[Astarion's softened up considerably, now that he can actually hear the measured thrum of Leto's voice (Shadowheart's interjections are muted in comparison to all former rancor, at least, and for that fact alone Astarion's pinioned ears have started to ease their way forwards once more, making the narrow edges of his gaunt face more youthful in appearance— particularly when he's no longer starved for mortal blood the way he'd once kept himself for months on end: there's still a burning, inhuman brightness to the measure of his eyes, still a faint shine to his skin. With his arms folded and his posture drawn in tight, it's nigh impossible to recognize just how much the tension coiled in him isn't from the attack or its chasing interruption, but from the heady smell of Leto's blood, and the sight of open wounds.

At her final question, though, he bitters.]

There's nothing to remember. Whoever you know— knew— hells, I don't know— however you want to interpret it, that wasn't me.

I was with— [Leto, he starts to say] Fenris, the whole time. [Ah, up until he wasn't. But it was just so short a stint apart....wasn't it? And what of proper timelines? Memories.

He's bristling again. Growing sharp despite himself.

(He loathes the thought of having no control over himself. His life. His mind. His very presence. Can't stomach the suggestion that yet again there may yet lie one more cavity inside him where something vital ought to be.)]

I remember being kidnapped by illithid monstrosities, barely bracing my way through a calamitous crash that ought to have been the second death of me— and then jolting upright in the overwhelming chaos of an entirely different world. And there wasn't any remotely conceivable way that I could've been in two places at once.