[He drinks it in, though later he'll be embarrassed and irritated at his own fascination. Our ancestors, our eyes, our rate of aging, and he does not protest, though by all rights they don't belong to the same species. Do they? Thedas has no such distinctions; an elf is an elf, and city elves distinct from the Dalish only thanks to upbringing.

But perhaps they, too, had such distinctions once. Sun elves and moon elves, high elves . . . for the first time, Fenris thinks on it. On a past so distant it might as well be fantasy; a people who lived in cities of their own construct, not penned in like so much cattle but lived and breathed and existed with pride. Did they have the luxury of such distinctions? He does not know. He will never know, and that should not leave him feeling oddly bittersweet.

It's good, then, that Astarion offers him that distraction. The thoughtful look disappears from his face, replaced by a good-natured sort of scoff.]

Oh, do you.

I wait with baited breath to see the luxuries you offer to those you truly are fond of.

[As they lie in bed together, all their traumas laid bare . . . and that's to say nothing of all they indulged in before. Free drink and elfroot, a place to stay, compassion and understanding . . . that's what he means.

But ah, he's curious:]

If it were not for the, the vampirism . . . how long would you live?