[Oh, that's a smart idea, he thinks vaguely. Would he have left his wounds to sort of scab up on their own? Probably! He's good at taking care of himself until he isn't, and a few little cuts don't really register. With a little sigh (that's an absurdly stupid idea, ow), Fenris comes to sit next to him, tugging the edge of his shirt up. He'll return the favor in a moment, he thinks, listening as Astarion speaks—

— ah, and then, quite suddenly, he isn't thinking of his wounds at all. Fenris' eyes dart up, focusing on Astarion sharply. For a moment, there and gone, he worries that perhaps this man is mocking him— but, no there's no hint of cruelty there.

A beat, and he huffs out a bitter sort of laugh.]

We make the start of a terrible joke, you and I.

[Two silver-haired amnesiatic elven ex-slaves climb up on a rooftop . . . Maker's breath.]

It is the mundane things I despise the most. The origin of talents or habits, little peculiarities, one's age . . . and the knowledge that one will never resolve the mystery.

[And he could ask how long Astarion thinks he lost, of course, but . . . well. What would be the answer, save I don't know or I think it may be... Depressing answers, unsatisfying and mundane.]

How long have you been free?

[There, now . . . that's a far better thing to consider.]