painful it wiped my memories, and what few remained he took care of himself. I was . . .

[Well, anyway. Another sip.]

He never told me how old I was. I do not think he remembered. So it may be shorter or longer, but . . . certainly I was almost a man grown when I first woke.

So. Around eighteen years, and now, a few months, is what I cannot remember of my life.

[A little less than half his life, in other words, although really, who can say? He suspects he's around forty-something now, but really, he barely keeps track. Elves live longer than humans, and no signs of aging have appeared on him yet, though he's checked now and again.

He glances dourly at his now-empty glass. Glances up to meet Astarion's eye, and then, with that brittle, awful humor, drawls:]

Nor do I recall your name. And we may need something stronger, if this is how our conversation will go.